Emily Rosewood’s Point of View.
Raven Hollow, nine weeks and nine days after the gate closed
The air inside the Seers’ sanctum was thick with silence—not stillness, not peace. The kind of silence that waits for a scream.
I stood in the center of the stone circle, surrounded by seven robed Seers. Candles floated in midair, casting long shadows across the walls, flickering like whispers made visible. The scent of old blood and crushed moonwort clung to everything.
The High Seer approached. Her eyes were milk-white, cataracts like frost across a window to another world. Her voice was rusted iron and ageless grief.
“You seek the Trueborn,” she rasped.
I nodded. “I was told they’re part of the Seers’ oldest prophecy.”
“They are older than prophecy,” the Seer said, and her breath made the
