Miranda staggered into the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before a violent wave of nausea overtook her.
She doubled over, vomiting—thick, dark blood splattering against the porcelain basin. Her chest heaved, trembling hands gripping the edge of the sink as cold sweat slicked her skin.
The sight was terrifying.
As she shakily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her mother's voice echoed through the chaos of her mind.
"Every spell has its consequences."
Cecelie's warning rang louder than ever, a ghost of regret clawing at Miranda's conscience. She had made a fatal mistake—one that couldn't be undone.
She hadn't simply forgotten the spellbook.
It had been stolen.
But by whom?
That was the question she couldn't answer. Whoever had taken it had masked their presence flawlessly. No scent. No sound. No magical residue. It was surgical—silent and precise.
Too precise.
Miranda's gaze drifted toward the mirror above the sink, and her breath caught in her throat.
