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Thicket shook her head. “No. I-I don’t know.”

“Did anything smell like lavender?”

“Smell like her sister?” Bern asked, confused.

Marcellus didn’t react, his stare wholly on Thicket, willing her to remember.

“I don’t—” she cut off. “Yes,” she breathed. “There was.”

When she was trying to staunch Elian’s bleeding. She remembered the putrid smell of blood and lavender, mingling together so strongly she nearly puked. More memories from the dream started unraveling. Lotta didn’t have a leopard. She had a panther, yet she distinctly remembered seeing the coloration of spots on her Aneuma. Marcellus… He had used his piranha instead of his sword. And the piranha had been conjured from yellow fire, not red.

And her spell. Elian should have never got caught up in it, not when she had directed it upward. If he had gotten caught, so would everyone else, yet they had been fine.

Why?

Because it was a dream controlled by Lavender.

Though Thicket knew she shouldn’t, she glanced upward, searching for the spikes she had used to stop the songbirds. Only they weren’t there. Neither was the tunnel they had tried escaping down. The cave was as smooth and round as its surrounding walls. It had just been another illusion. Another way Lavender had gotten the better of her.

Thicket took in a deep breath, trying to regulate the rapid beat of her heart and quell the tremors still running through her body. “It’s getting worse,” she said. “I am usually able to tell but this one… She had me fooled.”

What would happen if Lavender tricked her again? What if she planted false information into her head and tricked Thicket into thinking it was real. What if she had already done that?

She wracked her brain, thinking back to everything that had happened since Lavender made her threat. Since she started controlling her dreams.

Was the vision she saw while under the influence of the jellyfish venom even real? Was Lavender leading her into yet another trap?

She had no way of knowing.

Not being able to trust her own mind was a threat far scarier than any she had faced.

Marcellus and Lotta poured over a map, discussing which route they should take through the remainder of the Desert Mountains while Bern and Elian packed up the remains of their breakfast and camp.

While they were distracted, Thicket grabbed Marcellus’ blade, which he had tucked beside his sleeping mat, and snuck outside.

Bright, fiery light washed across the mountains, setting the orange stone ablaze. She climbed up the steep slope nestled beside the cave, following the trail up until she reached a ledge overlooking the desert. The sky was a blended assortment of clouds, tinted colors ranging from a vibrant peach to a rich plum. In the center, the sun shone through, its light blurred and soft, casting an enchanting spell across the desert beyond. Perched around sand dunes, made from sand so dark it looked like a river of blood, was the Desert Kingdom. Shadows from the setting sun obscured most of it, but Thicket could make out the glinting tip of a spire.

This was the final stretch. The last thing separating Thicket from her battle with Lavender. Despite her training, she still didn’t feel ready. Now when her own mind warred against her.

Thicket held out Marcellus’ sword, falling into her stance. It felt like the first deep inhale right after waking up. If she couldn’t rely on her mind, then she would put her faith into something else.

Thicket went through her movements, feet scraping across the sandy stone, staining her boots and the hem of her pants crimson. She slashed the sword through the air, again and again until the terror of her dreams submerged beneath the ache of her muscles.

“How are you?” Elian stood behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching her with thoughts so entangled she couldn’t begin to unravel them. Even after their fight, he hadn’t changed. He was the same kind, considerate prince she had been drawn to. A part of her was glad he was here. Glad that he still cared.

Another part of her felt guilty and wished he would stay away.

Thicket set the tip of Marcellus’ sword on the ground. “Shaken.”

“You should be resting. We have a long day ahead of us.”

Thicket picked up the sword again, settling into her fighting stance. “Every time I sit still, the images come back to haunt me.”

“In your dream. How did I— You know…” he trailed off.

How had he died?

She stepped out, thrusting the blade of the sword straight out. “Impalement.”