Dawn arrived like a sigh.

Soft light slipped through the curtains of Bella’s chamber, washing the room in pale gold. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and herbs—remnants of the Grove’s ritual two nights before. Beneath that, a softer scent lingered: pine, rain, and the familiar warmth of Alfred.

She stirred, her body heavy but alive. Every nerve hummed with a memory she couldn’t quite name—silver fire, a voice too ancient to belong to a mortal tongue, Alfred’s hands dragging ...