I hadn't seen my mother in five years.
And yet, standing there in the flickering light of my chamber, she looked exactly the same ageless, regal, deadly. Her cloak shimmered like woven night, and her eyes glowed with quiet malice. Nothing about her presence felt maternal. There was no warmth. No joy. Just... calculation.
"I should call the guards," I said, though even I could hear the emptiness in my threat.
Ophelia smiled. "You won't. You want answers too badly."
She stepped deeper into the room, her fingers grazing the edge of the windowsill. "You always were curious, Clara. Curious... and strong. Too strong to be wasted in a wolf's den."
"You left me there," I hissed. "You let me believe you were dead."
"I had to," she said simply, as if that excused a lifetime of pain. "If I hadn't, they would have hunted you. You don't understand the danger you posed just by being born. A hybrid child of both bloods. You were the key, Clara. You still are."
