In the final hours of a moon-drenched night, a child was born in the heart of the modern world.
No prophecies stirred. No omens fell from the sky. No stars wept.
But her first breath carried the remnants of centuries—a soul wrapped in the ashes of love and loss.
She was named Seraphine.
And though her hands were soft and unscarred, they twitched in her sleep as though they remembered the weight of a sword.
Though her heart was new, it sometimes beat too hard beneath her ribs, as if echoing another rhythm.
And when she looked in the mirror, sometimes—only sometimes—she saw dark eyes looking back that weren’t her own.
Years passed.
She grew surrounded by flowers, owning a quiet little shop that smelled of lavender and longing. Her best friend was her only family, her dreams plagued
