Page 41 of Marked By His Hunger
And then the veil tore.
“Veil-sickness,” Ursula had called it gently, her hand steady at the back of my head while I lost what was left of my dignity onto the cobblestone path just outside the West entrance.
You heard that right.
The Institute was an actual castle.
Not metaphorically.
Not like an old European building with character.
This was the real deal.
Stone towers. Iron gates. Rune-carved arches that glowed when you passed beneath them.
The kind of place that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a myth—and then made older, darker, and very, very real.
And I had thrown up on it.
Multiple times.
“Okay, okay—breathe,” Ursula murmured, pushing my hair back again as I gagged. “First crossing hits some people harder than others.”
Some people.
Great.
“Define harder,” I croaked.
She winced in sympathy. “You’re… uh, trending above average.”
Fantastic.
“Thanks,” I muttered weakly as she handed me a napkin.
Poor girl.
Her first impression of me? A chubby Jersey girl who face-planted into another realm and immediately projectile-vomited like the portal had personally offended me.
Not exactly giving powerful Witch energy.
More like possessed raccoon behind a Wawa.
By the time the worst of it passed, my entire body felt wrong—like my bones had been shaken loose and put back slightly out of alignment.
The air here was heavier, thicker, charged with something I couldn’t quite name yet but definitely felt.
Magic.
Not hidden.
Not subtle.
It was everywhere.
In the stones beneath my feet.
In the air I breathed.
