Leon couldn’t believe what he witnessed. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat. In front of him lay the lifeless body of the real Athisa. Her pale skin looked cold. Her once bright eyes were closed forever. Her pink dress was torn and stained with dried blood. Her hands were curled slightly, as if she had fought back. But it was no use. The real Athisa, Maraño’s daughter, had been dead for five years.
Five years.
Leon stepped back, his boots crunching against the dry leaves. He could still see the face of the Athisa they had lived with. The one who smiled when the sun rose, who cried when Esther died, who sat with them by the fire and laughed like she belonged. He had trusted her. Protected her. Treated her like his own little sister.
But that Athisa wasn’t
