Chapter 13. The Prophecy That Burns

Mira jolted upright, breath caught sharp in her throat, the sheets twisted around her legs like binding ropes. Her skin was damp with sweat, clinging to her back, and her heart pounded a vicious rhythm in her chest. It was still early—light crept faintly through the slats of the window, cold and gray—but the shadows hadn’t lifted.

They crouched in the corners of the room, thick with memory, not yet willing to let her go.

She sat for a long moment, not moving. Her fingers trembled as they clutched the bedding, her breath ragged. The nightmare lingered, sharper than usual. Not a dream. A return.

Stone floors slick with moonlight. Cold metal under bare feet. A circle of robed figures, faces veiled, chanting in a tongue she barely remembered. The burn of silver etched into her skin in spirals and symbols. A howl tearing through the chamber—not hers. Never hers.

And then Aeron.

A hand outstretched. A promise whispered. The moment before it all went wrong.