For a moment, Elena forgot how to breathe.
Her mother, alive. Standing in front of her. Strong, unbroken, wrapped in crimson like she belonged to a world Elena had never been allowed to see. The torches flickered as though the air itself bowed to her presence.
Dante’s weak hand found Elena’s wrist, his grip trembling.
“Elena… don’t go near her,” he rasped.
But Elena’s feet felt glued to the floor. Her mother, Lyrica, was the last person she had ever expected to see again. The woman she knew in her childhood had been soft-spoken, gentle, protective. This version was carved from steel and shadows.
“Why are you here?” Elena whispered.
Lyrica’s eyes softened, but the steel beneath remained. “To save you.”
One of the elders stepped forward, trembling. “This is impossible. You were lost.
