Wrong.
The ground beneath my feet softens.
“Come on, love. Just a little closer.”
Their smiles don’t change. Their voices don’t waver.
“Amara,” my mother’s voice lilts again, weightless, unnatural. “You’re almost home.”
I choke on my breath, my legs burning. I can’t reach them. They’re always just beyond reach.
“Amara, we’re waiting.”
The warmth dims, the sunlight flickers, like a candle struggling to stay lit. The scent of wildflowers turns sharper, the sweetness now sickening, unnatural. The golden glow darkens at the edges, the blue sky bleeding into a deeper shade, like ink spilling across a canvas.
The earth beneath my feet shifts, softens. I try to move faster, try to reach them before the light disappears entirely.
A whisper coils through the golden light. “You cannot escape your destiny, Amara.”
The meadow shatters. The warmth rips away, the golden light fractures, and the shadows rush in. They pour from the edges, swallowing the wildflowers, devouring the light, curling toward me like living smoke. The voices of my parents twist, their laughter stretching, distorting, becoming something else. Mystomach turns to ice.
“The pain will only make you stronger,” the slick voice hisses.
I scream.
And the world rips away.
I wake gasping for air, drenched in sweat, my body trembling in the darkness of the barracks. My breath ragged, the echoes of their laughter still ringing in my ears.
The dream clings to me, heavy and suffocating. I’m still trying to get to them. Still failing.
A hand presses gently onto my shoulder. I flinch.
“Amara.”
I blink against the darkness. My vision swims as the barracks come into focus.
Lyra is there—perched on the steps of our bed ladder, peering at me, concern etched into every line of her face. Moonlight filters through the window slats, casting pale ribbons across her features. Shadows deepen the worry in her eyes.
She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches me, waiting, her grip on my shoulder firm.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing. The barracks are no longer silent. A few of the other soldiers have woken up, shifting in their bunks, murmuring softly. Someone near the doorway lets out a groggy curse. Another turns over, muttering something about nightmares.
I drag a shaking hand across my face and force myself upright. The dream clings to me—wet and heavy, like a soaked cloak I can’t peel off.
Lyra’s fingers tighten slightly, but she doesn’t push.
I lick my lips, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”
Lyra doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah. Sure.” Her tone is light, almost teasing, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
I rub my eyes. My hands won’t stop trembling.
The nightmare lingers—its voice echoing along the edges ofmy thoughts, cold and serpentine. It doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels like a warning.
“I’m fine,” I say again. A little louder but no steadier.
Lyra continues to watch me, her gaze sharp in the dim light. But after a moment, she exhales, tilting her head slightly.
