Nevara
My head split down the middle.
Not metaphorically. Not dreamlike.
A jagged, stabbing pain—like something had cracked through bone and spilled light and memory straight into my brain.
I gasped, but it was shallow. Dry. Like my lungs didn’t remember how to work.
My fingers twitched.
Sheets.
There were sheets under me. Soft. Familiar.
I blinked.
Light stabbed through my vision, blurry, too bright. The ceiling above me wasn’t wood. It wasn’t the cabin.
It was pale stone. Gold accents.
My room.
Home?
My heart skipped.
Why did everything ache?
Why did my skin feel like it didn’t belong to me?
My neck throbbed—dull and deep, like someone had buried a knife beneath the muscle. I reached up, hand trembling, and touched the source of the pain.
A mark.
Searing.
Permanent.
