The fire in the Hollow Mountain hearth had died to glowing embers. Outside, the wind howled like the memory of war, threading through narrow stone corridors and tugging at loose canvas awnings. Deep within the sleeping quarters carved into the mountain wall, Celeste stirred, sweat beading along her temple despite the chill in the air.
The dream came on like a tidal wave, with her standing alone on a field soaked in crimson, the scent of iron thick in her nostrils. Rain slashed from a sky split with lightning, painting everything in flickers of violet and gold. Wolves howled, not in rage, but in agony. Somewhere, behind her, a child cried, thin and desperate. Celeste turned, searching for the sound, but the fog was thick and unyielding. Her heart pounded. She opened her mouth to call out,
