"It happened again?"
A sing-song voice echoed from the shadowed corner of the room.
Bartholomew didn't answer. Instead, he waved his hand sharply, sending a burst of violet energy toward the source of the voice. The spell surged forward, but just as it was about to make contact, the space shimmered—distorting—and the energy fizzled harmlessly as the room returned to normal.
A figure emerged.
She wore a flowing crimson robe, the fabric parting slightly to reveal a sleek black dress beneath, tailored to the sultry curves of her frame. Her red hair shimmered like molten copper, cascading over her shoulders and blending seamlessly with her attire, as if fire and cloth had fused.
"Is this how you treat your beloved sister?" she crooned, a faint frown tugging at her lips.
Bartholomew cast her a sidelong glance, his fury visibly cooling.
"You look far too young to be the sister I remember," he said flatly, turning his back on her once more.
