The familiar walls of the safe house felt like a dream, or someone else's memory. The air was clean, free of the psychic rot of the hunger world, but to Luna, it was thin, insubstantial. She sat on a worn sofa, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders that she didn't remember anyone putting there. Her parents hovered over her, their worry a thick, warm fog she could almost see.
"Just rest, sweetheart," Scarlett murmured, brushing a hand over Luna's hair. Her fingers stilled. She'd done it a hundred times before, a comforting, absent gesture. This time, her touch caught on something. She gently parted the red strands. There, starting at Luna's temple and running back through her hair, was a stark, silvery streak. It wasn't just pale; it seemed to hold its own faint light.
"Alexander," Scarlett said, her voice tight.
