The days after her awakening blurred together.
Francisca slept more than she stayed awake. Her body needed time—not just to heal, but to remember how to be alive. The reconstruction chamber had given her flesh and bone, but the soul fragments needed to settle into their new home.
She dreamed of old things.
Running through forests that no longer existed. Laughing with people whose faces she couldn't see. Dying. The cold. The dark. The long, silent wait.
Then warmth.
Lucifer's voice, calling her name.
She woke on the seventh day and knew something had changed.
The ceiling of the guest chamber was unfamiliar. The sheets beneath her fingers were soft, expensive, nothing like the rough blankets she'd slept on a century ago. The air smelled of flowers and old stone.
She sat up.
Her body moved differently. Lighter. Faster. Stronger.
