Adrian's dreams had changed since his self-inflicted death.

Before, when sleep claimed him, there had been only darkness—a merciful void free from questions about his impossible existence. Now, as he lay on his simple bedroll near Karl's hearth, his unconscious mind filled with fractured images, disjointed scenes playing out like poorly connected theater acts.

Tonight's dream began at the Academy. He stood in the central training yard, eighteen years old again, spine straight as Master Leon circled the assembled cadets. The memory was sharper than it should have been after so many years—Adrian could smell the linseed oil used on practice dummies, feel the precise weight of the training sword in his hand, see individual beads of sweat on his fellow students' faces.

"Combat isn't about strength," Master Leon was saying, his voice exactly as Adrian remembered, gruff yet measured. "It's about awareness. The warrior who perceives more, lives more."

The master's eyes had locked with Adrian's at that moment, something unspoken passing between them. In the dream, as in memory, Adrian felt an inexplicable tingle run up his sword arm—the same arm now marked with the Évermark.

The scene shifted abruptly. Adrian found himself in the Academy's restricted East Wing, standing before a heavy door emblazoned with arcane symbols. This memory was hazier, tinged with emotion rather than sensory detail. Fear. Excitement. Longing.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Adrian turned to face an elderly man whose face remained frustratingly blurred, though his voice came through clearly.

"The Council forbids it, young Felton. Your natural affinity for the arcane arts is precisely why you must never study them formally. Some talents are best left undeveloped."

Dream-Adrian responded with indignation: "How can awareness be dangerous? Master Leon says—"

"Leon teaches sword work, not magic." The old man's tone softened. "There are currents in you, Adrian. Currents that could become maelstroms if channeled improperly. The Academy needs you as a knight, not a mage."

The scene blurred again, reforming into a moment Adrian had nearly forgotten. He stood at the Academy's highest tower, watching summer lightning split the night sky. Beside him stood a woman—tall, severe, her silver-streaked hair bound in a tight braid. The Academy's Headmistress, though her name remained frustratingly elusive.

"The boundaries between realms grow thin," she was saying, eyes fixed on the horizon rather than on Adrian. "Old contracts will be honored. Old debts collected." She turned to him then, her gaze disturbingly similar to the silver-haired woman from the void. "Remember, when the time comes, that death is merely a doorway. And doorways can be traversed in both directions."

Adrian jolted awake, the dream's final image—a silver rune floating in darkness—dissolving as consciousness returned. The cabin was dark save for the dying embers in the hearth. Beside him, Grim raised his massive head, amber eyes reflecting the faint glow.

"Just a dream, boy," Adrian murmured, reaching out to stroke the hound's coarse fur. Karl had left that morning on a three-day hunting expedition, entrusting Grim to Adrian's care—a gesture of trust that hadn't gone unnoticed.

Adrian sat up, sleep now impossible. The dream clung to him like cobwebs, too vivid to dismiss as mere imagination. These weren't just dreams; they were memories—memories he hadn't been able to access since awakening in this time. Fragments returning like flotsam washing ashore after a storm.

Had his deliberate death triggered something? Karl's grandfather's journal had mentioned the female subject experiencing "insights" after multiple resurrections. Perhaps these recovered memories were part of the same phenomenon.

The East Wing. Magic affinity. These were aspects of his past that Adrian had never shared with anyone, not even his closest companions in the Seventh Legion. The Academy Council had been adamant—his unusual sensitivity to magical energies made formal arcane training too dangerous, a risk the kingdom couldn't afford with one of their most promising young knights.

Adrian raised his arm, studying the silver mark in the dim light. Was this what the Headmistress had meant about old contracts? Had his "natural affinity" somehow marked him for the Évermark long before that fatal arrow found his heart on the battlefield?

A distant rumble interrupted his contemplation. At first, Adrian mistook it for thunder, but the sound continued, growing in intensity until the cabin itself began to tremble. Dust and dried herbs rained down from the rafters as the rumbling transformed into violent shaking.

"Earthquake," Adrian realized, leaping to his feet. "Grim, outside!"

The hound needed no further encouragement, bolting for the door with Adrian close behind. They had barely cleared the threshold when a sickening crack split the night—the sound of ancient wood giving way under impossible pressure.

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Adrian turned back in horror as the massive pine beside Karl's cabin, its roots loosened by the quaking earth, toppled directly onto the structure. The tree crashed through the roof with devastating force, its enormous trunk crushing the cabin like a giant's foot upon an insect mound.

The earthquake subsided almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving an eerie silence broken only by the settling of debris and Grim's anxious whining. Adrian stood frozen, staring at the destruction that had, mere seconds ago, been his refuge in this alien time.

"Karl," he whispered, relief mingling with concern. At least the old hunter wasn't home to be caught in the destruction. But without the cabin...

Adrian approached the wreckage cautiously, assessing the damage with tactical precision. The tree had completely collapsed the roof and at least two walls. Most of Karl's possessions would be crushed or exposed to the elements. Survival in the approaching winter would be nearly impossible without shelter.

A weak sound from beneath the rubble stopped Adrian cold.

"Hello?" he called, pressing closer. "Is someone there?"

The sound came again—a pained groan that turned Adrian's blood to ice. Someone was trapped in the wreckage.

"KARL!" Adrian shouted, scrambling onto the collapsed timbers. "KARL, CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

The old hunter should have been miles away on his expedition. Yet as Adrian began frantically clearing debris, a terrible realization dawned—Karl's walking stick still leaned against the cabin's undamaged corner, his travel pack nowhere to be seen. The old hunter must have returned early, perhaps due to the threatening weather that had preceded the earthquake.

Adrian worked with desperate efficiency, tossing aside splintered beams and broken furniture. Grim joined the effort, pawing urgently at a specific section of the collapse. Following the hound's lead, Adrian redoubled his efforts in that area, soon exposing a gap in the wreckage.

Karl lay beneath a section of roof partially supported by a fallen table, creating a small pocket that had saved him from being completely crushed. Blood matted his silver hair, and his right leg bent at an unnatural angle. But most concerning was the pallor of his skin and the shallow, irregular pattern of his breathing.

"Karl," Adrian called softly, clearing the last pieces of debris separating them. "Can you hear me?"

The old hunter's eyelids fluttered, then opened to reveal pain-clouded blue eyes. "Should've... listened to Grim," he rasped. "Been trying... to warn me all day."

Relief flooded Adrian—conscious and talking was better than he'd dared hope. "Don't move. Let me check your injuries."

A careful examination confirmed Adrian's fears. Beyond the obviously broken leg, Karl's breathing suggested broken ribs, possibly with lung involvement. Worst was a deep puncture wound in his side where a splintered beam had penetrated his abdomen—the kind of injury Adrian had seen kill men on battlefields within hours without proper treatment.

"How bad?" Karl asked, his voice steadier than it had any right to be.

Adrian met the old hunter's gaze directly, respecting him too much to offer false comfort. "Bad enough that we need to get you help. The leg is cleanly broken—I can splint that. The head wound is superficial. But the abdominal injury..." He trailed off.

Karl nodded slightly. "Internal. Bleeding inside." His hand found Adrian's wrist with surprising strength. "My grandfather's journal. Need it."

Adrian carefully extracted Karl from the rubble, moving him to a relatively flat area nearby where he could make him comfortable with salvaged bedding. The journal, miraculously, had survived in its cedar box, though many of Karl's other precious books were lost.

As Adrian worked to clean and bind Karl's wounds as best he could, the old hunter's voice grew weaker but remained determined.

"Listen carefully," Karl instructed. "Three days' journey southeast. Valley with three standing stones. Hermit named Elara—herbalist, healer. Only chance."

Adrian paused in his bandaging. "I can't leave you alone for six days, Karl."

A wheezing laugh escaped the hunter. "Not asking you to make the full journey. Thornwood Pass—one day southeast. Bloodroot grows there. Purple flower, red stem. Bring it back... slow the bleeding."

Adrian absorbed this information with grim focus. He'd seen men die from similar wounds—without intervention, Karl would likely not last two days. The Bloodroot might buy enough time to then make the longer journey to this healer.

"I'll leave at first light," Adrian decided, continuing his careful bandaging.

Karl's hand found his arm again. "Page thirty-seven. Journal. Read it."

Adrian retrieved the book and turned to the indicated page. There, in careful handwriting, was a detailed illustration of a plant with distinctive purple blossoms and crimson stems. Beneath it, annotations described its locations, properties, and most importantly—its extreme toxicity if handled improperly.

"The sap is poison," Karl confirmed, watching Adrian's expression. "Touch it bare-handed... die in minutes. Need gloves. Leather pouch."

The night passed slowly, with Adrian doing everything possible to make Karl comfortable. He salvaged what supplies he could from the wreckage, constructed a small shelter using unbroken sections of the cabin wall, and kept a fire burning to ward off the autumn chill.

By dawn, Karl's condition had deteriorated noticeably. His breathing grew more labored, skin clammy despite the fever Adrian could feel radiating from him. There was no more time to waste.

"I'll be back before nightfall," Adrian promised, loading a small pack with essentials. "Grim will stay with you."

The massive hound had already positioned himself protectively beside his master, understanding apparently transcending any need for commands.

Karl nodded weakly. "Thornwood dangerous. Not just plants. Predators. Territory... disputed."

Adrian checked Wind Howl in its scabbard, the familiar weight reassuring against his hip. "I'll be careful."

The old hunter's eyes fixed on Adrian's with sudden clarity. "If you die there... you'll return there. Miles from here."

The implication was clear—if Adrian lost his life in Thornwood Pass, he'd resurrect too far away to return to Karl in time. Death, which had become almost academic to Adrian, now carried real consequences beyond his personal discomfort.

"Then I won't die," Adrian stated simply, with the confidence of a man who had survived countless battles before his first resurrection.