BLAKE’S P.O.V.
The air down here felt alive — like it was breathing against my skin. Every step echoed on that glass floor, too loud, too hollow. The blue haze coiled around us in slow, twisting waves, whispering things that didn’t belong to words.
We moved through it carefully, but the further we went, the stronger that faint light ahead became. It pulsed like a heartbeat — steady, familiar, wrong.
Then I saw her.
“Clara!”
She was kneeling near the center of a flat, circular space, her back to us. Her hair hung loose, tangled, falling over her shoulders. Her robes were torn, dirty, and from where I stood, I could see her trembling. Relief slammed into me so hard I almost forgot to breathe.
I ran.
“Blake, wait—” Irene’s voice followed, sharp and urgent, but I didn’t stop.
The cold
