Briar woke beneath a twisted tree, wrapped in a blanket of crow feathers and ash. Her skin glowed faintly in the dark, veins lit with silver. A single word echoed in her mind—empty, endless: Who?
"Drink this," said the old woman, pressing a gourd to her lips. It tasted of smoke and lavender, like burnt flowers. Her tongue curled in protest.
Briar gagged. "What is this?"
"Memory tea," the woman replied.
"Sometimes the past remembers you first."
She sat up slowly, her spine aching as if she'd been broken and rebuilt. Her arms were littered with faint scars she didn't recognize. Each throbbed with questions.
"I don't know who I am."
"You're alive," the crone said. "And that's more than you were yesterday."
A fire burned nearby—not red, but blue, flickering like water. Briar stared into it, and it stared back.
"I am Mother Corva," the woman said. "I raised you. In another life."
"I don't remember."
"You will. Or you won't. The dead never remember the first time."
Corva tossed salt into the flame. Sparks danced into the air like stars. Briar's shadow stretched behind her—and moved when she didn't.
She didn't notice.