Davina was painting when I arrived at the safehouse.
She'd been spending more time here lately, preferring the Bayou's isolation to the Quarter's chaos. Her art had evolved—darker themes, but with threads of light woven through. Hope emerging from despair.
"Tomorrow," she said without turning.
"Tomorrow."
"The Harvest. The knives. The ancestors." Her brush stilled. "I'm scared."
"Good. Fear keeps you sharp."
She turned to face me, and I saw the vulnerability beneath her composure. Sixteen years old, facing death, trying to be brave.
"Will it hurt?"
"Yes." I moved closer, keeping distance but offering presence. "But only for a moment. Then you'll be somewhere else—a place I'll be waiting."
"The Other Side?"
"Something like it. A pocket dimension I've prepared. The ancestors won't be able to reach you there."
Davina absorbed this. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"And after? When it's over?"
"Then you come back. Stronger. Free." I met her eyes. "And you never have to hide again."
She set down her brush and crossed the room to me. For a moment, I thought she might hug me—she'd done that occasionally, tentative gestures of affection.
Instead, she stopped inches away and looked up at me with those ancient eyes.
"Promise me you'll be there. When I wake up."
"I promise."
"Okay." She stepped back, some of the fear leaving her face. "Then I'm ready."
[TRUST MILESTONE: Davina Claire — MAXIMUM]
[Survival preparation: COMPLETE]
[Ancestral interference: MINIMIZED]
[Harvest outcome: CONTROLLED]
Tomorrow, everything changed.