The Weight of Loss
Natasha did not raise her head. Her hand shook as it wrapped around Leon's arm, fingers clutching, knuckles white with the tension of feelings on the verge of breaking her. The purple night pushed against the room through the open window, chilled air bearing the delicate rustle of leaves. Moonlight, spectral and gentle, spilled down over the floor in broken patterns, covering the room in an otherworldly, stopped silence.
She risked a peek over his shoulder, fear and curiosity battling within her. Her breath snagged, suspended on the cusp of panic. There, stretched across the floor, was her sister. Black hair spread out like spilled ink, a dark circle encircling a pale, still face. The acrid sting of blood assaulted Natasha's senses, combining with the pungent incense and the faint crackle of residual magic to make the air seem almost claustrophobic.
