“Breathe… remember to breathe.”

Nilly’s voice didn’t just reach Camellia—it settled inside her, steady and intrusive. Camellia sat across from her, still, composed.

Too composed.

Her eyes rested on her hand as she turned the diamond ring slowly around her finger. Calm on the surface, controlled, almost delicate. But Nilly could feel it, that quiet, contained burn beneath her skin.

“You need to breathe too,” Camellia said suddenly.

Nilly blinked, caught staring. “Sorry,” she murmured, reaching for her coffee. “It’s just… kind of awkward seeing you like… this.” She avoided her eyes as she took a sip.

Camellia didn’t respond right away. Her gaze drifted past Nilly, into the rooftop garden stretching under the Beirut sky. The world softened there—just like it had the first time she stepped through that door five years ago.

The terrace still bloomed impossibly. Climbing jasmine curled around the railings. Olive trees stood rooted in pale stone planters. Wildflowers spread in quiet defiance of season and logic—lavender brushing against rosemary, white lilies blooming beside desert flowers that should have never survived in Lebanon air.

The scent was the same; salt from the sea, warm stone, and something sweet… almost nostalgic.

“I never thought I would sit here again,” Camellia said softly. She slipped the ring from her finger and placed it on the table between them before lifting her cup of coffee.

Nilly shifted in her seat, her posture tightening despite herself. “It must be difficult for you,” she said carefully. “But… we have to do this. We need to process what happened.”

Her eyes dropped again.

Camellia let out a quiet laugh. “Are you scared of me?”

“No.” Nilly leaned back, forcing composure, her gaze drifting toward the jasmine outside. “Why would I be?”

“Ask clearly.” Camellia lifted her hand, waving it lightly in front of Nilly’s face, pulling her attention back. “You want to know who you’re speaking to,” she said. “So ask.”

Nilly moved her red bangs aside, her expression sharpening as she met her gaze. “…You want us to talk about Sekhmet,” Camellia continued, “or Erdem?”

The shift in Nilly was immediate.

The hesitation vanished. The softness collapsed into something precise. Controlled and professional. “Who am I talking to?” Nilly asked. “Camellia… or Sekhmet?”

Camellia laughed—fully this time. For a second, it almost sounded real. “You know,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “this time around…” Her eyes flickered, something deeper surfacing beneath them. “…we’re both here.”

Nilly frowned, studying her more closely now.

Camellia’s expression changed.

Not into something dangerous. Something… younger.

Lost.

“This time is different, Nilly.”

A soft thud interrupted the silence. Both of them turned.

An orange cat had appeared at the edge of the rooftop. No sound of arrival, no door, no warning. One moment the space was empty, and the next. It was there.

Watching.

Its fur caught the sunlight like flame, amber eyes fixed directly on Camellia with unsettling awareness.

“Misho,” Nilly exhaled, her voice lowering—not surprised, but focused.

The cat moved without hesitation, leaping onto the table between them in one smooth motion. Its body settled directly beside the ring, tail curling neatly around itself.

Camellia’s gaze dropped to it, her smile barely shifting. “Still keeping watch?” she murmured.

Nilly didn’t answer.

She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing over the cat’s back, grounding herself more than comforting it. Her attention had shifted completely now. Sharper and alert.

Then—

Her phone rang.

The sound cut through the rooftop like something out of place. Nilly froze for half a second before grabbing it, eyes scanning the screen.

And just like that, the tension changed.

“It’s time,” she said. Camellia didn’t move. Nilly looked at her, something unreadable passing through her expression. “The council is ready.” A pause. “The Head Council of the Grotto leaders.”

The words settled heavier than they should have. Camellia’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup. A meeting like that was not routine. It was not casual. It was not supposed to happen now. The last time she had stood before them… she was eighteen.

And the next time, it was meant for her thirtieth year. Not this, not at twenty-four. Camellia slowly lifted her gaze. The rooftop, the garden and the sea beyond Raouché. “…Then I suppose,” she said quietly, “we should go.”

Nilly didn’t smile. Misho’s eyes didn’t leave her. Somewhere beneath the calm, beneath the structure, beneath the illusion of control. Something had already begun to unravel. As Camellia rose to her feet, the past did not wait to be recalled. It came for her… piece by piece.

The last five years.