Abolisher

“Have you been able to access anything?” Kefaas asked as they walked along the corners to the warehouse.

“No—nothing. I’ve tried everything. It’s almost as if Drothiker wants me to be truly desperate to deliver any aid.”

“Or simply all you need is an overtaking desire,” Kefaas mused.

She whipped her head in his direction. “Go on.”

“You called fire when you wanted to burn down that overseer more than anything in the world. You allowed your rage to capture you. You called ice when you wanted him to be still, as you … blew open his head …”

He shook his head, shoving away the image no doubt. Syrene snorted—she hadn’t the slightest remorse for what she’d done.

She did what she’d wanted to do for five years in Jegvr. No way in Saqa was she going spend a second lamenting her accomplishment.

Kefaas went on, “You healed your ripper when you wanted that the most. Your desire is the puppeteer this time, Syrene.”

“Isn’t it always?”

He shrugged.

“Or maybe Drothiker is my puppeteer,” she grumbled.

Kefaas glared daggers at her. “We’ve discussed this.”

Syrene waved her hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just saying.”

Unlike rippers, we might not have literal leashes to our souls, Kefaas had once explained, but we do have strings, Syrene. All humans have strings, and we all have our puppeteers. For some, it’s the yearning. For others, it’s the power. Very few manage to cut their strings and let themselves free. You decide who’s your puppeteer. My advice? Don’t ever let power your strings. Better be starving than wasting.

She hadn’t understood what he’d meant, then, she’d barely had any will to heed the world around herself. Now that Syrene let the words sink … who was holding her strings?

Power? Yearning?

Syrene shook her head, pressing down the thoughts until they vanished.

✰✰✰✰✰

Azryle was in his bed, staring at Delaya Fairdust’s stone sitting atop his palm.

He waited for it to burn the way it had when he’d held it the first time—so cold that he’d felt his blood freezing.

But nothing happened.

He turned it over again and again, recalling the way it’d somehow made its way to Ferouzeh’s mind when she’d held it.

But it had no effect on him.

Azryle reached into the pockets of his mejest, made for the one concealed in shadows, and brought about the power he’d never made sense of.

Dark fog coiled his fingers soon.

Azryle watched as the fog attempted—without his will—to stretch out to the stone at the heart of his palm. And when it grazed the shiny surface—

It was as if the world paused.

He felt it—as power clutched his mind in a heartbeat and numbed all his thoughts, and everything in him literally froze for a horrifying second. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Until his own mejest came to rescue.

He’d long ago built wards around his mind to keep Felset from entering. He’d gladly never taken them down. And this power … he didn’t want to imagine what could’ve occurred had those wards not kept it from scraping its talons against his mind.

Azryle pulled in the unholy power, killing the fog, earning a sharp stab of pain up the vein at his temple. He gritted his teeth against it. Only when the echoes of the power receded from his bones did Azryle feel the cold liquid trickling down his stomach.

Only then did he heed the excruciating pain in his entire torso.

Not again. His head fell back against the bedhead.

Annoyance shredded through him. Every time the wound began stitching back together, something had it tearing back open.

He lifted his shirt. And stilled.

The blood … the drop sliding down his stomach wasn’t red.

Black.

His blood chilled.

He peeled off the shirt over his head and arms.

Frantic, he tore open the bandages with his hands, inviting a sharp agony. For a moment, he felt dizzy. Pain shot through his torso.

The wound had barely healed. But to his eternal relief, the blood was red. But the black drop …

It was as if he’d stopped being human the moment he called that dark mejest Felset had dealt him.

“That does not look good.”

His gaze snapped to the door.

Renavy was frowning, arms crossed, as she stood angled against doorframe.

Azryle looked back down at the wound, wiping away the drop of dark blood with the shirt. “Been dealt worse.”

“Worse than Grestel pace of healing?”

He recalled the dungeons—when Felset had commanded him to not avail himself of his mejest after having him whipped for hours.

Azryle only shrugged, reaching out for the med kit Syrene had positioned on the bedside table for him.

“Was it you?”

Azryle looked to her. “What?”

“The—the tendril of that … profane power …”

The stone suddenly grew sharp in his fist. “No.”

She swept a hand through the mass of her navy hair, shifting.

“Did you need something?” he asked, cleaning the blood.

“Why didn’t you go with Syrene?”

“Why didn’t you?”

She didn’t reply—Azryle had already overheard her argument with the stubborn duce—only shrugged. Point taken.

She turned back and stepped out of the bedroom. But returned a moment later.

“I’m headed to a tavern down the alley. You coming?”

Azryle began dressing the wound. “Don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

Renavy idly waved a hand. “It’s Monday—there won’t be many people. Just stay clear of the drunken ones and your wound would be good, they never know where they find their hands. Besides,” she drawled, “drinks help dull the pain.”

He paused. Considered. Better be at a tavern, than here fussing over Syrene.

“Do you happen to have any other shirt for me?”

Renavy grinned.

✰✰✰✰✰

Maycusen grinned. “Well, well.”

His face was bruised everywhere—a black eye, swollen mouth, bleeding cheeks, broken nose. Faolin had not been merciful after all. Syrene almost pitied the man.

She gripped the chair poised before him and whirled it so its back was to him. She straddled it. “I hear you’ve been longing to see me, Maycusen,” she drawled. “Thought I’d bless you with my presence.”

Kefaas was hovering above the warehouse—on its roof—however he’d managed to climb. She could almost hear his breaths.

Maycusen smirked. “Took you too long.”

She winked. “I like my men starved.”

“Hm,” he mused. He leaned forward despite the roped hands at his back, eyes glazing. “Surely the waiting meal would be worth it.” He gave a lustful smile.

It took all her self-restraint to keep herself from further bruising his face. But Syrene kept herself smiling. “I said I liked my men starved, Maycusen,” she crooned, “I plan to keep liking you.”

He leaned back in the chair. “So?” he asked. “How do we begin? With punches? Kicks? Weapons?” He met her gaze. “Kisses?”

She smiled sweetly. “How about we try something new?” She lifted off the chair. Slowly, she stepped around him so she was at his back, recalling Faolin’s and Ferouzeh’s postulates.

Loosen his ropesjust a tad—to give him the idea that you’re freeing him.

But obviously Syrene wasn’t foolish enough to start with that. She wanted more than just other two Kaerions’ whereabouts. She needed to know when Felset was planning to open the portal and possibly where. She needed to know everything he had on the Enchanted Queen.

“For every answer,” Syrene said, gently grazing a finger along his nape. Then watched him shudder. “I’ll lend you enough of my mejest to break Felset’s bond.”

Now Syrene watched as the Jaguar stilled wholly at the offer. Not even a hair moved. “That’s not possible.” His voice was suddenly flat—cautious.

She smiled at his back. “You know what Drothiker is, Maycusen? Where it originated from?” He knew—she could tell from the slight hitch in his breath, from the bracing of his heart. She voiced it anyway. “Felset once gathered most of her power and formed a device to contain it. She called it Drighrem: Moonstone. Drothiker is Felset’s mejest. So think about it, Maycusen. How does freedom sound to you?”

It was a bluff—and yet not. Drothiker was Felset’s power, and it could definitely sever the oath.

Syrene just didn’t know how.

Upon his silence, she asked, “Do you accept?”

“You’re offering me freedom, why?”

“One less hindrance to deal with.”

Even from behind, she felt his cold smile. “What makes you think I’m with Felset by force?” She paused, waited. “Felset gives me power, Syrene, she keeps me from growing weak. Have you seen Az? Sure you have. You know I haven’t. Yet I know he’s growing weaker every passing second. He’s growing thinner. Felset keeps us marching—she keeps us surviving. Free from the burden of decisions. Why in Saqa would I give that up?”

Syrene let out a scoff filled with disbelief. “You stay with her because of that? Because you cower from decisions? You cower from freedom?”

His voice steered colder than frost. “We’re immortals. You haven’t even lived a century—you do not comprehend the way a soul can crumple beneath the weight of those decisions.”

She shook her head, short on words. She couldn’t possibly ever understand this thinking. She’d always desired freedom more than anything in her life. And to not want that freedom …

“Have you been to the making place?”

Maycusen’s question had her breath puffing out.

“I’ll take that as a no. I have—only for a mission, unlike Az. Ask him—jefe is the only one who’s dared to defy Queen Felset again and again and again. And even he was grateful to have been leashed to Her Majesty when he was there.”

Syrene was shaking her head. No, if there was something she knew for certain was that no matter how bad the conditions, the last thing Azryle would ever be grateful of was the leash. She knew how much he loathed it—

“Felset takes, and she gives. She’s vicious, and insane, and cruel. But she plays fair. So to answer your question: I do not need to be free of her.”

No, this was all wrong. Felset was horrible—

Syrene paused.

Need.

I do not need to be free of her.

Needs and wants were different things. Very different.

She recalled the way Azryle had refused freedom a year ago. Could it be that Felset had commanded Maycusen to deny …?

If that was the case then Felset knew exactly what Syrene was capable of—more than even Syrene did herself. That meant Felset knew her weaknesses too.

“Where are the other two Kaerions, Maycusen?”

A breathy, spine-chilling laugh. “They’re gone, Syrene.” He began shaking his head. “If you’d let me speak the other day—when Felset took them to the making place, I could have warned you, and you could have saved them. But now … it’s too late. They’re humans no more, Czar. You’ve lost.”

No.

Her heart began speeding, anxious.

No, no, no—

He was lying. He had to be—

“I couldn’t tell Faolin Wisflave about the making place. That place is filled with things like her. If I’d told her, she would’ve been drawn to that place subconsciously. And would’ve lost her mind trying to find it. I kept asking for you, but you …” He was still chuckling when he looked over his shoulder. “You like your men starved, right?”

He continued speaking, but she stopped listening.

Such silence slapped her that she could hear her own loud breaths rasping in the abyss of her body.

Kaerions—gone.

She couldn’t save it. The planet—her planet. She couldn’t save it from Destiny. She couldn’t stop the doom.

She failed.

The words clanged though her.

Everything—Brother Adlae’s death, the training with Hexet and Raocete, the curse, the Voiceless Pits, the duel, Deisn’s sacrifice, the onslaught of baeselk—everything … for nothing.

Her lungs felt heavy. She didn’t realize when she’d begun panting.

All her life. She’d been trained all her life for this.

She pressed her shaking palms to her eyes.

No. This couldn’t be the end.

Destiny is written, a voice whispered. You cannot defy Destiny, Starblood.

She refused this Destiny. She refused.

Don’t you see it, Syrene? Ianov is bound to die.

The only salvation you can offer them—us—is death.

Let Ianov end, Syrene.

No. No.

This is your world—the one you wish to save.

There is no freedom sweeter than death.

She pressed her hands to her ears.

Only then did she hear the ground cracking.

✰✰✰✰✰

Renavy lent Azryle a shirt, a jacket, and a few daggers.

She’d warned him about the last one, “Just don’t lose them.” It’d sounded like a threat.

Now, as they made their way to the tavern, she moved the daggers between her fingers in painful maneuvers and challenged him. She was bragging, he could tell, but he couldn’t help but marvel at the ease she danced them with.

Suddenly all the brutal scars marring her hands made sense.

“They don’t teach you these in whatever training you’ve had?” she asked, the last dagger disappearing somewhere in her pants.

“No, we’re certainly not taught the ways to show-off.”

She smirked shamelessly. “Boring.” She crossed her arms. “Imagine being as skilled as you are and not having the fun of showing-off.”

“Some people fight to survive.”

“You can survive just fine with a bit of fun. Living your life being cautious more than necessary is not living.”

“It’s surviving.”

Renavy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well. Boring.” She frowned. “If Syrene were like this, I would have kicked her out of the apartment. Even as Cerys, she wasn’t dull.”

Azryle lifted a brow. “You’re calling me boring?”

“Absolutely.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s fairly offensive.” Though looking back at his life, full of following commands and the lack of humor without Ferouzeh’s presence … it was true, as troubling as that realization was.

“It’s not just you.” She shrugged. “It’s all the macho men I’ve met.”

Azryle snorted. “Macho men?” He was quickly reminded of when Syrene had used the term a year ago.

“Aggressively manly men,” she clarified. “You know, the ones who don’t dance, they’re always scowling, the constant grumbling. They do not know how to smile.” She glanced at his shoulders. “Shoulders are always high. And let’s not forget the sheer possessiveness they have over their partner.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“Ryle? Navy?”

They paused at the voice and turned.

Syrene was ambling in their direction, gloved hands shoved in pockets.

He exchanged a confused look with Renavy as they both began approaching the duce. “What are you doing here?” the water-wielder was the one to ask, brows furrowed.

Syrene shook her head. “Maycusen didn’t budge.” She looked so tired. “I tried everything.”

“Where is he?” Renavy’s voice softened, noticing the exhaustion.

“He fled.”

Syrene didn’t pause before them. She came beside Azryle.

“He fled,” her voice broke.

Before Azryle could comprehend, her arms came around his waist, and her face snuggled in his chest. He froze when her nose poked the bandaged wound, and pain greeted him. But then his senses took over and his arms awkwardly went around her, ignoring the ache.

“Did you chase after him?” Azryle asked.

Syrene began sobbing, and shook her head, poking the wound further. “He was too fast, and I’m so tired.”

Renavy caught the blood now staining the blue shirt he wore. “Syrene—”

Azryle shook his head at her; she clamped her lips shut.

Syrene’s head lifted off his chest. Her wet eyes lifted to his face. “Take me home.”

Azryle nodded.

She looped her arms around his waist again—harshly enough that he staggered, his arm brushed Renavy’s before he braced himself.

Renavy bristled.

Syrene didn’t seem to notice. She remained like that the whole way to the apartment.

Renavy went straight into the kitchen as soon as they entered. Azryle led Syrene to the bedroom he was staying in. They’d barely entered the room when she withdrew from him and her lips found his.

It was so sudden that he paused for a moment.

The kiss was not slow, and it was not patient. It was needy, demanding, devouring. Full of greed. Her hands tasted his shoulders, his neck, his hair.

“Ugh,” he heard Renavy groan. “Shut the Abyss-damned door!”

He felt Syrene’s muscles twitch as she attempted to reach her hand to the door without breaking the kiss.

Which only meant she had no intention of stopping at the kiss.

Her hand was just at the door when Azryle whirled her and pressed her against the wall, his hands pinned hers above her head. He broke the kiss, using his other hand to snatch the scarf from her neck. His lips found the smooth crook of her neck.

Syrene moaned.

“I am trying to eat here!” Renavy shouted from the kitchen.

Neither Syrene nor Azryle replied.

He moved his lips up her neck. To her jaw. “You know what your first mistake was?” he breathed against her skin.

Syrene seemed to pause.

Azryle’s lips found her ear. “Syrene would have chased Maycusen until her legs gave.”

She stilled further. He tightened his grip around her hands.

“Second mistake?”

His mouth moved to the curve of her neck again.

“She was bitten by a baeselk a year ago. Her skin here is still pink.”

Now she was struggling against him. Azryle brought his face before hers.

“Third mistake? Walking into a ripper’s room with nothing but weapons. Forgetting that I absolutely love to rip open human forms.”

He offered no warning before he twisted her hand. Her shrill scream pierced his ears.

Renavy immediately appeared at the threshold of the room. She simply crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, watching.

But he went on, gripping Syrene’s chin with his free hand. “You know what your worst mistake was, Delaya?”

Her eyes—Syrene’s azure eyes—widened. “How did you—”

“I can tell Syrene’s taste even if I had poison in my mouth.”

He twisted her second hand. She opened her mouth but Azryle’s mejest was already looping her throat. No sound came out.

Azryle peeled her off the wall and hurled her out of the room. She crashed into the living room’s couch. Bright light laminated her body before Delaya’s own form replaced Syrene’s.

“I have to say,” Renavy turned to the living room, “I really thought you’d take her for the night.”

“Did that once.” He walked out of the bedroom, ignoring the parting wound at his chest. “Regretted it the next morning.”

Both Renavy and Azryle had recognized the change in supposed Syrene’s behavior the moment she’d appeared in the alley. He’d slid the stone in Renavy’s pocket when Delaya had thrown her arms around him.

Hopefully she’d hidden it somewhere in the kitchen.

Delaya was on her feet. “Hello to you too.” She grinned.

Azryle paused a few steps from her, each muscle in his body aching to crack her bones. “Get out of here.” His voice had dropped to deadly calm.

Delaya examined her nails. “Sure, once I’m returned what you stole.”

Azryle wanted to be rid of that wretched stone more than anything, but damn him, all his instincts shrieked against it.

“I tossed that stone in a river,” he drawled. “It made so much noise, I got annoyed. Surely you can acquire similar stones from forests.”

“But for that, you see,” Renavy spoke from beside him, “she will have to get the Hell out of my apartment.”

“You’re lying,” Delaya hissed at Azryle.

“Oh, but I’m not.”

“I’ll kill you,” she snarled. A rage Azryle had never encountered flamed in her dark eyes. “I will kill you—”

He rubbed at his jaw. “You could try.” Then—

Like a wildcat, Fairdust lunged for him.

Or attempted to.

A ripple of light flaunted when she slammed into the invisible barrier Azryle had constructed around her.

Her eyes flashed—the repulsive anger fuming. He could have sworn its scent seeped into his flesh.

“I did give you a chance to get out.” He shrugged.

Delaya chuckled. Her stygian eyes seemed to glow somehow—a darkness seemed to come around her.

“Kosas.”

His gaze snapped to Renavy at the curse. Her eyes were wide, fixed at—

Darkness meandered up the corners of the living room. It snaked up the walls, the furniture. A desolation claimed the apartment.

Two daggers appeared in the water-wielder’s hands—syncing with his own.

“What in Saqa …” she breathed.

“Stay close,” Azryle warned as gloom shed the room.

“You think you can hold me, ripper.”

They looked to Delaya, who was giggling like a madwoman. But it wasn’t that sound that surprised him.

But her eyes.

It was as if her pupils leaked Darkness—some awful fog polluted over the white of her eyes.

She lifted her hand to his barrier, and—

Pain seared through Azryle. He bent double, grunting. Just as an unnerving déjà vu flashed past his mind. He’d felt this pain before—had been dealt the same situation.

A year ago—in the cave—after he’d kissed Syrene—Deisn Rainfang had gushed his barrier with her Darkness—

Fire seemed to have been poured into him. Everything burned.

“I have been too gentle with you, Prince,” Delaya droned. “Too patient. No more.”

He tasted the blood before it rolled down his lips.

“Stop,” Renavy snarled. “What are you doing to him?”

Through his fuzzy sight, Azryle only caught a blur of silver beside himself as a dagger dashed for Delaya.

Heal, he attempted to reach out to his mejest. Come on—

But so long as the baeselk wound remained at his chest, healing had been blocked from his body.

Azryle slammed to his knees.

He heard Delaya click her tongue. “What happened, now, Prince? What was it you were saying about ripping?”

Come on, he urged. Anything would help—

“Ah, I see how it is. Any minute now Syrene would come barging in, wouldn’t she? That’s how it goes, right? You save her life, she saves yours. You heal her, she heals you. You offer her salvation, she offers you freedom.” His eyes were on the floor when Delaya’s feet appeared in the bounds of his sight. “So where is your savior, ripper?” She crouched before him.

Azryle felt her move before Renavy appeared behind Delaya. Unfortunately for her, Delaya didn’t. For there was a dagger at her throat, and a fist in her hair tipping her head back to bare the throat. “I will not ask you to leave again.” Renavy’s voice was calm—her face almost amused.

But Delaya only chuckled. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Oh, I very much want to.”

Delaya gripped the water-wielder’s leg, surely to knock her into the table behind, but the shapeshifter went still, her face waned the moment her palm touched her leg.

Standing at her back, Renavy didn’t see it. She easily pivoted her leg out of Delaya’s grip, and pinned her hand to the floor with her booted foot. Azryle heard the groan of Delaya’s bones, but her face didn’t even twitch. Then—

“You have the stone.” It wasn’t a question—a plain statement.

Everything entered a slow-motion then.

Azryle saw it—the power that leaked from Delaya in a tide, as it aimed at Renavy. Felt the utter intention of a merciless end, an unending void.

In the next moment something swelled inside him—like a blooming flower. A desperation gaped open inside him, and he felt the thread—like a rope lashing him to something, felt it like a real, solid thing come to life. Then he was moving towards Syrene’s friend. He staggered forward like a broken animal and gripped Renavy’s hand.

Just as he pulled at the thread.

✰✰✰✰✰

Syrene was rolling across the floor with Maycusen.

As soon as the crack had appeared beneath her foot, he’d shifted and lunged at her.

She was too busy dodging the jaguar’s claws to take in the grumbling warehouse. She couldn’t focus—neither on her mejest, nor on the brawl.

He now growled atop her, swiping a paw for head once again. Stop this.

The next moment, she was the one atop him, digging her nails into the soft skin of his neck. Not that it did much. “You stop. I need to focus—”

He hurled her across the warehouse. Syrene managed to land on her feet, swept to a pause.

Light claimed Maycusen, molding him into a human. He was panting when it vanished, his neck bleeding. “I can’t,” he breathed.

Because if he stopped fighting, he would be led to Felset. And he didn’t want to, did he?

“Keep me engaged in this fight and I’ll tell you all I know.”

Light appeared again, and the animal replaced him. Then he was galloping towards her.

Syrene spat blood on stones. “Like you can tell me shit in that form.”

Then she was rolling across the floor with him again.

Syrene felt the ground as it tore open—she felt as if she’d been melted into some acid and now she were scattered across the floor, gashing the ground wherever she soaked.

She heard as debris began raining down. As rocks burst beside her head.

Where in Saqa was Kefaas—

Just as she the thought touched her mind, she glimpsed him at the corner of her eye.

He was casually leaning against a damn pillar. He looked almost amused from here, as he watched them. All he needed was food.

Syrene snarled, throwing Maycusen off of herself. Pain lanced up her gouged arm. She was on her feet the next moment. “Enjoying the show, are you?” she hissed at Kefaas.

“Oh, very much.”

He had a hard wall of wind constructed around himself—any rock that came anywhere around him was reduced to dust.

Maycusen had regained himself. He shifted. When light disappeared, he gripped his knees, breathing hard. His one hand was at his shoulder, pulling out the dagger she’d managed to embed there. The argh sounded very painful when he did.

She took all the satisfaction in it.

“Her Majesty isn’t opening the portal alone,” he imparted, straightening. “She has a partner.”

The Elite Kaerions—

“Someone other than the two Kaerions, who are practically her pets now. Worse.”

“Who—” she began, but Maycusen was already shifting. The dagger discarded.

Syrene swept to her side when the jaguar came for her. His paws scratched the ground. She whirled to him. He leapt for her again—she dodged again.

This time, she copied Kefaas. Syrene called for her winds. They swirled around her in the cold, enveloped her, roared in her ears. Syrene hardened them as much as she could, until she could feel them brutally slapping her. They weren’t as hard as Kefaas’, but just enough.

When Maycusen came for her, Syrene sent the wall for him. He paused, not daring to near it.

Somewhere, another crack in the ground ruptured.

She turned to Kefaas. “A little help would be greatly appreciated.”

“Yes, but my help is not necessary, kid. You’re fully capable to controlling your mejest. I’ve been training you for over a week. Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

Syrene gritted her teeth. “I wish old age could take immortal men in some way.”

Kefaas grinned.

Syrene turned to Maycusen.

He was in his human form again. “Her name is Delaya Fairdust—Felset’s partner.” Syrene paused. She’d heard that name before—“She has something that grants enough power to open the portal. I don’t have the specific timings, but they’re planning to open it soon.”

“Wait.” Kefaas’ voice had steered cold. She turned to him. His face looked pale. “Who?”

“Delaya,” Maycusen yelled over the winds. “Delaya Fairdust. She has a last name. It was … uh …” He pondered.

This might be the first time Syrene had seen Kefaas struck, as if he’d been backhanded. He looked as if he would vomit anytime now.

“Do you know her?” Syrene inquired.

Kefaas was ready to bolt—she could tell—

“I have to go …” he breathed, retreating a step.

“Kefaas …”

“Petsov!”

Both Syrene’s and Kefaas’ gazes snapped to Maycusen.

“Delaya Fairdust Petsov.” He shifted again.

Shock shot through Syrene, freezing her. She turned to Kefaas—who was staring right at her, eyes wide—

From behind, Maycusen knocked her to the ground.

Syrene’s head bumped into the floor, her arm twisted. Then—

She felt it.

The bulging inside her, like a gate opening.

The world rippled all around her. A memory pierced her mind as it did.

A dream—she’d thought it’d been a dream—

But the world split open beside her—as if a hole in a paper. And then, a yank.

A pull so hard that she thought her bones would tear through her skin.

The warehouse around her disappeared.