Chapter 12. Whispers in the Flame

Mira slept long past the sun’s climb over the pines.

Her dreams had not been kind. Thick with smoke and shadows, they bled with images she hadn’t remembered in years—howls echoing through night-dark woods, blood, a figure with green eyes standing between her and something unseen. The dreams shifted, fractured. At one point, she stood at the edge of a cliff, a forest blazing below, and something inside her clawed to leap.

When she finally stirred, the room was warm, the light slanting golden across the wooden floor. She blinked, groggy, and found Martha already at her side, a tray in her hands.

“There you are,” the older woman said briskly, setting the tray on the bedside table. “Eat. Before it goes cold.”

Mira glanced at the bowl—stew, thick and steaming, with a hunk of crusty bread tucked alongside. The smell hit her like a punch. Rich and savory. Her stomach growled in betrayal.

Still, she groaned and dropped back against the pillows. “Martha, I’m not