Salviana was trapped.
A prisoner in a tower she didn't recognize. Surrounded by magic she couldn't break. Starving. Exhausted. Alone.
The weight of it all came crashing down.
Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor.
"Alaric!" she screamed.
Her voice cracked, echoing off the walls.
Again. "Alaric!"
Tears burned down her dirt-streaked cheeks.
Her chest heaved with sobs, and her throat was already hoarse—but she kept calling for him, over and over, like her voice alone could tear through the magic barrier and reach him.
"Please," she croaked, pressing her forehead to the cold stone floor. "Please… find me…"
She hated this—hated the weakness twisting inside her, the trembling in her hands, the sting in her throat from crying too hard.
She hated herself for breaking.
For being weak.