By the time her eyes opened again, all Arabella could feel was loss.
It crashed into her without warning, a wave of grief so heavy it stole the breath from her lungs. Her heart wrenched violently, as if something vital had been torn away and taken with it. She clutched at her chest instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of her clothes, but it did nothing. The pain was not physical. It burrowed far deeper than bone or flesh, settling somewhere nameless, somewhere she had no words for.
Loss. Misery. A hollow ache that refused to be explained.
When Circe appeared before her again, she was already moving, rushing to Arabella's side with uncharacteristic urgency. Her hands hovered, checking her breathing, her pulse, the steadiness of her gaze, as if afraid that something irreversible had happened inside her mind.
Their eyes met.
Circe's fingers twitched.
She took a step back.
Not in caution— but in recoil.
