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Sagium !
Celeste Harrow is the girl who has everything—or so it seems. She is the kind of girl whose every step turns heads, who wears her confidence like a crown, a golden gleam lighting her every movement. In the halls of Beacon Hills High, her name is spoken with awe, envy, admiration. Her laughter is loud, her style impeccable, her smile a beacon that hides her well-practiced secrets. To the outside world, she's simply that girl: popular, polished, untouchable, the kind who rules her world effortlessly.
At her side is her best friend, Lydia Martin. Lydia is the grounding, the grace, the constant Celeste clings to like a lifeline. Best friends since diapers, since tangled hair and sticky fingers, Lydia has always been more than a friend—she's a sister, a confidante, the one person who sees Celeste beyond the gloss and glamor. Together, they're a force of nature, the perfect pair, understanding each other in ways words often fail to capture. But even Lydia doesn't know everything.
Underneath the glossy surface, Celeste carries a quiet unease, a lingering feeling of something twisted beneath her picture-perfect life. She's always had secrets, and they've haunted her as far back as she can remember. The first time it happened, she was only four years old—a sleepy child, drifting through the warmth of her little bedroom when she awoke with an ache on her wrist. She looked down, confused, and saw the word there—dark and somehow ancient, a word she couldn't understand but felt in her bones. She tugged her tiny wrist from her covers and stared, wide-eyed, a whisper of dread curling in her stomach. The letters seemed to pulse like they had a life of their own.
Her parents had been alarmed, but unable to make sense of it, they brought her to doctors who, baffled, chalked it up to sleepwalking or a vivid imagination. Yet Celeste knew it wasn't something she'd conjured up in her sleep. A week after that first word appeared, something unsettling happened in Beacon Hills, a chilling event that seemed, somehow, connected to that single word. In her young mind, the word and the incident intertwined, something intangible connecting them like the threads of an invisible web.
