Page 11

11

NORA

T he ruins are silent now.

Nothing but ash and broken stone where there was once something ancient . The last remnants of my power still crackle in the air, a whisper of silver-light fading into the emptiness.

I stare at the devastation I caused.

And I feel nothing.

No horror or guilt. Not even relief.

Only the lingering ache in my bones, the slow pulse of power still curling at my fingertips, waiting to be called again. Like a beast awakened.

I swallow against the tightness in my throat, flexing my hands, watching as the last traces of magic dim from my skin.

It was too easy.

I shouldn’t feel this way. Magic was never meant to be a weapon in my hands. I was a healer. I had spent my life mending wounds, easing pain, bringing people back from the brink.

But now, I know what it feels like to break instead of mend.

I take a slow step back, my boots scraping against blackened earth. The air is heavy, thick with the aftermath of power , but there is something else beneath it—something watching.

I glance at Rhaegar.

He stands at the ruined valley, unmoving, unreadable. The wind tugs at his wings, pulling at the flickering shadows that still coil around him. His golden eyes burn , locked onto me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

He doesn’t speak.

But he doesn’t have to.

I can see it.

The way his gaze lingers. The way his fingers twitch at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for me.

He felt it too.

I turn away. I don’t want to look at him, don’t want to see whatever dark realization is lurking behind those molten eyes.

If I do, I might have to face the truth that terrifies me the most.

That I liked what I did.

That I want to do it again.

I can’t sleep.

The fire crackles between us, its weak, flickering glow barely reaching the edges of the ruined camp. The air is still heavy with magic, the ground beneath my bedroll cold and restless , like the land itself is trying to whisper something.

Rhaegar hasn’t spoken since we set up camp.

He sits just beyond the fire, half in shadow, his massive form still and watchful.

I can feel him even without looking.

The bond thrums between us, a pulse of something too tight, too demanding.

I clutch my chest, willing it to still.

The magic in my veins is still too loud, too awake.

I close my eyes, forcing my breath to slow, trying to push the strange sensation away and the dream takes me.

I stand in the middle of the Ashen Wastes, but it is not the same.

The ground beneath me is not cracked and barren. It is slick with blood.

Shadows move at my peripheral vision, figures wrapped in ancient armor , their bodies broken, twisted.

They are not alive.

But they are not dead either.

They do not have faces, only hollow darkness where their eyes should be. But I feel them staring.

Watching.

Waiting.

A voice drifts through the air, low and distant, whispering my name.

"Nora…"

I shudder , turning toward the sound, my pulse hammering.

But there is no one there.

Only the shifting shadows, only the figures wrapped in time-worn steel , their hands resting on the hilts of rusted swords.

They do not move.

But they do not have to.

I know why they are here.

They are waiting for me.

Because they think I belong to them.

The fire is still burning, but the night around me feels colder.

I sit up too fast, my breath ragged, the lingering remnants of the dream coiling like smoke in my chest.

It felt real.

I press my hands against my face, trying to shake the sensation, but the moment my fingers brush my skin, I feel it.

Something is wrong.

I scramble to my feet, unsteady, disoriented. The world tilts, but I catch myself against a nearby rock, fingers digging into the rough stone.

"Nora."

My head snaps up.

Rhaegar is already standing, his golden eyes locked onto me.

I don’t know what he sees, but his jaw tightens.

"Your change is not constant, it flourishes," he murmurs.

My stomach twists.

He knows.

He can feel it.

I shake my head, forcing my voice to be steady. "It was just a dream."

A lie.

A mistake.

Because Rhaegar never misses a lie.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, his massive form blocking out the firelight. Shadows curl at the edges of his wings, shifting like something alive.

"A dream," he repeats, his voice quiet, unreadable.

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yes."

A long pause.

Then he exhales, but it is not relief.

It is acceptance.

He knows that something is coming.

And I don’t.

"Sleep while you still can, little healer," he murmurs, stepping back into the darkness.

His voice is quiet. But his meaning is not.

Because whatever is coming will not wait for me to be ready.

And whatever I saw in my dreams, it is already near if not yet here.