I used to think Grandmother simply had an active imagination and she was making up stories to help keep my mind off the pain. After all, the beasts she spoke of couldn’t be real, could they?
But now . . .
Now I’m not so sure.
I open my eyes, finding violet pools of panic and concern peering into them. Wren’s Mark is a brilliant blue sun, and it’s directly in front of my face.
“Little bird,” I breathe, trying to get my bearings and remind myself what’s real and what’s not. “You’re not in bed.”
She is on the floor, stretched out beside me. Her hair is disheveled, and her blanket lies discarded behind her. Her curves press against me in a way I can’t ignore. Soft compared to the hard lines of my body, she fits perfectly. As though she were always meant to be at my side.
“No, I’m not.” Her hand tightens around mine. I didn’t even realize we were touching. “You were having a bad dream.”
Under normal circumstances, that would explain everything, but this...
I’m not sure this was a nightmare.
“Was I?” I scrub a hand over my face, and even though I hate moving away from Wren, I sit up.
“You were screaming.”
I suppose that explains the rawness in my throat. I don’t usually cry out during my nightmares, but this was different.
“It felt so real,” I say quietly, more to myself than Wren.
More real than the nightmares where the king would rip away my bond with Mist, or any other dream I’ve ever had.
She places her hand on my knee, and for a long moment, we sit in silence. Then, she asks, “What happened, Gabriel?”
I rub Grandmother’s amulet through the fabric of my tunic. It’s supposed to stop the king from finding us, but it’s not infallible. I already knew that, but the nightmare confirmed that for me.
“The king is... searching for us,” I say slowly, working the words past my dry throat as I fight to comprehend the nightmare.
“I know. I saw the crimson ember.”
“Yes, but this is worse than that.” This is magic I’ve never seen, that I never even knew the king possessed.
A crease forms between Wren’s brows. She removes her hand from my knee and shuffles beside me. Leaning against the wall, she sits cross-legged. There’s something so natural about being side by side and talking with this gods-blessed that the knots around my heart loosen.
“Your dream was worse?” she asks quietly, eyes sweeping over mine.
“That’s not what it was,” I murmur.
“Then what . . .”
“The king sent it.” Just like he sent me warnings about breaking my bond with Mist.
I reach inside myself instinctively, searching for my connection with my familiar, and exhale when it’s there, alive and well.
Wren’s Mark flares. “He can do that?”
This sweet, naïve gods-blessed. Sometimes, I forget how little she knows about this world. Because she, like the rest of us, was lied to about what it meant to be Given. Hers isn’t a naïvety brought about by willful ignorance, but one that was forced upon her by the way she was raised.
We are alike, in a way. Shaped by our upbringings, different though they were.
Taking her hand, I lace our fingers together and wait for her eyes to meet mine.
“King Andreas is a rare man, Birdie.” Equally evil and powerful, I daresay there isn’t a drop of kindness in his heart. “There is very little he cannot do, and his magical abilities are far greater than that of the queen or the crown prince.”
