ANATOMY OF A GIRL

january 2nd, 1809

Location: Cara'cius, Svet'dmai

In the days that followed her failed attempt for power, Calantha remained within her bedroom. Confined within those four walls, she could pretend she hadn't risked everything for a useless fucking herb.

She was embarrassed more than anything – mortified, really. She was no better than her reckless, unthinking twin. She was supposed to be the clever and calculating one.

Yes, she had risked everything in that feeble attempt, grabbing at nothing. The Dusk coven would find her eventually, she knew, and they would tear her apart. Elska could not protect her forever.

*

Caius was starving for blood – for that fleeting rush of power that came with it.

That hunger only amplified when he saw Rebekka had returned to Cara'cius. A glimpse of her on the street, weaping, brought a red haze over his vision and a metallic taste to his mouth. She was distraught, face pale and eyes red with grief – mourning the one she truly loved. He felt bile rise in his throat at the sight of her.

That night, he found himself in her bedroom. The lock to their front door couldn't have kept out a rabbit. He would've thought a Half-Witch family would know better.

He stood beside Rebekka's bed as she slept. Her chest rose and fell gently. She was peaceful, no longer the weaping girl in the street.

As he pulled the knife across her throat, her eyes shot open. For a second, fear paralysed her, and then it was death that paralysed her, holding her to the bed with an iron fist. Her gaze remained fixed on Caius – this dead, haunting stare. A trickle of guilt ran through him, perhaps for the person he'd believed her to be. But that Rebekka had never existed, and now, neither did this one.

That guilt was a raindrop compared to the flood of adrenaline that coursed through him, from his toes to his fingertips, to the tips of his ears. It was electrifying. He felt like a god, like a being to be worshipped.

He raised the knife once more and brought it down on the girl's chest. Again and again, he punched the knife through her still heart.

This power swirled around within him, and with it, he felt an almost imperceptible change in himself. His cells felt like they were charged, buzzing with this energy he'd seized. There was something deadly and great about the power of a life pulled from between a Half-Witches clenched fists.

He hadn't felt this cellular shift since the day he'd become Eternal. He didn't know what it meant, but he knew he couldn't let go of this euphoria. He would do whatever it took to keep this high.

This unearthly power – this was what his father had dreamed of. Perhaps this was the day he would finally make his father proud. And if it meant giving up his soul, he'd gladly part ways with it. It had only ever made him weaker.