Winter roses dripped from every archway—white and silver and deep, impossible blue—their enchanted petals releasing trails of frost that caught the light like scattered diamonds.

Pure-blood society moved in slow, deliberate circles. Silk rustled against silk. Laughter rang sharp and practiced.

And there—at the edge of it all, pressed against the carved banister of the sweeping staircase—you sat.

Emerald silk pooled around you like spilled wine. The fabric caught the candlelight in ways that made the other witches glance twice, jaw tight with envy.

You didn't notice.

Because a four-year-old boy was curled against your chest.

Completely asleep.

The stuffed dragon he'd been carrying—a raggedy thing with one wing sewn on crooked—was crushed between your bodies. One of his tiny fists had found its way into the fabric above your heart, gripping it like you were the only solid thing in a world that had recently stopped making sense.

A small patch of drool darkened the emerald silk near your collarbone.

You hadn't bothered to wipe it away.

You barely even noticed your brother's approach. But you felt him stop.

Then felt someone else stop beside him.

The air changed. Sharpened. Grew colder and hotter all at once.

You looked up.