Page 340 of Scarlet Wars
SEVENTY-THREE
EMMA
It had been a week since the funerals from hell.
First Saoirse’s.
Then Stephen’s.
I barely realized how different the ones at Cyclos were from those at Crown.
More ritual, less quiet.
There were speeches. Burials. Fires.
But nothing ceremonial could possibly capture the scope of what we’d lost.
James somehow found the strength to give a beautiful farewell to Stephen. He stood at the front, hands clenched at his sides, voice steady but still forcing the words through his teeth.
He stared at Cara while he spoke. A lot. Like she was the only one holding him together.
And I was grieving.
Hard.
My sister was gone—her laughter that always cut through the worst days, her joy that filled every room she stepped into, her advice that somehow always landed exactly where I needed it, her friendship that had carried me through more battles than any weapon, her love that never wavered, not once, her brilliantmind, her softness, her sweetness—all of it ripped out of this world in a single, brutal moment.
She was gone.
And the sickening truth pounded at the inside of my skull with every breath I took: it was my fucking fault.
The first week after the battle, I was living in my own personal brand of hell, filled with grief and guilt.
It was a cruel kind of irony. I kept everyone out, pushed them away without hesitation… Then lay awake at night, aching from the quiet. Loneliness pressed in so sharply, I cried myself to sleep, clutching a pillow like it could hold me back together.
I was exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion. I was grief-sick. All I wanted, was the comfort of something familiar. Something safe.
I wanted to feel athome.
Home.
Such a simple concept. A basic human need, as natural as breathing.
Except when you don’t have one. Which I was rapidly realizing, I didn’t.
My home had always been with my parents, a safe place wrapped in warmth and familiarity. A home I’d obliterated with their corpses still warm inside it.
The grief for their loss was still a daily battle, an aching wound that never stopped bleeding, now enhanced by yet another loss.
I tried to focus on the positive side of things. At least I’d saved Jackson. And Nino.
When I’d moved into Cyclos, there had been people like them, who had done everything in their power to make me feel at ease.
But staring out the window in my old room only confirmed what I already knew: this place was hollow now. Stripped of comfort, and of any trace of the person I used to be.
A museum exhibit titled “Before the World Went to Shit.”
The only place I’d ever felt at home was…with Caden.
