EMMALINE
The sight before me steals every breath from my lungs. My body locks in place as the world inside the door unfolds.
It’s not blood this time. Not grief. Not the sharp cruelty of loss.
But it’s no less devastating.
Alexander is there, younger than in the last vision—maybe twelve years old. His features still carry traces of childhood softness, though his eyes are already far too knowing, too old for someone so small. His steps are quick and light, almost cautious, as though he doesn’t want to be heard.
I follow his gaze, and that’s when I see it.
His father—broad, regal, every inch a king—stands in a shadowed alcove with a woman who is not Alexander’s mother. The woman leans into him, her laughter low and intimate, her hands shameless in their touch. The king’s mouth is on he
