The night in the village was eerily still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. You’d stayed behind when the others fled—told yourself you could hide until dawn. But dawn never came.

A shadow passed over the moon, and before you could move, something cold and metallic struck the back of your neck. The world tilted, went dark.

When you awoke, the air was thick with incense and the faint buzz of machinery. You lay on a stone table beneath the flickering light of candles arranged in impossible symbols. A figure moved at the edge of the glow—Mother Miranda, her golden mask gleaming, wings faintly twitching behind her.

“Ah,” she murmured, voice both tender and terrible. “You’re awake. Good. The infection must begin while your body still resists.”