The silence after the ritual was worse than any scream.
It settled over Blackwood like a suffocating fog, thick with grief, fear, and unspoken dread. The corridors that once echoed with life now whispered only of loss.
Ivy lay unconscious for three days.
Three endless nights Rowan never left her side.
He sat beside her bed in the royal infirmary, his hand wrapped around hers, afraid that if he let go even for a second she would disappear.
The healers whispered.
The elders argued.
The witches warned.
And Rowan listened to none of them.
Because every time Ivy stirred, even slightly, hope flared in his chest and when she lay still again, that hope shattered.
On the fourth night, she finally opened her eyes.
They were darker.
Not shadowed.
Not corrupted.
Just… deeper. Like a nigh
