Erik was resting with his back against the backboard of his bed, arms crossed and jaw clenched, as if stoicism alone could pin his thoughts in place.
It didn't work.
The dark stone ceiling above him stared back like a blank page that refused to offer guidance. He rubbed his forehead with one hand, covering his eyes, but he wasn't really blocking out the room.
He was trying to block out the images that kept replaying: Meilin kneeling in ash, hate pouring out of her even when defeat had already closed its fist around her throat; the sudden whirlpool of aetherium gathering in her chest as she tried to turn herself into a weapon; Elora's calm voice presenting her 'two options'.
Two options. He hated that phrase.
