The dream still clung to me like smoke.
I sat at the edge of my bed, sweat clinging to my skin, my breath catching in my throat as though the blade Caelum drove into me all those years ago had found me again. The memory wasn't just memory anymore—it was prophecy, promise, warning. His words rang louder than any screams.
You won't escape me again.
My fingers trembled as I pressed them to my temples, trying to slow the frantic drumbeat of my pulse. But I couldn't unsee it. The white hall. The blood. The gods watching in silence. The throne, empty and accusing.
Someone knocked.
I didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway.
Kieran.
His silhouette was carved in concern, his armor half-fastened, his hair damp from a rushed wash. "You screamed."
"I'm fine," I said hoarsely.
"You were not." He stepped in, closed the door behind him. "Fiona heard it from two corridors down."
