She turned to face me, and I froze where I stood.
She looked so much like my mother—only older. The same sharp features, the same piercing eyes. Time had touched her, but it hadn't dulled that commanding presence.
And somehow, without a word spoken, I knew.
She was my grandmother. Cordelia Thorne.
I had never seen a single photograph of her, never heard more than whispers of her name. But recognition bloomed in my chest like fire—undeniable, ancient, and bone-deep.
A faint smile curled on her lips. "You know who I am, don't you?" she said. "I can feel it—right under my skin. You're mine."
Among witches, there are things we don't have to say aloud. We feel each other. Heat rises when another of our kind is near. But when it's blood—true blood—our skin tingles like it's remembering something, we've forgotten.
And in that moment, for the first time in ten years, I felt it again. Family. Witchblood.
And the weight of a legacy I wasn't ready to claim.