🦋 ALTHEA
The silence that followed my mother's scream was worse than the howl itself. It was the sound of a foundation crumbling.
I expected her to lunge at me. I expected her to order the Gammas to charge against all odds. Instead, a sound bubbled up from her throat that made the hair on my arms stand up.
She started to laugh.
It wasn't the polished, melodic laugh of the High Gamma. It was a jagged, manic sound—full of a bitter, roiling mirth that seemed to age her ten years in a matter of seconds. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, her eyes bright with a terrifying brand of resignation.
"You win, Cyrion," she gasped out, the name spitting from her lips like venom. "Like always. Always at my expense."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Cyrion. I had never heard it before, yet it vibrated in the silver light of my moths as if they recognized it.
