Marcel’s POV
A new, strange kind of wind blows through our territory, smelling like rain and bad luck. Something is coming, and although I don't know what it is, I can tell that it's nothing good at all.
My mother rushes into my room, floral dress brushing her ankles as she moves frantically, interrupting my painting session. “Marcel,” she says, pausing at my doorway with her chest heaving. Even the look in her eyes is enough to get me distracted.
“What is it, mother?” I try to add more touches to my painting, but now that I've been interrupted, my full focus has been torn apart, and I can't figure out where to place my brush.
I drop my palette and brush, turning to look at her fully. “I cannot read your mind, Mother. I need you to start talking.”
“She's alive, Marcel.”
I pause. “Wh
