First was Cecilia.
Herself.
Second… it was Arkai's prophesied death in the volcano.
And now—
Cecilia looked calmer now. Her trembling had stilled, the torrent of tears dammed. But Eastiel knew that she was anything but calm.
The pain that had radiated outwards had now turned inwards. It had collapsed into a dense, black star at her core, its gravity warping everything.
He could feel it. A deep, sickening churn that stabbed at his own ribs, twisted his heart, and scoured his soul with a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.
Yet, Cecilia still refused to speak. The piece of paper was crumpled in her white-knuckled fist. Eastiel had tried, gently, to pry it from her, but her grip was absolute. He didn't want to hurt her just to force it out of her.
"Cecilia…" Eastiel's voice was a raw scrape of helplessness. He knew that stubborn, silent set to her jaw. Was it something he wasn't supposed to know?
