Chapter 8 · The Memory Eater

"Get your hands off me!"

I screamed, but the walls didn't care. They weren't even walls—just shimmering, translucent membranes pulsing like a dying heart. One surged forward, wrapped around my waist, and slammed me backward into a cold metallic pillar.

Calder lunged. His boots skidded on the obsidian floor as he grabbed my wrist, his grip bruisingly tight.

Then the chamber hit back.

A bolt of jagged violet energy arched from the ceiling and slammed into his chest. He flew. A sickening thud echoed through the room as he hit the far wall.

"Calder!"

I struggled, but the membrane tightened, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

He groaned, rolling onto his side. Blood smeared his lip, but his eyes were locked on me—sharp, desperate. "Don't... don't fight it, Lena. If you struggle, it just feeds faster."

"Feeds on what?" I gasped.

Coldness bloomed in my chest. Not a feeling—a vacuum.

Suddenly, a flash ripped through my mind: my mother’s face, laughing in a kitchen I didn't recognize. The smell of burnt cinnamon. Then the image flickered, turned grey, and vanished.

I reached for it. I tried to claw the memory back. Nothing. It was just...