The Wraiths of the North didn’t attack with the jagged ferocity of the Hollowed or the cold precision of the Architects. They attacked with the one weapon I was entirely unprepared for: memory.
As they swarmed out of the frost-coated pillars of the Great Hall, the air didn't just turn cold; it turned heavy with the scent of pine needles and woodsmoke—the smell of my childhood. I didn't see translucent monsters with glowing eyes. I saw my father, his face exactly as it had been the morning he’d tucked me into the back of the transport. I saw the elders who had sat around the communal fires, teaching me to read the pulse of the stars. I saw my friends, their young faces unlined by the war, looking at me with a profound, hollow sadness.
“Why did you leave us, Elara?” a voice whispered, vi
