Ashenya stood at the edge of the camp, her breath frosting in the midnight air. The wind whispered through the treetops, but her skin burned as though standing in fire. Something inside her pulsed, tugged, unraveled.
She gripped her head, trembling.
A vision struck—violent and cold.
She was no longer in the woods.
She stood in a moonlit throne room draped in silver silk, and she knew it wasn't real—but it was more than memory. It was deeper. Older.
And then she saw her: Vaelora. Regal, radiant, and terrible. Her silver eyes glowed like winter stars.
Across from her stood another woman—gentle, hesitant, with the same Moonblood flame in her veins. Her sister.
"No," Ashenya whispered aloud, staggering. "No, I don't want to see this again—"
But the vision held her fast.
"You swore, Vaelora," the sister said. "You promised—"
"Power does not honor promises," Vaelora whispered, almost tenderly. "Only blood."
