Chapter Thirty-Four: The Obsidian Pulse
The touch had been the goal for a thousand years, or perhaps it just felt that way. But as my obsidian fingers brushed against Roric's skin, the reality was not a reunion. It was a collision.
Roric did not lean into my hand. He recoiled. It wasn't because he didn't love me; it was because the cold radiating from my new flesh was not the chill of winter—it was the absolute zero of the stars. It was a temperature that killed life on contact. Where my thumb had grazed his cheek, a small patch of skin had turned white and brittle, the cells frozen instantly into a delicate, dead lace.
"Ember?" he whispered, his voice trembling as he clutched his face. He wasn't looking at his lover. He was looking at a statue that had learned how to walk.
