Venna Belmonte walked toward me like she was afraid I might vanish if she broke eye contact. She threaded through the last clusters of people still drifting around the graveyard, murmuring quiet excuses—"Excuse me," "Just a moment"—without ever looking away, her steps deliberate across the uneven grass, closing the distance with clear purpose. The hem of her dark dress brushed against her calves with each stride, sunlight flickering across the fabric.
I stood still and let her come, the question burning in the back of my mind: How the hell did she know me? We had never met. I'd only seen her face in photographs on Riya's walls.
She reached me, stopping just inside arm's reach. The faint scent of her perfume—something clean and floral—cut through the heavier smells of turned dirt and wilting flowers.
[Venna Belmonte. Primordial woman. A Source.]
[She doesn't know what she carries. A strong bond will need to be built as she discovers herself.]
