The world narrowed until it was nothing but the relentless thunder of her heart, pounding in her chest—slow, merciless, unwavering. There was no magic now, no untouchable power to shield her, only fury—undiluted and primal, the kind of rage forged in the crucible of survival, passed down in the blood of every Valente hardened by war and loss.
Alessia clung to the edge of the bathroom sink, fingers curled until her knuckles blanched, back pressed hard against chilled tile that seemed to leech the heat from her body. The echoes of the gala’s chaos chased her, refusing to loosen their grip—Celeste’s scream still ringing in her ears, the memory of her ex’s blood slick and bright against the white marble, the sensation of serpents shifting in the periphery, coiling and uncoiling in the corners
