CHAPTER 81

Miranda stood in the dimly lit room of her old house, the familiar scent of dust and memories filling her lungs. The room hadn't changed since the last time she was here, a lifetime ago, when she was still filled with hope and belief that her daughter would never be touched by the old prophecy. Her hand hovered over the tattered, ancient parchment, today known to her as the prophecy paper she swore she would never use.

A passage of warning, running from generation to generation in her blood: a prophecy wrapped in riddles and ominous portents. From the time, however, Miranda had taken even a glimmering peek at reality, she chose not to listen. She seemed convinced it was just the product of crazy old mystics trying to dominate the future through fear. She had laughed at it; she had scoffed at it as no more than superstition.

Now, however, the weight of this prophecy had finally sunk in, and continued to be squeezed in tightly around her shoulders.

Not that she'd wanted to believe any o