Dreams didn't come gently. They tore.
I didn't remember falling asleep. But I remembered the cold. The silence that felt too deep. The slow press of something not mine crawling under my skin.
At first, it was fog. Dense, silent, shifting like breath against my neck.
Then—red.
A field of red flowers. Their petals sharp-edged like razors, swaying even though there was no wind. Above me, the sky was gray and wounded. Like something had once tried to rip it open but failed to finish the job.
I stood in the center of the field.
I didn't know how I got there. But my feet moved on their own. As if the ground knew me. Or knew her.
Then I heard it.
Laughter.
Light. Young. Human.
I turned.
A little girl darted between the flowers—barefoot, hair in messy auburn braids. A patchwork doll clutched in her arms. Her eyes were wide and full of something I hadn't felt in years: wonder.
She was me.
No.
She was Lyara. The real Lyara. Younger. Untouched by fire or war. Before her voice became a name whispered with caution.
"I know you," she said, her doll swinging from her arm.
I couldn't speak.
She walked closer. Her little fingers brushed my sleeve. "Are you the dream or the thief?"
The question sliced clean through me.
"I didn't choose this," I whispered.
She tilted her head. "Neither did I."
Then she smiled.
And the sky cracked.
The field melted into black stone. The flowers shriveled into ash. We were underground now—surrounded by walls of cold obsidian carved with runes I didn't recognize. An altar pulsed in the center of the chamber, bleeding faint red light.
Lyara was still there, still a child. But her eyes had changed.
No longer curious.
Awake.
"You shouldn't be here," she said. Her voice echoed twice—once in her mouth, once behind my eyes.
"I didn't come on purpose."
She walked in a slow circle around me, head low. "This body cracked. But it didn't break. You're the crack, aren't you?"
I felt like I couldn't breathe.
"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I'm trying to fix it. I swear."
She stopped.
Then said quietly, "Then why do you keep pretending it's yours?"
Her eyes flared. Not with rage. But with something worse.
Hurt.
The chamber shook. And just before everything collapsed, I heard her say—
"She's watching too, you know. The one who gave you the fire. She wants something back."
Then everything turned white.
And I woke up screaming.
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I sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat. My breath hitched—shallow, frantic. My hands clawed at the bedroll like I'd been drowning in it.7uu777uu
The tent was still dark. Still cold. Serra was asleep. But Shira—
Shira was at my side in an instant.
"Lyara?" she whispered, voice tight with concern. "Hey. Look at me. What happened?"
I couldn't speak. My lips felt wrong. My ribs ached. Something in my chest—where the fire once touched me—was burning again.
"She's still in here," I choked. "Lyara. The real one."
Shira's eyes widened. "You saw her?"
I nodded, shakily. "She showed me a memory. A real one. Something I couldn't have known. Your mother was in it."
Shira froze. "What?"
"She said her body was made to hold something. That she was scared." My voice broke. "Elaine told her to hide."
Shira didn't say anything for a long moment. Her expression flickered—between disbelief, confusion, and something deeper. Pain.
"She was scared," I repeated softly. "Even as a child. Like she already knew she wasn't just… herself."
Shira lowered herself beside me, her voice rough. "You said you saw my mother?"
I nodded. "She was writing something. In a journal."
Her eyes snapped to mine. "Did it have a blue ribbon on the spine?"
"I think so. There were loose papers on the floor."
She cursed under her breath. "I used to see her hide that book when I was little. She never let me read it. Said it was 'only for the girl who needs it most.' I thought she meant me."
"Maybe she did," I murmured. "But maybe she meant both of us."
Shira rubbed her arms like she was suddenly cold. "This isn't just about Lyara anymore, is it?"
"No," I said quietly. "It never was."
Her voice dropped. "And if she's still in there… if she's watching you…"
"I know."
"Then what happens if she wants her life back?"
That question hit harder than anything else.
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was—I didn't know.
Then her voice, barely a breath: "I've never told anyone that story. Not even the council."
We both fell silent.
The wind outside the tent had picked up. It howled now, loud and sharp, as if something was circling above us. The canvas flapped violently.
Sand started seeping through the seams.
A storm.
But something about it felt… wrong.
Shira stood and peeked out. "Sandstorm. Fast. Too fast."
The whole camp was waking up now. Orders being shouted. Tents bracing. Horses screaming.
I tried to stand. My legs buckled.
"You're not okay," Shira said.
"I'm not the only one who's not," I muttered.
-------
By morning, the storm had passed.
What it left behind wasn't damage or destruction. But something worse.
A trail.
Tracks.
Not from horses. Not from men.
One line of prints—deep, sharp, clawed—leading toward the cliffs south of the camp. Toward a ridge none of the maps had named.
Toward ruins that weren't supposed to be there.
Arven stood frozen, staring at the trail. His jaw tight. His sword half-unsheathed, like it might somehow protect him from questions.
But I didn't move.
Because I already knew.
That wasn't a random path.
It was an invitation.
-------
That night, while the others slept...
Shira sat alone at the edge of the fire. Her eyes hadn't left me all day. Not in suspicion.
But in worry.
I think she saw something she hadn't seen before.
Not the fire. Not the fear.
But the flicker of someone else behind my eyes.
And when I turned away from her, curled under my blanket to sleep...
I heard her whisper.
"Who are you now?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
And worse—
I wasn't sure I wanted to.
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