Rain hammered the roof of the Silver Creek safehouse like fists trying to get in.
Aria Vale stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a coffee mug with more force than necessary. Her knuckles were white. Her eyes hadn't left the window in twenty minutes.
Outside, the world looked normal. Wet pavement. Dripping oaks. A neighbor's dog barking at nothing.
But Aria knew better.
Normal was gone.
It had died the moment Lysander spoke—and finished bleeding out when Victoria sold her daughter like a battery.
She set the mug down. Too hard. It cracked.
Didn't matter. Nothing in this house would be needed soon.
Upstairs, Luna slept—or tried to. Ever since she came back from Axiom, she'd been quiet. Not sad. Not angry. Just… hollow. Like someone had scooped out her center and left the shell standing.
Aria couldn't bear it.
