Elle's Pov
Nana's inner chamber feels ancient, every shadow here carries memory older than the house itself. The walls are layered with blackened symbols carved into stone, smeared with ash. Bundles of dried sage, wolfsbane, and night-root hang from iron hooks. On the floor, cracked bowls hold offerings; bone-dust salted earth, burnt herbs, and rings of hardened wax. This smells like history and old magic.
Mom holds my hand tightly, almost painfully. Her thumb rubs circles over my knuckles, a nervous habit I haven't seen since the day Father died. Even with all her bravado, the second she steps into Nana's inner chambers, she becomes a daughter again. But Nana stands apart, straight-backed, solemn, ready to do the necessary.
"Come," Nana's voice cut clean through the silence. "You've let your gift flicker like a dying ember. Now it must burn."
