E L A R A
The call comes just past midnight.
I’m already pulling my sneakers on when Selene meets me in the corridor, her copper hair loose down her back, silk robe trailing like spilled moonlight. She’s barefoot, breath quick, eyes too wide for someone who usually glides through every crisis with a smile.
“It’s one of the younger guests,” she whispers, urgency edged in her soft voice. “He woke up burning and shivering. His mother’s frantic. I told her you’d come.”
Her trust is a weight I can’t shrug off, heavier than my medical bag. I nod once and follow, the soles of our shoes soundless on the villa’s marble floor. The hallway glows with muted lanterns, shadows stretching long and thin.
Selene pauses outside the suite, pressing her hand briefly to her chest. “He’s only seven,” she m
