The intense, three-month crucible of training with my mother had ended. I had deconstructed an ancient art and rebuilt it in my own image, forging a new language for my power. The work was done. The promise was ready to be kept. But before the mountain, there was the city.
Cecilia, with her usual terrifying efficiency, had mandated a "period of systemic decompression." In less formal terms, she told me to take a day off before I forgot how. And I knew exactly how I wanted to spend it.
Finding Seraphina was easy. She was in the penthouse's small, climate-controlled conservatory, a space she had slowly transformed into a miniature arctic wonderland. Crystalline frost-ferns grew in elegant, geometric patterns, and the air was cool and clean with the scent of winter. She was sitting on a simple stone bench, reading from a physical book, her silver hair a stark, beautiful contrast to the deep green of the ferns.
"I am under strict orders to decompress," I announced from the doorway.
