His head throbbed violently as he searched, reaching, clawing through the possibilities. But each vision ended in the same tragedy—until he found it.
A reality where Saoirse lived the longest.
Sirius's eyes turned stark white, glowing like moonlight, though no one could see it. His body remained limp, playing dead beneath Aksel's beast—stalling for time.
A sudden vision gripped him, dragging him forward.
A gentle hand—small, soft, innocent—touched his forehead.
A little girl reached through the Bifröst, her delicate fingers sending a flood of images into his mind.
And then he was there.
Saoirse stood on a balcony, radiant beneath the warm sun. She overlooked a stunning city of white and gold, the wind gently teasing her hair. She no longer wore her battle beads, but instead a flowing white gown, embroidered with sharp silver stars—like snowflakes. A crown rested upon her head.
Everything felt calm. Safe. Celebratory.
