The dream feels different the moment it begins. Not cold. Not violent. Not like the nightmares that rip me awake shaking. This one feels… intentional.
I’m standing in a dim room lit by a single lantern. The air smells like herbs and smoke. And in front of me, kneeling beside a cot, is the woman with red‑and‑black hair. Older now. Older than she’s ever been in my dreams. Lines frame her eyes. Her hair is streaked with silver. But her presence is the same, warm, powerful, familiar in a way I can’t explain. She’s tending to Drake. He lies unconscious on the cot, bruised and cut, his breathing shallow. She wipes blood from his cheek with a damp cloth, her movements gentle, practiced. But she’s not talking to him. She’s talking to me.
“You’re running out of time, Raven.”
My breath catches. “
