“You wretched little thing.”

“It’s so pretty.”

“Or are you special?”

Voices, now, to go along with the visions.

Except the visions were real. These voices were just memories.

Or maybe ghosts.

They were gone now. All of them. A brutal reality Ayla still could not reckon with. She would never see her mother again. Never see her sisters. Never see sweet, innocent Po.

Would she ever see her village again? Or would she just keep running forever?

Ayla had no idea. Her visions sometimes gave her vague hints of the future, but they were always vague and ambiguous. Her future had never been more uncertain, and all that was left of her past were the memories and ghosts.

She wasn’t running now, at least. She had stopped. Because she had to stop. Her sides and her stomach had ached, and her legs had begun to cramp. She had been deep into the Sanctuary Enclave—the forest that was nestled between Crescent Hollow and Redeemer’s Reach—many times. But never this deep. She wondered how close she was to the edge of the forest, where the trees met the mountains. Considering how they dominated her view of the horizon, it couldn’t be very far.

At least the rain had stopped. But that didn’t mean Ayla was dry, by any means. Not when she was half buried in mud and leaves and tucked into the shape of a ball, wedged between a copse of trees and a slick, ancient rock. She’d stopped here earlier—her sense of time was as askew as the rest of her life—and had looked behind her for the first time. There had been nobody there, at least that she could see. She had quickly scanned the area for a place to hide, finding this nearly ideal spot. She fit in perfectly, so long as she curled up.

Ayla lay on her side, her knees against her chest and both arms wrapped around her legs. Her head was ducked between her knees, her eyes closed. She shivered uncontrollably.

What was happening? Who were those people, and why had they attacked her village? Was the attack just in Crescent Hollow, or was it happening all around Brightholme? She wasn’t sure of a thing, except that the vision that had been recurring for the last week had come true. That vision had shown her fire and blood and chaos; her waking eyes had witnessed the same.

Of all who were lost, Po hurt the most. Even in her current state—small, mud strewn, cold and shivering, alone and afraid—Ayla felt she had made a terrible mistake. Maybe she couldn’t have saved her cousin, but her cowardly inaction had torn a piece of her soul away.

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If she had rushed to Po’s side, at least they could have died together. Maybe Po would have been a little less afraid, with her cousin holding her as the world ended.

Instead, Po had died, alone and screaming.

Ayla tried to push the image away. Couldn’t.

‘Maybe it’s better that I don’t,’ she thought. ‘I deserve to remember, every day for the rest of my life.’

She wondered if Po would forgive her if she somehow could. Ayla thought that, yes, she probably would. Which only made her feel that much worse.

‘Little Floooower…’

Ayla’s head perked up. She tried to look around, but she had covered herself so well that all she could see were the trunk of a tree, the old rock, and the detritus covering her.

There was nothing to see, though, she realized. She hadn’t “heard” a thing. And it hadn’t been a memory or a ghost, either.

It was the scary lady. Searching for her. Calling out to her. Was she close? Did she need to be close to communicate with Ayla telepathically?

Just more questions she had no answers for. She knew so little.

Savina. Savina Frost.

That was the scary lady’s name. Had she told it to her, or had Ayla read it when their minds had been linked? Did it make a difference?

She ducked her head back into her knees and returned to her shivering and crying. The scary lady—Savina—wasn’t close. Alya wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she did. She was safe for now, so long as she stayed right here. Which was exactly what she intended to do. Wait here. Maybe forever and ever.

The image of Savina’s scar flashing with sudden fire replaced the sight of Po screaming in her mind’s eye. More questions. Nothing but questions.

Had that fire come from her? What was that feeling she’d had, right before that flash of fire? The sensation had been similar to how she often felt when she sat in her Spot for hours at a time. When she would sometimes reach an internal place where she felt at peace.

It was like that… but also different. Somehow. More?

Questions, questions, questions.

Ayla thought she might be going mad. Or perhaps she already had.

She wept and she shivered. Tried to make sense of the senselessness.

Until, finally, exhaustion caught up with her. She began to sleep.

But before she drifted off, one last image came to her. It was of her recently finished red robe, still buried in the hollow of a tree. In her Spot. Forgotten and abandoned.

Only it wasn’t still buried. And hadn’t been forgotten or abandoned.

In her mind’s eye, Ayla saw the robe. And its wearer.

Savina Frost.