And remembering was a luxury I could no longer afford.
Especially not when the alternative waiting for me was far worse.
The binding ceremony.
A slow, deliberate severing of everything that made me what I was.
Power drained.
Connection cut.
Life extinguished piece by piece until nothing remained.
A mercy.
That is what they called it.
I called it an execution.
There’s still time to find her.
The thought whispered again.
Hope filled me, and I grimaced.
Foolish.
Unwelcome.
Dangerous.
I crushed it.
Because hope led to expectation.
Expectation led to failure.
And failure—failure would cost more than my life.
My gaze flicked back to her.
Still reading.
Still trying to comprehend what the professor was asking of her.
Still here.
A soft, fleeting thing.
A butterfly.
And I—I was the night.
She would not survive me.
Would not survive what I would become.
So I would stay away.
