The violet mist that escaped Aidan's lips did not dissipate into the air of the nursery. Instead, it behaved like a sentient entity, coiling around the Living Silver bars of his cradle, turning the shimmering metal into a dull, frosted amethyst. It smelled of ozone and something deeply, unnervingly floral—the scent of a funeral wreath made of glass.
I stood paralyzed, my hand still tingling from the jolt of the vision. The image of the woman who looked like my mother—the "Regret of the Hallowed"—was burned into my retinas. She had called Aidan the "Master-Mold," the anchor that would allow the world of reflections to overwrite the world of blood.
"Elara, talk to me!" Kaelen's voice was a roar of controlled panic.
