A purple-skinned woman with horns and a red-haired man grieve over a pale, grey-skinned woman in a hospital bed.

The hospital room feels suspended in time. Pale light spills across Carmilla’s motionless form, her unnatural gray pallor catching the glow like stone touched by dawn. Every flicker of the monitors paints faint reflections over her skin, hints of the ordeal she’s survived without showing it directly. Queen Eleanor Aurelunaris stands at the bedside, breath caught halfway between disbelief and a sob. Her violet eyes mirror the gray of her daughter’s skin, as though grief has drained the color from the world. The golden sigils along her arms tremble and dim, reacting to emotions she can’t contain. Behind her, King Arthur Aurelunaris stands rigid and silent. His broad frame shakes as he fights the truth pressing in. One hand hovers near Carmilla’s arm, afraid to touch, the other clenched tight enough to draw blood from his palm. The crimson of his hair seems dulled in the sterile light, his eyes wide, haunted. The air between them thrums with grief and disbelief. The machinery hums steadily, a fragile heartbeat in the silence. It is the moment when parents see the impossible and understand that love alone may not be enough to bring their child fully back. See more