Darkness had texture.

Not the absence of light, not the blindness of shadow—this was something tactile, alive, aware. It slid over Elaria’s skin like a second pulse, a second breath, tasting her the way fire tastes oxygen.

And then—

That voice.

That impossible, steady voice:

“Mine.”

The word hit her like a hand closing around the back of her neck.

Elaria gasped.

Or the world gasped with her—she couldn’t tell. The dark rippled outward in rings, each one sending a tremor ...