WHEN I WAKE up, the memories of my nightmares linger like cobwebs in the corners of my mind.

The image of a raven perched on a gnarled branch, its glossy feathers catching the moonlight.

A tall figure cloaked in complete darkness. Glacial light blue eyes that pierce, flecked with gold, like sunlight dancing on the frozen water of a lake.

With a gasp, I sit up, my heart pounding in my chest. I twist my knuckles into my eyes, but the figure's gaze seems to follow me like a shadow. They blaze through my shut eyelids, and I have to force myself to open them, half-expecting to see those glowing light pools of arctic blue staring back at me.

But the room is empty.

The early morning light filtering through the curtains casts a warm radiance over my room, but I cannot shake off the feeling of unease that clings to me like a second skin. I get out of bed, and the air feels colder than usual, as if the darkness from my dream has seeped into reality. My hands bunch up at my sides, longing for something to wrap around myself.

My shoulders seem light somehow, impossibly pulled up by gravity instead of down, like a weight has been removed. Rolling them back does little to adjust the feeling of missing pressure.

I must have fallen asleep in my dress and been carried to bed. The kingfisher blue fabric hangs off my shoulders in disarray, the bottom hem partially shredded and ripped. Goosebumps rise along my arms.

I glance down at the torn fabric, confusion knotting my brow. How had my dress been ripped to shreds like this? I reach out to touch the frayed edges, the threads rough against my fingertips.

What had happened last night?

The last thing I remember was...

Trying to recall the night before sends a dull ache to the back of my head.

A face framed by dark chestnut locks appears before me, distorted and blurred, as if through a rippling pond. And then, a whisper of a touch against my skin, cold and fleeting. Shadows dart at the edge of my vision, mumbling secrets I can't quite grasp. Each attempt to piece together the events of the night is met with a wall of fog, blocking my memories with an impenetrable barrier.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the lingering confusion. Fragments of memories slip through my hold like water, leaving me grasping at nothing.

Maybe I fell while I was hanging horseshoes for Aunt Elora?

But that wouldn't explain my dress.

At the thought of Aunt Elora, a sharp sense of alertness shoots through me. Faster and faster, I feel the racing pump of my erratic heart start again.

I just need to wake up.

I stumble towards the mirror, and the stranger in the reflection seems to be someone else entirely, a doppelganger who has slipped into my skin in the night.

The dark circles under my eyes stand out starkly, and there's an unnatural dullness to the color of my cheeks, as if I've been out in the cold.

But it's Summer.

I splash my face with water from the near basin and the cool liquid shocks me into complete wakefulness. Droplets slide down my dark skin, simmering down my jaw and collarbones like dew on flower petals.

I trace the lines of my face with trembling fingers, as if trying to map out the changes that have taken place overnight. There's tension in my jaw, a tautness in my cheeks that wasn't there yesterday. But when I meet my own gaze, even despite the shadows under, I see a glimmer of something more powerful than before staring back at me.

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Suddenly, a flicker of darkness, a subtle movement behind me from the window.

I whip around, expecting to see a presence lurking in the shadows of the room.

Expecting those frozen light eyes. Expecting the solemn stillness of winter to rush through me.

But there's nothing there, just empty space.

I shuffle across the room to the window for more light, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet in the stillness of the morning. Pulling back the curtains, I am greeted by a world bathed in soft hues of pink and gold.

Outside, the world seems to be waking up along side me. Dew on grass sparkles like scattered diamonds under the gentle sunlight. The rustle of a breeze through lushly full trees. Distant calls from awakening birds.

Among the greenery, stands a fawn and mother, bathed in peaceful sunshine, their delicate ears flickering at the sound of the bird's melody. There's a distinct goldenness, a gilded twinkling veil, over the world. I try to blink it away, worried it's my own eyes that have filmed over. Despite, the dreamlike glow remains. Pollen is the only answer I can make up, but even that doesn't seem right.

No more lingering shadows of any kind, yet despite the stretched sweet honey light of morning, in the back of my mind, those chilling icy blue eyes refuse to fade.

Haunting me like ghosts from a past I cannot remember.

I turn, and take in the details of my room- the intricate patterns on the cream wallpaper, the delicate lace curtains that move with breeze, the faint scent of roses from a vase on the bedside table.

The lavish canopy bed, draped in silky fabrics in the summer and exotic furs in winter, commands the attention of the room. The gilded mirror hangs on the wall, positioned just so to reflect the windows light and wash the space in a warm glow. Displayed on ornate shelves are velvet lined cases, every piece of jewelry sparkles with a familiar brilliance.

Paintings and tapestries along the walls, depicting scenes of mythical landscapes and magical creatures. One canvas captures the majestic silhouette of a dragon soaring against a backdrop of a starlit sky, its iridescent scales gleaming in the moonlight. Nearby, a tapestry weaves a tale of ancient forests and hidden realms, where fae folk dance beneath the boughs of ancient trees. Stories from the realm of my father, places long since forbidden. Aunt Elora doesn't like him to talk about it, so he very rarely does.

Against a wall stands a wardrobe built by Orion of polished wood, its doors intricately carved and adorned with gilded accents. A vanity table beckons with its array of luxurious cosmetics and perfumes, while towering bookshelves offer endless stories and trinkets. Carvings made by me and my father, candles gifted by Aunt Elora.

Another sharp pain shoots through me.

Nothing is missing, but something feels off.

The room feels different. Off-kilter. Like a painting askew on the wall, or a piece of music played just slightly out of tune.

With a sudden urge, I hurry towards the wardrobe. The doors swing open with a soft creak, revealing rows of finely tailored garments in rich fabrics and elaborate designs. But amidst the opulence, one item always stands out in stark contrast – A garment of my mothers. It's the only one I have of hers.

As light pours in, every precisely threaded bead of pollen yellow citrine and honey calcite reflects back, and I'm washed in sunlight.

It's a cloak of powder blue silk the color of a perfect midsummer, embellished with intricate gold embroidery and crystals that gleam like beams of light.

I don't know why I'm drawn to it this morning.

I reach out to touch the delicate fabric, feeling its smoothness beneath my fingertips.

It hangs there, glowing in the soft morning light that spills through the window.

The memories of my mother ring faint and distant.

Completely impossible.

I lift the garment off the knob, feeling the luxurious silk slip through my fingers like water. The material comes alive, a running river. The embroidery catches every movement.

Without hesitation, I lay the cloak on the bed, already anticipating the sensation of its weight settling over my shoulders.

As he does every morning, my father has already set aside warmed water for me to bathe in. There's a strange grubbiness to my hands, grit underneath my nails. The effort to recall why is met with pain. The ache at the back of my head starts again.

I quickly slip out of my old dress, the fabric worn and frayed in places, now in need of repair. As the dress falls to the ground with a soft whisper of fabric against wood, a metallic clunk echoes in the room.

Curious, I bend down to inspect the source of the sound. My fingers cautiously search through the folds of my discarded dress until they brush against a cool, heavily scratched surface.

I pull out the tarnished object, to find myself holding a broken music box, and memories of everything I've forgotten suddenly flood through me.

The Storm.

The Prince.

Aunt Elora.

The tea my father gave me to make me forget.