Lucinda’s POV

Darkness had a voice.

It spoke in whispers only the broken could understand.

And I had listened for years.

The cellar beneath the Hollow reeked of damp soil, burnt herbs, and the faint, metallic tang of blood. It was comforting. Familiar. Power had a scent, and I had grown addicted to it long ago.

I stood at the edge of the circle carved into the stone floor—ancient runes glowing a faint blue as the blood of the girl pulsed through the sigils. My niece. My mistake. My sacrifice.

Elenora lay in the center of the spell, chained and marked, her head lolling slightly, the potion working slower than...