Amira stood in the middle of the rose garden, silent as the wind.
The flowers bent toward her.
Damien watched from the window, his jaw clenched. “She’s doing it again.”
“She doesn’t know she’s doing it,” Elira whispered.
Soren sat across from them, arms folded, eyes never leaving Amira. “That’s not entirely true.”
Elira turned. “What are you saying?”
“She’s aware. At least on some level. Those flowers are responding to her mood.”
“And what mood is that?” Damien asked.
Soren hesitated. “Fear. Confusion. Power.”
Damien swore under his breath.
“Don’t blame her,” Elira said, rising.
“I’m not blaming her. I’m blaming you,” Damien growled. “You let her see everything. The fight. The fire. The blood. She’s just a child.”
“She’s not just anything,” Soren said darkly.
They both looked
