Her bedroom faced east, toward the river. Every morning, she opened the shutters and let the dawn cut across her face. It burned. Not metaphorically. The Iaclaire in her—the clarity—screamed at the light, demanded she see every crack in the plaster, every flaw in her hands, every small failure stacked like unread letters on her desk. Clarity was not kindness. Clarity was a knife.

She wore it like armor. Like a promise.

One night, she stopped waking up.

By sixteen, Claïla had stopped correcting people who called her Claire. She let the simplicity slide over her like rain over a grave. Easier, she thought, to be ordinary. Easier to forget that on nights when the moon hid its face, she could feel the Tenebrarum stirring in her chest like a second heart—cold, patient, hungry.