The cavern lay buried beneath a hill none dared name. Long ago, before the rise of Spring Hollows, before werewolves and witches carved territory lines into the soil, the land had whispered of this place. The Ancients had called it Nivareth—The Frozen Root.
Tonight, it breathed again.
Torches lined the spiral path leading into the chamber, their flames swaying unnaturally, as if pulled by a will stronger than the wind. At the center of the ritual hall, a dais carved from black ice reflected no light, only shadows.
Upon it, a sarcophagus glowed with an eerie, glacial pulse.
She was still in there.
Encased in a perfect prism of permafrost, her body suspended in a state between memory and breath. The faintest movements stirred within the ice—eyes twitching beneath sealed lids, lips parti
