CHAPTER 93
Lucian's eyes snapped open, and the vibrant, starlit forest from centuries ago vanished in a sickening blur.
He wasn't leaning against an oak tree. He was flat on his back on the cold, unforgiving stone of the East Wing room.
The transition was like being thrown from a cliff. The searing white light of the Goddess was replaced by a suffocating, heavy darkness, broken only by the dying flickers of the ritual candles.
The physical pain hit him a second later. It felt like his veins were filled with molten lead. Every muscle in his body seized, his back arching off the stone in a silent, agonizing spasm.
A thick, dark trail of blood leaked from his nose, staining his lips and pooling in the hollow of his throat.
"Clara..." he tried to rasp, but his voice was gone. He turned his head slowly, his vision swimming in shades of red.
A few feet away, Clara lay slumped over her books. She was motionless, her face pale and her breathing shallow.
