Amelia P.O.V
The world wouldn’t pick one shape and stay in it.
The forest around me flickered, rippling at the edges like a reflection in disturbed water. One moment, silver trees arched overhead, leaves glowing faintly with starlight. The next, the sky flickered into a ceiling—dark wood, faint lantern glow, shadows of shelves and jars.
I was sitting in both places at once.
Dream realm.
Healer’s wing.
The tether I’d woven in the last slip stretched tighter than ever, a silver thread pulled so taut it hummed inside my bones. Every breath I took seemed to travel along it—to my body on the cot, to the wolves in the waking world, to the Guardian running toward me.
He’s close, Shea murmured, voice low with awe. Closer than he has ever been. The Gate isn’t guessing anymore. It’s aiming.
