Camille's eyes opened as the first rays of dawn crept through the frost-laced windowpanes.
There was no grand flare of light. No scream. No flash of power or gust of wind. Just a slow, deliberate inhale like her lungs were waking after a long, deathless slumber and a silence so deep it split the room in two.
Across the estate, deep inside the eastern wing, Magnolia sat bolt upright in bed.
Her chest seized.
The bond silent since the collapse of the catacomb seal snapped taut across her ribcage like a noose yanked tight. The mark on her palm burned under the linen wrap. But it wasn't pain. Not quite.
It was a whisper.
A word she didn't hear with her ears.
Awake.
She didn't panic.
Didn't rush.
