ELENA
The world had been reduced to a series of small rituals.
Wake up. Tiptoe down the Moonstone hallways. Open the door to Aiden’s room. Sit by his side. Watch the rise and fall of his chest. Whisper prayers to the Moon Goddess I’d neglected to properly worship since I was a teenager.
Repeat.
He’d been stabilized for days now, the worst of it behind us—or so they said. The silver poisoning was under control. The transfusions had taken. The wounds were healing.
But he still hadn’t woken up.
I crossed the room quietly, just as I’d done every morning since we brought him home. The nurse had changed his bandages overnight, and the scent of wolfsbane salve lingered faintly in the air. Aiden’s little body—so warm, so strong, so still—lay tucked beneath soft sheets and too many machines.
