He squeezed.
The illusion of Lyra gagged, her hands clawing at his wrist. It felt sickeningly real. The cartilage shifting under his thumb. The panic in her eyes. The heat of her skin turning clammy.
"Xavier, stop!" Eamon shouted from the doorway, running toward them. "What are you doing?!"
"Please," Lyra choked out, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm real. I'm here. Don't hurt me."
Xavier didn't let go. He stared into her eyes, watching the light fade. His expression was stone.
"If you were real," Xavier said, his voice void of any tremble, "you wouldn't ask me to stop. You would hand me the knife."
He tightened his grip with a wet crunch.
The body went limp in his grasp.
The moment she died, the sky fractured.
The perfect city shattered like glass dropped on concrete. The terrace dissolved into black smoke. Viola, Requiem, and the palace were torn apart by a sudden, violent wind.
The warm body of Lyra disintegrated into gray ash, coating Xavier's hand in dust.
