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W hen Cora dreamed, she dreamed of castles. Not the storybook variety with shining turrets and glistening marble columns, but dark towers brimming with even darker magic. These castles held no masked balls, boasted no gilded statues or impressive tapestries. Instead of fancy footmen fluttering about the halls, the corridors were empty, black, and soundless. All that existed was a feeling , a deep and hollow knowing that something wasn’t quite right.

In her dreams, Cora could do nothing but follow this sense of unease, this wrongness that existed outside of her, calling to her like the mythical sirens of fae lore. It was a silent song, one so chilling it made her hair stand on end. Still, she could do nothing but follow. Follow. Meeting dead end after dead end.

The feeling intensified, growing heavier, tugging her bones until it bore down upon her like a leaden weight. She knew she should stop following the feeling. Knew she should turn around and forget the dark pull. But even when she tried to forget, tried to turn around, the feeling only drew nearer. Soon the halls closed in, inch by inch, until they narrowed down to a single corridor, one that ended in the same door no matter which way she turned.

A rattling sound echoed around her. Glancing down, she found it was coming from the serving tray she carried. A teacup trembled against its saucer. Her hands were shaking even more.

The door loomed ahead of her, gaping like a hungry maw.

Against her will, her feet moved toward it. Too soon she stood in the dreaded doorway. As she saw what lay beyond, she felt as if she’d known all along. There was a bed. And upon that bed…

Blood. So much blood.

A scream shattered the air, piercing her eardrums.

She shook her head, trying to rid her eyes of the sight and her ears of the blaring shout. It grew louder. She blinked several times, but that only brought her closer to the bed. The blood was no longer just in front of her but all around, dripping from her hands. The sharp tang of it filled her nose, seared her throat.

Then a question filled her mind, the voice angry and familiar.

What have you done?

The scream intensified.

It was coming from her.

Cora opened her eyes but all she could see was black. Two weights pressed down upon her shoulders—hands—and she flailed against them, fighting the unseen assailant who restrained her.

“Cora, quiet, you're safe.”

The voice leached the fight from her bones. She went limp beneath her friend’s touch, pursing her lips against the screams that still crawled up her throat.

“It's just me,” soothed Maiya, stroking the damp hair away from Cora’s forehead. “You’re home. It was just a bad dream.”

Cora gritted her teeth and breathed away the remnants of her terror. In its place, anger grew. Not at her friend but at herself. She was supposed to be stronger than nightmares. She was a witch, after all. Witches were meant to be powerful.

“I’m sorry,” Cora muttered, finding her voice far weaker than she liked. Wiping furiously at a few errant tears, she rolled onto her side and buried her face in her blanket. Maiya gave her shoulder a light pat and returned to her cot at the other side of the tent they shared. Even in the darkness, Cora could feel the other girl’s eyes burning into her.

“Did you take your sleeping tonic last night?” Maiya asked, caution heavy in her tone.

“Yes.” She’d brewed it herself. Stronger than usual.

“Is…is something wrong?”

Cora remained silent because she had no answer. This was the third night in a row she’d woken screaming from this same terrifying nightmare. Such dreams plagued her on occasion but never with such alarming frequency. Her sleeping draught was normally enough to drive them away.

“Would you like to tell me about your dream?” Maiya asked, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably. “Perhaps I can help divine its meaning.”

Cora ignored her. Not because she didn’t trust her friend. Maiya was probably the only person she trusted with her whole heart. She was like a sister to her, one of the very few people Cora had let herself grow close to ever since she was taken in by the Forest People six years ago. But Cora’s burdens were hers to bear. Besides, Maiya was a witch too and growing proficient at dream divination. What if her abilities had grown beyond the realm of dreams? Cora couldn’t risk her discovering any of her secrets. It was too dangerous for them both.

Without another word, Cora focused on slowing her ragged breathing until it settled into a gentle rhythm. Hoping Maiya would fall for her ruse and think she’d drifted back to sleep, she kept up the act until she heard her friend’s soft snores. Only then did she let herself remember the dream.

A dream that felt like a memory.

Cora woke to morning sun kissing her eyelids. Even with just a sliver of light peeking in from the open tent flap, it was bright enough to tell her she’d slept in. She pressed a tattooed palm over her eyes, but it was no use. She was already awake. Not even the black symbols inked into her skin could ward away the evils of everyday responsibility. She rolled over and peered at Maiya’s cot. Her bedroll was empty, and her wool blankets and furs were neatly folded on top of it. How late in the morning was it? Cora rubbed her eyes to rid them of grit, but nothing seemed to soothe them. Her throat too felt raw, and she was almost of a mind to go back to sleep. However, she knew there was no use lingering in bed all because of a bad dream.

With a stretch, she forced herself to rise from her cot. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh beneath the cool spring air that drifted into the tent. Dressed only in her linen shift, she peeked outside and found her freshly laundered clothes hanging on a line. The smell of lavender wafted on the air, mingling with the earth, woodsmoke, and pine scents of camp. All at once, Cora felt a sense of calm. Of safety. She was protected by the Forest People. With their proficiency at wards and subterfuge, her enemies couldn’t find her here.

If only her dreams couldn’t either.

She tugged her patchwork petticoats and bodice off the line, then brought them back inside to get dressed. She’d have Maiya to thank for the clean clothes. Her friend had clearly been up working hard while Cora dozed.

Once dressed, she strolled between the tents of varying shapes and sizes, each structure draped with oiled hides, and tried not to look anyone in the eye. Her screams had to have been loud enough to wake half the camp, and she dreaded knowing what everyone thought of her. Did they think she was crazy? Or did they feel pity? Cora wanted neither sentiment and preferred no one thought much of her at all. Luckily, it seemed most of the Forest People were too busy with their daily tasks to pay her any mind, whether they were hunting, cooking, weaving, brewing tinctures and salves, or practicing the Arts—magic, in other words.

Magic was the lifeblood of the Forest People, infusing their way of life. The nomadic commune was once comprised of the last living Faeryn, ancient fae who practiced the Magic of the Soil. Nowadays, there wasn’t anyone left of pure Faeryn blood, as most had eventually mated with humans, but some within the commune still bore obvious signs of their heritage—petite stature, the slightest hint of a pointed ear, skin and hair in the richest earth tones.

In recent decades, those with human magic came to live amongst the commune too, making the Forest People an eclectic group. Most citizens in the Kingdom of Khero didn’t believe in magic, but they had no qualms about ostracizing anyone who possessed uncanny senses or an unusual fondness for nature. Whenever the Forest People came across these individuals, they welcomed them with open arms. They did the same when they found Cora, an orphaned girl wandering alone in the woods.

Cora nearly fit in with the Faeryn descendants with her dark hair, brown eyes, and warm tan skin, but she wasn’t of Faeryn blood. She was a witch. Even though this made her welcome with the Forest People, it didn’t make her feel like she belonged. She’d been with the commune for six years, but she didn’t think she’d ever stop feeling like an outsider. Probably because her new family might very well revoke their welcome if they knew who she was.

She made her way to the heart of the camp, her stomach growling at the smell of roasting meat and vegetables being heated over the cook fires. Once she reached the common area, a clearing surrounded by brightly painted wagons, she found Chandra on cook duty. The middle-aged woman was of stout build with dark eyes and a bronze complexion. Her hair was black with the faintest hint of dark green—a sign of her Faeryn heritage. Inked designs extended from her palms to her shoulders. Cora stared at the woman’s tattoos with longing. Unlike the cook, Cora’s ink only marked her palms and forearms, indicating the levels of the Arts she’d proven herself accomplished in. She wished to one day be covered to her neck with ink. Maybe then she’d be strong enough to banish her nightmares.

“Twenty-five years,” Chandra said.

She frowned. “Pardon?”

“That’s how long I’ve worked to get my insigmora .”

Insigmora was the Forest People’s name for the tattoos—a tradition passed down from the ancient Faeryn. The thought of spending two more decades honing her Art left a pit in Cora’s stomach. She didn’t want to wait that long. “They’re beautiful,” was all she said, forcing a smile to her lips.

Chandra’s expression turned wary as she eyed her. Cora held her breath, hoping the cook wouldn’t bring up her nightmares. The cook was known for her bluntness, and the last thing Cora wanted was for her to ask about the screaming that shattered the peace of the camp last night. She bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to open her senses to the woman so she could read her feelings.

As a witch, Cora’s talent was clairsentience. Every witch had an affinity for at least one of the six senses—feeling, knowing, seeing, hearing, tasting, or smelling. Sensing the feelings of others had been a bane since she was young, but after she was found by the Forest People, they taught her to shield against constant outside stimuli. Now she could use her Art at will, but it didn’t always go undetected. Not when used on fellow witches or the descendants of the Faeryn.

“Stew or porridge?” Chandra asked, finally breaking eye contact and nodding toward the cook fires.

Cora let out a sigh of relief and turned her attention to the simmering cauldrons. The smell of root vegetables made her mouth water. “Stew.”

Chandra went to the nearest pot and ladled a hearty serving into a clay bowl.

Cora nodded her thanks as the woman handed over her breakfast. As she went to turn away, Chandra spoke. “What are they about?”

Cora paused. “What do you mean?”

“The dreams that make you scream at night. What do you dream of when that happens?”

Cora’s muscles tensed at the question, but there was only one answer she could give. “Death.”