The first night of the tour was a blur of fluorescent lights and nerves. Rhea stood backstage, heart hammering in her chest, clutching the cold, battered guitar that had gotten her this far. She peeked out from behind the curtain. The stadium was a living ocean of bodies, a thousand faces stretching into infinity.

And there she was. Celeste.

A vision, not of this world: long, flowing, icy-white hair cascading down her back, a soaked black gown clinging to her body like it was stitched from shadows themselves. Her skin was pale, almost ghostly under the stage lights. The lace on her shoulders twisted like thorns. She stood there, singing into a silver microphone, eyes closed, lost in the storm of her own making.

Then the rain started.

Not stage effects. Real rain. Heavy, merciless. Thunder cracked somewhere in the distance, but Celeste didn’t flinch. If anything, she sang harder. Water poured down her face, her gown, dripping from the ends of her hair, and somehow she looked even more powerful, like a goddess broken open. The audience didn’t move. They were spellbound.

Rhea's throat tightened. She wiped her sweaty palms against her pants and glanced at Cole, who was mouthing something she couldn’t hear over the roar of rain and music: Get ready.

Rhea’s legs felt wooden as she walked onto the stage. The lights didn’t shift to welcome her. No fanfare. It was just her, stepping into the storm, her guitar heavy in her arms.