Page 1 of Twisted Souls (Twisted Souls #1)

“Fuck.”

I jolted awake, my breath hitching as the sensation of falling tore through me. For a fleeting, disoriented moment, I thought I’d tumbled from the chair where I’d been reading, maybe sprawled onto the floor. But the biting, wet cold that stung my hands made my pulse quicken.

My eyes shot open, my heart thundering in my chest. No. Not again. Please, not again.

Sure enough, red clay clung to my hands, thick and damp, streaking up my arms and smearing across the left side of my body. My thin white nightgown clung to me uselessly, offering no defense against the icy wind that clawed at my skin.

I wasn’t in my room anymore.

A shuddering breath escaped me as I surveyed my surroundings. A vast field stretched before me, and towering tents—massive and shadowy—loomed like specters against the night sky. The moon, obscured by clouds, cast a pale light that outlined the jagged peaks of the tents, making it difficult to discern anything else. Deep, rhythmic breathing, heavy and guttural, carried on the wind, sending my pulse into a frantic frenzy.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to move. My fingers sank into the clay as I pushed to my feet, the ground squelching beneath me. The cold, wet earth seeped between my toes, its icy grip making me wince.

The air was thick with the acrid tang of smoke and damp earth, tinged with something faintly metallic—blood? My stomach turned. This has to be an army camp. But my father’s camps were days away from the castle. I couldn’t have walked here in my sleep, it wasn’t possible.

I swallowed hard, my gaze drawn to the tent directly ahead of me. Its entrance flapped in the wind, the coarse fabric snapping like a beckoning hand. The pull was magnetic, irrational, yet undeniable. My feet moved without permission, carrying me closer until my fingers brushed the rough canvas.

What am I doing?! I didn’t know what waited inside, and yet I couldn’t release the fabric. My grip tightened, the tug from within growing louder, more insistent, urging me forward.

Time stretched as I stood there, my thoughts a storm of doubt and fear. Being here was madness. Walking inside would be worse. But something gnawed at the edges of my mind, a whisper that this was no accident. I was brought here for a reason. I was brought to those other places for a reason.

If I wanted answers, I’d have to follow this through.

As my hand tightened around the coarse fabric, wind began to roar around me. Before I could gather the nerve to pull it aside, my hair whipped wildly, and darkness filled my vision. My stomach lurched, and a nauseating pull dragged me inward.

I tried to scream, but no sound came. Air refused to fill my lungs.

The chaos abruptly stilled, the violent pull vanishing as quickly as it had come. My lungs filled with air again and my surroundings shifted, the swirling void replaced with the familiar walls of my room.

My hand remained outstretched toward a phantom fabric that was no longer there, red clay still caked onto my fingers. I swallowed hard—or tried to—and glanced down.

The same red clay clung to my body, a cold, unrelenting reminder that this had been real—that it wasn’t just in my head. My gaze dropped to the alabaster rug beneath me, its once-pristine surface now streaked with coppery smears. Even that, I realized, would now serve as proof I couldn’t ignore.

I lowered my arm, my fingers curling into a fist at my side, nails biting into my palms as I fought the rising tide of panic. What was happening to me?