Marcella paced the length of her chamber for the third time in under an hour. Outside, darkness clung to the windows. She stopped near the window and pressed her palm to the glass, the chill biting into her skin.
She had glanced it for hours, expecting a messenger to appear. She'd imagined hearing the kestrel's cry in the distance, the flutter of wings. But nothing came.
Sister Evelyne hadn't responded. The letter had vanished into the cold air. Anthony hadn't come with the emberroot or the forged sigils. No tools for the false Rite. No help. No time left.
Marcella turned from the window, fingers curling tightly at her sides. She walked to the desk, where her ink-stained ritual notes sat — half-planned symbols, failed diagrams, incomplete chant lines, all useless now. She swept her hand over them, scattering them all over the floor.
