Faouzia leaned against the windowsill, her fingers brushing faint crystalline traces that clung to the wood. They glittered faintly in the moonlight, their texture coarse and sharp.

Salt.

She frowned, her astronomancy stirring faintly as she traced the crystals with her mind. The energy they carried was unnatural, heavy with a resonance that felt ancient and dangerous. Her chest tightened with unease.

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“Margaretta,” she called, turning to face her cousin, who was seated nearby, leafing through a poetry collection. “Where did this come from?”

Margaretta glanced up, her expression unconcerned. “The sea air, perhaps? Salt clings to everything here.”

But Faouzia wasn’t convinced. Over the following days, she noticed other oddities: the way the light in Margaretta’s room seemed warmer, brighter; the faint heat that lingered in her cousin’s presence after her mysterious suitor visited. And Margaretta herself—her newfound confidence, her radiant joy—felt almost too perfect.

The feeling in Faouzia’s gut grew sharper, an instinct she couldn’t ignore. Something was wrong. And whoever this man was, he wasn’t mortal.