The woods were soaked. July’s rain had not let up in three days, and still, Elira walked the path Silas left for her.
She didn’t tell Damien.
She didn’t tell Soren.
This was hers to carry.
She followed the trail behind the estate garden, through the private meadow Clara once used for isolation therapy. Every footprint felt heavier, every breath colder.
Silas had walked this way. She knew it.
She could feel it in her blood.
“You can’t un-teach blood.”
Soren’s words haunted her.
But what if she didn’t need to un-teach him?
What if she could show him her pain matched his?
That she hadn’t abandoned him…
She had been stolen too.
A branch snapped to her left. Elira spun.
But no one.
Just the wind.
And then—whispers. A child’s laughter. A boy’s voice, distant, cruel.
“Elira…” it
