Rain. It patters softly on my window, a gentle symphony against the racing of my heart. My breathing is shallow as I lie in my bed, trying to regain control of each breath with difficulty. Nightmares. Dreams that take a divergent path into the abyss of darkness. They have become frequent companions to me over the past year. They all began not long after my 18th birthday—the birthday that was supposed to be one of celebration and new beginnings, but instead turned into a marker of the onset of my nightmares. Ever since my first shift as a werewolf, the anticipation of finding my mate had consumed me. I yearned for that deep, soulful connection—the one that would complete me, bringing an undeniable sense of belonging. But as the moon's transformative power surged through my veins that night, something changed within me. Instead of the joyous discovery of my mate, I found myself haunted by these chilling dreams. In my nightmares, I'm relentlessly pursued. Shadows lurk, predatory eyes glinting in the darkness. My heart races, and I run, desperately trying to escape the clutches of the unknown. But amidst the chaos, there is always a voice—an ethereal echo that cuts through the darkness. It calls out my name, my true name, as if it holds a key to my very existence. The voice bears a sense of urgency, as though it's trying to guide me, to pull me out of the consuming abyss. As I close my eyes, I can still hear the remnants of that strained voice calling out to me, "Morganna..."