The first thing Zara saw when her eyes cracked open was green—vivid, storm-tossed green staring straight at her. Winter. His hand was around hers, firm and warm, grounding her in the present while her mind still staggered under the weight of the dream—vision?—she'd just escaped.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For a disoriented moment, she couldn't breathe.
The shade was achingly familiar, like the dream that still clung to her skin like mist. All she could focus on was the familiar shade of his irises, almost identical to the ones in the dream. The child's eyes.
"Zara?" His brows were furrowed, concern written across his usually unreadable face. He looked like he hadn't blinked once since she fell. When had she fallen?
"You're awake," he added, and held up a cloth. "Here. Your nose is bleeding."
She blinked, finally aware of the warm trickle down her lip. She swiped at her face, smeared red against her sleeve, and let him hand her the cloth.
