Because our days together were numbered.
“Yeah. We can do that.”
She lifted her tankard, and I did the same, clinking mine against hers.
The house was quiet when I finally retreated to my chamber, the halls dim and familiar in a way that should have comforted me.
I slipped into my bed and lay back against the pillows, staring at the darkened ceiling. Emabelle’s words looped through my mind— “It doesn’t matter now. It can’t.”
The harsh reality was nothing mattered, except what we were already doing. And I was glad Emabelle had her own plans. At least one of us would have the love we wanted.
I turned onto my side and curled my fingers around the edge of the blanket, my thoughts tangling together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.
Tomorrow was another day. One day closer to the next reset. One day closer tomy wedding.
I couldn’t even think about finding my father, about breaking the curse. My journals might have felt off, but my grandmother’s words echoed through every one of them:Find him. Find him. Find him.
I tried to update my current journal this morning, but I couldn’t. Whatever was broken inside me refused to be shaped by ink.
I dragged in a breath and gazed through the window at the shadowed trees leading toward Griffin Forest. I let my mind drift, indulging the pull that still called to me.
My eyes fluttered shut, and for a few heartbeats, all I heard was the thud of my own pulse.
Then the air shifted.
Not around me but inside me.
There was warmth at my back. A steady pressure, like hands bracing me, holding me in place, as something vast moved just out of reach.
My thoughts slipped, sinking into a wash of gray nothingness.
The world around me had no edges, only a sense of space stretching outward in every direction, soft and endless, as if I were suspended between breaths. Sound existed without a source, a low, distant hum that seemed to vibrate through me.
I tried to move, to turn, but my body wouldn’t answer. The warmth tightened, possessive, demanding.
Then something whispered to me.
A still voice, small and thin, barely there. So faint I couldn’t tell who it belonged to.
“Ziy…ka.”
“Ziyka.”
“Ziyka!”
I bolted upright with a gasp, sheets tangled around my legs, sweat slicking my skin. My heart hammered as if it had been running long before I woke, and pain sparked inside my wrist.
I whimpered as the mark there flared, sending heat radiating through my arm. Then the ache wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
Panting, I pressed a hand to my chest and tried to breathe through it.
When I calmed, I looked down at my wrist, at the black sigil. It didn’t look any different, but the pang still thrummed beneath.
Blessed Mother… what was that?
And that dream…
It hadn’t felt like a dream.
