Silvermist swilled, her fingertips brushing the rim of the cup filled water as her eyes remained pinned on the floor. The muffled conversations around her faded into the background, as if the world had been dipped underwater.
"The realm that reflects your fears," she mumbled, gaze flickering to the faint, almost invisible traces of Ezekiel and Frost's magic still etched along her skin—remnants of their marks, like ghostly fingerprints. Her jaw tightened.
"This is bad, Mila," she whispered, finally turning toward the Mila in front of her, arms folding tight across her chest.
Mila raised an eyebrow. "Why? Are you worried you might go berserk again?"
