Page 55 of Hunted

Lyra stands at the edge of the tower, no longer trembling, older than eighteen, her gaze sharpened by survival. Then her face blurs. Dark hair pales. The shape of her shifts.

Not Lyra.

Not—

Pain rips through my chest.

The mark flares violently, tearing through muscle and bone, radiating outward until my ribs feel close to splintering. I stagger, fury rising, but another sensation cuts through it.

A thread. Answering. Pulling.

The woman steps closer. Her face remains indistinct, but her attention drops to my chest. To the glow beneath my shirt.

In wakefulness, I would stop her but, in the dream, I do not move.

Her palm presses flat over my heart and the fabric dissolves. Skin meets mark. Shock punches through me as the burn blazes high and bright, then suddenly, impossibly, steadies. The inferno becomes warmth. The roar inside my blood quiets into something deeper.

Almost reverent.

Relief spreads through me with humiliating ease. ‘You’re here,’ I murmur.

She says nothing. Her face blurs further, dissolving into starlight.

‘I thought I would never find you.’ The confession leaves me before I can stop it.

She’s still saying nothing, her fingers curling against my chest, and the mark answers, light pulsing outward in slow, deliberate waves.

Then comfort turns to pain. The bond tightens, digging beneath my skin, seeking the dead heart Morrighan remade. Seeking the essence she breathed into me at the moment of immortal birth.

Her other hand rises to my jaw and I allow it. Gods help me, I allow it. And yearning surfaces with brutal clarity.

This is what was written.

This is what was withheld.

This—

I open my eyes.

And it is not Lyra standing before me.

Instead I see ash-blonde hair. Sharper face. A defiant gaze I recognise too well.

Eira Cross.

Recognition strikes like poison and the mark flares with fury. ‘You dare invade my dreams?’ I breathe, though whether I speak to her or Morrighan, I cannot tell.

Eira does not look confused. She looks aware. Poised. Almost triumphant. As if she has seen this dream from inside it… knows how it ends.

With my ruin?

The skyline fractures with a deafening roar.

The dream collapses.

I wake violently, sheets tangled at my waist, predawn shadow thick around me. My hand flies to my chest.

The mark scorches hotter than it has since its awakening, jagged lines glowing beneath my skin as they creep towards my ribs.