#Chapter85
The lights couldn't have been off for more than ten seconds, but by the time everything converted back to how it had been before the darkness had struck, everything felt . . . wrong?
Colder than the grave, the icy tendrils that had immobilized me, that had rooted me to the spot, overruling the need I had felt to get to Lumen, had lessened, but looking around proved that I hadn't been the only one affected. Pools of air formed around Jonathan's mouth, his eyes wide; it was perhaps the first time in my life that I had ever seen him look afraid, and it was like a bullet through my ribs.
Clarke had crumpled to the floor, his eyes squeezed shut and his breathing coming out in thick, heavy puffs. Custer . . . he had paled to the resemblance of a three-week-old corpse, and if not for how unsteady my own limbs felt, I would have mocked the way his hands trembled at his side.