Aira, on the other hand, was losing her mind.
Breakfast came and went. Lunch followed. Then dinner. Each passing hour only fed the rising panic twisting through her chest. No matter how hard she thought, no matter how many times she paced or whispered or schemed, she couldn't come up with anything.
Nothing.
So consumed was she that her anxiety became visible—chewing at her fingernails, eyes darting constantly, voice trembling as she whispered to Rymora for the fifteenth time, the same desperate question beneath her breath.
"Do you really not know of a way?" Her tone was tight, almost pleading. She had asked again for a method to kill a powerful vampire—any method. And as always, she got the same response.
A firm shake of the head.
The only time Rymora had spoken, she'd muttered six useless words: "Are you trying to get killed?" As if Aira had time for that. As if her jittery, frantic energy hadn't already reached a fever pitch.
