Rowan’s heart thudded in his chest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Nyla’s belly. Was it a trick of the light? A cruel mirage born from his grief-stricken mind? But there it was again—another subtle movement beneath the shroud.
Instinct took over as he rushed forward, shouting for the ceremony to stop. His voice, raw with desperation, echoed off the walls of the crematorium. The priest faltered, uncertainty etched on his face. Beatrice, standing like a shadowy sentinel, stared at Rowan in disbelief, her composure momentarily shattered.
“Nyla!” Rowan’s voice cracked as he reached her side. His hands trembled as he gently peeled back the fabric. The gathered mourners gasped collectively, eyes wide with a mix of horror and hope.
