*Roxy*

Golden Elm is like something out of a dream I was never allowed to have. The castle is woven into the hillside with silver stone. There’s a gentleness to it—strong, but warm. Not like the cold tower I was locked in. This place feels... alive.

My mother—Lorna, I remind myself, trying to wrap my heart around the word—leads me through the grand archway. Her hand brushes mine gently, not pulling, just offering. I take it.

“It’s not as grand as some of the others,” she says with a smile, “but it’s home.”

Home. That word lands hard in my chest.

Inside, the halls are lined with tapestries in red...