The threshold had not been quiet for three days.
Not silent.
Not calm.
It felt tight.
Like the air before lightning strikes.
Seraphine stood in the center of the silver world, eyes open, shoulders straight. The scar in the horizon had not grown, but it pulsed slowly steady and patient.
She had learned something important.
The prison was built from sacrifice.
From choice.
From wolves and guardians who gave up everything to seal the ancient being away.
And now
She carried part of that lock inside her.
The black mark on her shoulder had spread slightly. It curved down her collarbone like thin dark veins. It did not hurt constantly, but it burned when the being stirred.
And today
It was burning.
She pressed her hand to it and inhaled slowly.
“Not fear,” she whispered to herself
