Rhydor's POV
I reached my hand out, my fingers hovering just a fraction of an inch above her pale, clean skin.
The air between us felt heavy, freezing, and utterly empty.
I did not touch the hand. Not yet. I was too terrified of what my skin would feel like if I pressed my palm against it.
I was terrified of the coldness, of the lack of a pulse, of the finality that a single touch might bring.
Instead, I channeled all of my frantic, chaotic energy into the pile of smoking black bodies around it.
I dug my fingers into the leathery, charred flesh of the creatures, lifting their heavy limbs and tossing them away into the bubbling water of the shallow stream.
I kept moving them. I kept digging deeper, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps that burned my throat.
I kept pushing the dark, ruined bodies out of the way, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped wild animal trying to escape its cage.
Then, my entire body froze.
There she was.
