She now stood at the base of a towering mountain range. Its jagged peaks sliced through the sky like blades. The air was colder here, the heat from her lip curling in soft puffs. She scanned the mountain range, spotting a narrow path stretching before her, winding upward into the mountains.
Emerging from the shadows were large stone golems. Massive figures carved from rock, their eyes glowing blue. Despite their imposing size, they paid her no mind, Moving through the paths as if she weren’t there at all. The wisps circled her briefly before darting ahead, disappearing toward the path.
“Where are you leading me?” she whispered.
But the wisps only pressed on, slipping into the darkness of the mouth at the mountain’s base. The cavern seemed ordinary—cold stone walls, the faint drip of water echoing in the dark. She kept pushing forward as she ventured deeper. The air thickened, growing heavy with an oppressive weight. A sickly scent curled in her nostrils, clinging to her senses. Then she stepped into the open expanse. What should have been a thriving underground forest was a nightmare. The trees, once majestic, had twisted their branches into unnatural shapes and were blackened and rotting. The ground was littered with the remains of creatures, beasts that had once been beautiful but were now grotesque, their bodies warped and decayed. A shiver ran down her spine. The river cut through the land, dividing it in two. One side, clear as glass. The other was black, writhing, fighting the current. Twisted creatures clawed their way from the depths, their mouths gaping, silent, until the screams came.
Sorcha backed away, but movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention. She turned fully, focusingon the group of men gathered in a tight semicircle, their tattered hooded cloaks barely disguising the figures beneath. All eyes were locked on the man standing at the center.
He was taller than the rest, a figure both beautiful and monstrous. His sharp features reminded her of shattered glass; elegant but dangerous. His eyes, like ember fragments, burned with steady ferocity. The runes carved into his skin glowed a deep, pulsing crimson, veins of molten power threading through the markings like living fire. Suddenly his gaze snapped upward and locked onto hers. All the air fled her lungs. The scream clawing its way up her throat died before it could escape.
“Interesting,” he mused, tilting his head as though examining a rare specimen. “I wonder which gods dropped you at my steps.”
Sorcha barely had time to process the words before he moved. He was a blur before he was on her, the odd familiar scent of pine hitting her face. His grip closedaround her arm, twisting it fiercely behind her. White hot pain shot through her shoulder as a cry tore from her lips.
Within seconds, he was back in front of her, still holding her arm in his iron grip, a twisted smile tugging at his lips. The surrounding wisps darted frantically, their glow flickering as they dimmed. She could hear them now, their voices almost like whispers on the wind.
“Wake up.”
The blade of a dagger gleamed as he brought it up to her arm, the cold metal biting into her skin before she could even react. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “You’re mine.”
The dagger pushed deep into her arm, ruby staining her skin as blood spilled from the cut.
Sorcha bolted upright, gasping for breath. The dream still clung to her, suffocating as she clawed for air. Moonlight bled through the window, painting the room silver.
“It was just a dream.”
She repeated the words like a mantra, willing her body to still. But then she saw it; the dark wet streaks trickled down her arm, soaking the bed sheets. Panic surged through her, forcing her onto her feet. She stumbled toward the vanity, hands moving on instinct. Her mind reeled, but her fingers worked with steady precision as she pressed herbs to the wound, tracing the edges with cleansing rune stones and finally securing strips of linen in place. The bleeding slowed, but the unease gripping her did not. As she tied the last bandage, her stare fell on the mirror. Her hair was tousled from sleep, shimmered faintly in the moonlight, catching the glow like the sun had kissed stardust. Freckles dusted her skin like scattered constellations upon an impossibly pale sky, but it was her eyes. They once held a vibrant green that looked foreign to her, dull and sunken in. She turned away and stepped into the living room, toward the small reading nook nestled beside the main space. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with well-worn tomes of varying sizes, their spines softened by years of use. A steady fire crackled in thehearth, its warmth casting flickering shadows across the room.
At the center sat a small oak table, its legs carved with intricate curling leaves that held a glass top. Beside it, a worn leather chair stood waiting, its surface creased with age and softened by time. Sorcha sank into the chair with a heavy sigh, her eyes fixed on the flames as they twisted and danced to a rhythm only they knew. Her fingers instinctively reached for the notebook lying on the table. Pulling it onto her lap, she uncapped her pen and began to write. Every detail of the dream—the landscapes, the creatures—flowed onto the pages, her hurried words accompanied by quick sketches.
As a scout for the Circle, it was her duty to notice every shift in the land, every detail, and record them. The familiar routine brought her a small measure of comfort. A fragile sense of control in an otherwise chaotic world. Time slipped away as Sorcha wrote tirelessly, her thoughts pouring onto the pages until her hand cramped and her eyes burned from the strain.
When she finally set the notebook and pen aside, she stretched her arms overhead, wincing as her stiff muscles protested. She rolled her ankles to ease the tension and sighed. Placing the notebook back on the table, she rose and made her way to the kitchen. The space was simple yet elegant, much like the rest of her home. Stone floors etched with faint runes pulsed gently as she stepped inside. Sorcha muttered a soft incantation, and a ripple of blue light flowed across the runes, spreading warmth that reached her toes and traveled upward. She retrieved her kettle, an intricate yet understated piece, little etchings of the sun phases, one of her favorites and set it on the stovetop.
As the water began to heat, she paced the kitchen, her thoughts circling back to the nightmare and the blood. Small crystal jars lined the shelves, each filled with carefully preserved herbs and flowers. Sorcha reached for chamomile, lavender, and star flower, crumbling the dried petals into her cup. Their delicate aroma filled the air, soothing her nerves, if only slightly. Tea in hand, shesettled onto the wooden bench by the window. She cupped her hands around the warm mug, staring out into the predawn darkness. The thought of sleep felt distant now, unattainable. Instead, she watched the sunrise, hoping its light would bring clarity to the chaos lingering in her mind.
Chapter 13
Fragile
In the early morning hours, Sorcha poured herself another cup of tea before dressing for the day. Choosing a fitted black shirt to conceal the bandages and keep the steadily bleeding cut out of sight. To secure the fabric, she fastened an intricate floral arm cuff. Then, pulling her hair into a tight ponytail, she slid into a pair of black riding slacks and her worn boots. As she stepped outside, she tried to reason with herself.
I still have responsibilities, she mentally reminded herself. As she shook her head. “I scratched it, or I cut it on something. Maybe the bedpost while thrashing around.”
The memory of the man’s wicked grin as he slashed her arm flickered through her. Clenching her jaw, she shook her head more firmly as if to banish the image.
Then quickened her pace toward the city center. By the time she reached the square, people were readying for their day, voices lively as they greeted one another. The scent of freshly cooked oats and herbs filled the air, mingling with the crisp scent of morning dew.
Whatever happened last night can wait until after patrols, she told herself as she squared her shoulders before entering the square. Near the center, Circle members had already gathered. Drystan gestured animatedly as he spoke to Eirin, whose all too serious expression seemed glued to his face. Sorcha looked over the members looking for Riona. Riona slipped in beside her a few moments later, nudging her with an elbow. “It’s about time you showed up. Thought you might have overslept.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes. “I was here before you.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t mess with you.” Riona
grinned, clearly enjoying herself.
Sorcha let out a huff of annoyance as she focused back on Nethran, who had begun outlining their assignments.
