Isabella knelt before the glowing bowl like a woman about to perform the world's most glamorous, high-stakes hand bath. The mist swirling off the dew curled around her wrists, cool and gentle, almost inviting.
Glimora shuffled beside her, tiny paws tapping the ground anxiously. The little beast leaned close, sniffed the shimmering liquid, then immediately shook her head and pressed her face into Isabella's arm like, mama don't fall inside.
Isabella adjusted her posture, rolled her shoulders back, and took a steady breath.
"Alright," she muttered. "Let's do this."
She extended her hands slowly.
Deliberately.
Dramatically.
Like some heroine performing a ritual in an ancient temple—except the temple was a creepy mountaintop and the ceremony was sponsored by frustration, sarcasm, and unpaid emotional labor.
As her fingers dipped into the dew, she sucked in a sharp breath.
It was cold.
Magically cold.
Like touching liquid moonlight.
