NARRATOR'S POV
AT THE CAMP
Inside the tent prepared for the ritual, the air was thick with incense and anticipation. Lilith knelt at the center of a circle of black candles, their flames flickering as though whispering secrets to the dark. Beside her, a shallow bronze bowl rested on a small altar, filled with moonlit water that shimmered unnaturally.
Clutched in her gloved hand was Liam's shirt—torn at the sleeve, faintly stained with blood and dust. It still held his scent: wild pine, a hint of storm, and something not entirely human.
She whispered his name once.
Then again, softer.
"Liam..."
With her other hand, she reached for the big blue comb lying beside the bowl. It was his. She plucked a single strand of hair tangled in its teeth and dropped it into the water. The surface rippled, then stilled.
The flames flared blue, then, for a flicker of a second, turned brown.
