Elowyn woke with a jolt, the taste of smoke still in her mouth.
Her chest rose and fell too fast, hands clawing at the blanket until she forced herself to sit upright.
Her shoulder throbbed. Not sharp enough to be fresh, but deep, aching, like teeth had pressed too hard against the skin. She hissed softly, snatched a small broken mirror and pulled her collar aside.
A faint mark bloomed there, raw and red, half-hidden against her pale flesh.
She blinked at it, confused.
When—? She didn’t remember. The last thing she recalled was collapsing, fever dragging her under.
Her fingers brushed the mark again.
It stung, but not like a wound—it pulsed, as though it wanted to be remembered.
And then the smell hit her.
She froze.
It was faint, nearly gone, yet unmistakable.
A scent she knew
