The morning air was cool, the kind that should have made me feel awake and alive. Instead, I dragged myself through chores with leaden limbs, every muscle sore, my wrists aching under the sleeves I tugged low.
"Ren." Mother's voice cut sharp from behind me as I fumbled with the chicken coop latch. "You forgot to fetch water again."
"I'll get it," I said quickly, but even to my own ears I sounded distracted.
She stepped closer, wiping flour from her hands. "You've been forgetting a lot. You eat little, you work less, and you wander off at night. Tell me, what is happening to you?"
"I'm fine." The lie felt heavy on my tongue.
Her eyes narrowed, not unkind but piercing. "Your father may not notice, but I do. Don't make me drag the truth from you."
I forced a smile I didn't feel. "Just… tired, Mother. I'll be better."
She held my gaze a moment longer, then sighed, shaking her head. "See that you are."
---
By midday I walked through the square, sack slung over my shoulder, pretending my steps were steady. The bustle had thinned. Merchants came less often now; villagers whispered of dangers on the roads. Even laughter from children seemed subdued, like everyone knew something waited just beyond the fields.
I nearly tripped as someone bumped into me.
"Oh! Sorry!" A soft voice, hurried but warm.
I looked up into green eyes framed by auburn hair tied hastily back. The girl balanced a basket of herbs and cloth, nearly spilling both. She was maybe a year younger than me, her plain dress dusted with flour and roots.
"You're Ren, aren't you?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Yes," I said slowly. "Do I know you?"
"Lysa. Apprentice to Healer Mara. I've seen you running errands before. You always look… distracted."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Maybe I am."
She bent to gather a dropped sprig of thyme, then paused, her eyes flicking to my wrist where my sleeve had slipped. The red mark flared like fresh coal against pale skin.
"What happened?" she asked, voice lowering.
"Nothing," I said too fast, tugging the fabric down.
Her brow furrowed. "That's no blister. And no cut I know leaves a mark like that. It feels…" She hesitated, then shook her head. "Never mind. Forget I asked."
But her gaze lingered, curious and unsettled, before she hurried away with her basket.
---
I thought no more of her until later that afternoon, when Bran and his pack of shadows cornered me again near the well.
"Well, farmer boy," Bran sneered. "Still hiding those wrists?" His cronies chuckled, circling like dogs scenting weakness.
Before I could reply, Lysa emerged from a nearby lane, basket on her arm. She froze at the sight, eyes widening.
Bran grinned wider. "Look, we've an audience. Don't want to look weak in front of the healer's girl, do you?"
I clenched my jaw. "Leave her out of this."
He shoved me, hard. My back hit the well's stone rim. Sparks prickled in my chest, desperate to rise. My fingers twitched toward the sword at my hip.
No. Not here. Not now. Mira's warning echoed: Control it before it controls you.
Bran shoved again. This time, I grabbed his wrist and twisted, forcing him to stumble with a grunt of pain. His friends stepped forward, but I met their eyes with steady calm.
"Enough," I said, voice low but sharp.
For once, Bran hesitated. Perhaps it was the way I held his wrist, or the steadiness in my gaze. With a growl, he yanked free. "You'll regret this, farmer." He spat at my feet before stalking off, his lackeys following.
Lysa exhaled shakily. "You didn't fight back… not really. Why?"
"Because if I had, it would have been worse."
Her gaze dropped to my hands. "There's something dangerous in you. I can feel it. Like a fever under the skin."
I swallowed hard. "Then keep it to yourself."
She hesitated, then nodded once. "I will. But be careful, Ren."
---
That evening, I returned to the clearing, Garrick's practice blade heavy in my grip. I swung until sweat soaked my shirt, until my shoulders screamed. Then I drew the hum of mana, coaxing sparks along the steel.
This time I tried something different: a slash followed by a spark, willing the energy to flow with the motion.
The blade hissed, faint blue light trailing its arc. For an instant, it felt right—magic and steel together, not separate.
The glow burst, scattering embers across the grass. I gasped, chest heaving, strength pouring out of me like water from a cracked jar. My legs buckled. I hit the ground, trembling.
Three tries. Always three. After that, my body was ash.
Still, I smiled weakly. It was progress.
---
The dream returned as soon as I closed my eyes.
Flames roared higher than ever, licking the sky. The commander stood closer now—so close I could see the black scales etched into his armor, the gleam of his blade. His helmet hid his face, but his presence pressed on me like a mountain.
Behind him, the eyes multiplied again, endless, stretching into the darkness. Red, unblinking, filled with hunger.
I tried to move, but my limbs refused. I tried to look away, but the eyes burned into me.
The commander raised his hand.
Fire erupted at his gesture, a wave of heat that seared my skin even as I slept.
"You are being watched," he whispered, voice like steel on stone. "And you are not ready."
I woke with a cry, chest heaving, palms stinging. I lifted my hands to the faint moonlight and froze.
Blisters. Small, red, angry welts.
The dream had followed me into the waking world.