TAVRIC
It's been only a couple of hours since I last saw her, looking all shiny and magnificent, and now she is looking like a shell of her old self.
Her eyes are sunken, shadowed by a dark exhaustion that makes my chest tighten. Her glorious hair, which usually catches the light like a crown, has lost its shine. Even her skin seems paler, just as her plump lips are charred, dry, and flaky from dehydration.
Captivity does no one any good, but it's worse on her. If Amara hadn't assured me—after a thorough examination of her body with that magic brush of hers—that her essence was still intact, I would have thought it was gone.
She looks sick. And I hate it.
I hate it so much. I hate that she was in captivity while I stood in her room like a fool.
