When the noise fades, only the wind remains. I stop, unable to go any farther. I lie on my back, shaking, the smell of blood thick around me, and stare at the sky. The moon stares back—cold, distant, endless.
My hand rests on my stomach. “You’re safe,” I whisper again. “We’re safe.”
Slowly, the world dissolves into blackness.
I wake with a violent jolt, my body lurching upward, a scream trapped in my throat. Sweat drenches my nightgown, and my hair is plastered to my forehead and neck. For several terrifying seconds, I don’t know where I am. The mountain forest is still too real, the cold still biting at my skin.
Then, reality crashes back. My bedroom. The palace. Safety.
I press my trembling hand against my flat stomach. No child. No blood. No arrow.
“Just a dream,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Just the same fucking dream.”
My heart still hammers, refusing to believe I’m safe. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and stand up. I take a deep breath, remembering how, until recently, my knees used to buckle instantly. I would crash to the floor, my legs as weak and useless as a newborn colt’s.
Six weeks have passed since everything changed. Since Selene—my friend, possessed by the undead and not in her right mind—slashed my throat open with a single violent stroke. The memory still burns: the shocking cold of the blade, the warm rush of my lifeblood pouring between my fingers, the darkness closing in. And then, Kieran’s ancient magic pulling me back from death’s edge, his power forcing my severed flesh to knit together. I trace the scar across my throat, the raised flesh still tender and angry beneath my fingertips.
The palace is silent at this hour—3:17 a.m., according to my bedside clock. The witching hour, when nightmares are at their strongest.
I head to the soldiers’ shared bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The shock helps ground me in reality, washing away the last clinging fragments of the dream. When I look up, a stranger stares back from the mirror.
My skin, once golden and vibrant, has the pallor of someone who has seen a ghost—or has become one. Dark circles shadow my eyes like bruises. My black hair, usually my pride, hangs limp and dull around my hollow face. And of course, there’s the scar: a jagged line of red across my throat telling the story of how close I came to dying.
“You look like shit, Daciana,” I tell my reflection before heading back to my room.
Sleep is impossible now. It always is after the nightmare. Ever since the Snow Mountain delegation arrived at court eight weeks ago now, I’ve been plagued with these dreams. I’ve never told anyone about them. They vary sometimes in small ways—the forest path is different, or the words of my pursuers change—but it always ends the same way. Me, bleeding out in the snow, desperately trying to protect a child that doesn’t exist. A child I’ve never had. A future I’ve never imagined.
I strip off my sweat-soaked nightgown and pull on a pair of loose training pants and a simple shirt. My movements are quick and efficient; the body of a warrior hasn’t forgotten itself, even if my mind is haunted. I shake off the final tremors from the nightmare. Physically, I’ve healed completely. The scar across my throat is the only reminder of the events of that night, and it hasn’t affected my duties as one of the queen’s personal guards. If anything, surviving Selene’s blade has made me more vigilant, more aware of hidden threats.
The need to shift, to escape the confines of my human skin, pulls at me like a physical ache. The nightmare has left me restless, my wolf sensing my disquiet and wanting to run it off.
I slip from my chambers, moving silently through the palace as only someone who guards it can. The servants’ passageway leads me to a small side door—my regular exit when I need solitude after a night watch.
Cool air hits my face as I step outside, and I take a deep breath. The forest edge beckons, dark and welcoming, far from the palace where everyone else sleeps soundly, undisturbed by dreams of blood and pursuit. I’ve always found more peace among trees than people.
My strides are long and confident as I cross the grounds toward the tree line. The physical strength that makes me aneffective royal guard serves me well here, my body responding perfectly to my commands. Only a lingering unease from the nightmare follows me into the shadows of the forest.
The familiar scents of pine and earth welcome me. Here, alone with the night, I can shift and run until the memory of the dream fades. My wolf stirs eagerly beneath my skin, ready to stretch her legs, to feel the wind in her fur.
My mind gradually drifts to Kieran, as it often does during these midnight escapes.
Alpha Kieran of the Snow Mountain Pack. The first time I saw him stride into the throne room with his delegation—all broad shoulders, silver-threaded dark hair, and ancient power—I felt something primal stir inside me. “Holy shit,” I whispered to Selene, unable to tear my eyes away. The raw attraction was immediate and undeniable.
But alongside that pull, something else flickered in my chest. A wariness. Not of him specifically, but of what he represented. The old magic his pack carried. The wildness in his eyes that spoke of mountains and rituals lost to time. Something in me recognized him in a way I couldn’t explain, and that recognition terrified me.
Now, I remember the way his eyes looked when he knelt beside me, my blood coating his hands as he worked magic I couldn’t comprehend. The gentle stroke of his fingers through my hair during my recovery when he thought I was sleeping. The low rumble of his voice when he announced he would stay in the capital, fighting for the rights of shifters who practice the old ways.
I’m drawn to him, even though every instinct screams at me to stay back. When he’s near, my wolf paces restlessly, wanting to both submit and run away. What is it about him that calls to me, to something buried deep inside me? Something I didn’t know existed until he arrived?
I wonder if he has nightmares, too. If an Alpha of his power and age, carrying the weight of an ancient pack’s survival, still fears the dark. If he senses this strange connection between us, or if I’m imagining it entirely.
I begin to shift, feeling the familiar tingle of magic racing over my skin. Usually, the transformation is effortless, as natural as breathing. But tonight, there’s an unwillingness. A hesitation. The nightmare hasn’t fully released its grip on me.
For a brief moment, the image of the pregnant woman in the white dress—myself, yet not myself—flashes behind my eyes, and my concentration breaks. I stumble, catching myself against a tree trunk. The rough bark scrapes my palm, and for a heartbeat, I’m back in that forest from my dream—hunted, frightened, desperate to protect something I’ve never had.
“Enough,” I whisper, anger replacing fear. “It was just a dream.”
I shake off the momentary feeling of weakness. I am Daciana, personal guard to Queen Astra, survivor of a wound that should have killed me. I will not be undone by nightmares.
