The last time I saw my mother, I was too young to understand the meaning behind her absence.
This time, her presence was heavy. Ancient. A piece of a story I had only glimpsed through scattered memories and whispered spells.
She rose from beneath the gold-veined tree like smoke rising from ash. Her robes moved with the grace of fire itself—flowing, fluid, untouchable. The veil that had once obscured her features evaporated into the still air between us, revealing a face both foreign and familiar. High cheekbones. Eyes the same twilight violet as mine. Lips too soft for the edge her magic had carved into the world.
“You look just like her,” she said softly, reaching out—not to touch me, but to feel. “And nothing like her.”
“Her?”
“The First Flame. She was your shadow. You were her ligh
