ARIA
Power.
The word thundered in my head, echoing like a chant I couldn't escape. What was it? Was it mine? According to the voice, it was.
I stared at my shaking hands and froze. My vision had sharpened somehow, clearer than ever before. I could see everything. The faint pulse in my wrist, the dark veins snaking beneath my skin, and the claws—long, blackened, monstrous. The same ones that had torn through Atlas's skin.
Was this what the voice meant by power?
The reason I'd snapped?
The reason I'd hurt someone again?
Fresh blood glistened on my palms, warm and slick, trickling between my fingers. A strangled sound left my throat. I rubbed my hands against my dress, frantic, trying to wipe it away, but the more I scrubbed, the more it poured, staining the fabric deep crimson.
"Help," I whimpered. "It won't come off. It won't go off!"
