The storm outside roared to life.
And at the heart of it, born anew from ice and vengeance, Elira smiled.
—
The ice came first.
Long before any figure stepped into the shadowed glen where the ancient trees twisted like the gnarled hands of forgotten gods, the temperature dropped to a biting chill. Frost stretched across moss and bark like delicate veins of crystal, creeping silently. The birds, the wind, even the restless murmur of the forest held its breath.
She was near.
At the edge of the clearing, a silver mist coiled, not natural fog but something else—something sentient, like it had a mind of its own and it only served one mistress.
And then she stepped through.
Not walked. Not stumbled. Stepped—as if she had always been part of the world, of the myth, and had only now chosen
