The air in the West Wing didn't just feel still; it felt expectant. It was thick with the scent of jasmine and old paper, but beneath that was something metallic, like the lingering tang of a lightning strike. As Silas’s words hung in the air, the room seemed to exhale. Dust motes danced in the candlelight, swirling into patterns that looked like grasping hands.
Elena felt the word Kinslayer burning against her retinas, even though she was no longer looking at the door.
"No," she whispered, her voice cracking as she pushed herself up on the velvet bedspread. The fabric felt unnervingly soft, like skin. "I was born in a clinic in Silver Creek. My mother died of complications. That’s what the records say. That’s what I’ve known my whole life."
"Records can be rewritten, Elena," Jax said s
