The moon did not stop trembling.
Days passed in the mortal world weeks, perhaps but time had never obeyed the same rules for Seraphine since the night she stepped into the ritual circle and rewrote fate with her own blood. In her realm, grief had no sunrise, no sunset, only an endless silver dusk that stretched across a horizon made of memory.
She stood at the edge of the Veil, exactly where she had stood every night since Lucien’s death.
Waiting.
Not for him. She knew better than that. Mortals did not return from where he had gone. His warmth had faded from the thread that once bound them, leaving behind something softer, quieter an echo instead of a pulse.
But echoes could still be followed.
Below her, the world moved on with unbearable indifference. Snow melted into spring across
