The room was dark, suffocating, and quiet... too quiet. The lights on the wall had long since died out, and the moon's light, filtered through the obsidian-stained glass of the room, cast only faint silvery shadows on the black marble floor.
Rohzivaan sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers curled into his skull as if he could squeeze the thoughts away. His body was still, but inside, a storm raged violently. The ache in his chest was indescribable, unbearable, and yet it was not new.
He had prepared for this. He had trained for this. He had ripped pieces of himself out, one at a time, in the months leading up to the bond's severance. But none of it had made him ready for the aftermath. None of it had truly numbed his heart.
