Selene didn’t scream.
She stood frozen, staring at the feed Mireille’s face, untouched by time, poised like a monarch in exile, her hand coiled around Vincent’s hair, pulling his head back.
Blood smeared his forehead.
The screen shook slightly, like whoever was recording had to keep their hands steady.
Darius stepped closer. “That’s not possible. She’s dead.”
“No,” Selene murmured, voice flat. “She disappeared. That’s not the same.”
On the screen, Mireille leaned in beside Vincent’s ear. Her lips moved, silent, but the message was clear:
I always finish what I start.
Selene’s lungs didn’t move. The world around her flickered, like the air itself was rejecting the reality.
Elio had her daughter.
Mireille had Vincent.
This wasn’t a war anymore.
It was a reckoning.
Darius touched
