Gregor stopped sharpening. He looked at the knife, then at her.

Claudia’s face changed. For the first time, fear flickered behind her eyes. She raised the mirror to see Lilia’s heart—but the mirror showed nothing. No flame. No innocence. No bloom.

Lilia watched from the frost-rimmed window of the nursery. She was twelve. Her mother had died birthing her, and her father had been a ghost in armor ever since—until he met Claudia.

“And you,” he said. “You’ve run from the woman in the manor.”

“It’s done,” Lilia said.