CHAPTER 169

CHAPTER 169
Emerald sat up slowly, her breath coming in a serrated pattern as the black of the dream seeped into the world. The cabin was still, colder than it should be. No wind. No flames. Nothing but her and the feeling of unease that something had come back with her from that strange landscape of mirrors and roots.

She went over to the nightstand.

The jar sat there.

Still wrapped. Still reclining on its shallow bed of braided material.

Her blood ran cold.

Two petal now.

Similar. Red. Assume the shape of

She didn't dream it.

Her hand trembled as she stretched out to touch the jar. The glass was warmer than it had been before. as if it retained a living memory. She stretched out her fingers over the lid, but her hand stalled in mid-air. She was not ready to open it.

I didn't take it," she whispered, but no one was around to hear.

Her words lingered in the air, a fabrication short of oxygen.

She stood up from the bed and walked over to the window. The glass rim was frosted over. Outside the window, the woods were a sea of white, unbroken only by a suggestion of dog prints leading into the trees.

Joel was never missed as much.

She leaned forward toward the north with a finger along the edge of the window. Condensation moistened her hand.

He was still alive.

She would know if he wasn't.

But the dream wasn't lying. A change was occurring.

And it started with her.

She dressed in separate articles, covering herself in the dark green coverlet the butler had left on her doorstep the night before. The man had stopped interrogating her at least, though he now gazed at her the way a person would regard a candle placed too close to flammable material.

Descending the stairs, she noticed the soft clinking of porcelain.

The butler stood in the kitchen preparing tea. He turned to face her when she entered and nodded ever so slightly.

You didn't sleep, he said.

I finished.

He looked at her. "Then you woke from something besides sleep."

She stayed quiet.

He presented her with the cup. "There are herbs in this to soothe the nerves. Nonmagical. Merely considerate."

Emerald accepted but would not take it. Her gaze stayed on the hearth. The fire wasn't burning. Neither had she noticed the chill setting in beneath her skin.

"The symbols are gone," she whispered.

The butler said nothing.

She turned to him. "On my arm. On it were they. After the altar. After the.vision."

I understand.

"You  witnessed  them?"

He nodded once. "I've served this bloodline for a while now to understand when a mark speaks."

And now they're gone.

"Not gone," he answered. "Fast asleep."

Emerald trembled. "Dreams don't deliver physical wounds."

"Not ordinary ones, no."

Her tone grew sharp. "I am not normal, though."

"You never existed, Miss."

She gazed back at her tea. The steam had vanished, as though afraid to linger.

She hesitated for a moment. "There were two petals. Now there are two."

The butler didn't even blink. "Then something's been remembered."

I didn't take anything from the dream. I walked away from the red glow. I left.

And yet the dream continued. It signifies something chose you.  And not the opposite.

She held the cup in her hands.

"Joel." she began, but was unable to continue.

The butler stepped over to stir the fire. "Engaging in battles not yours. But you are engaging in one too, although you don't see the battlefield."
She averted her eyes from him, upset now. The stillness of the cabin was almost suffocating rather than calming.

I need air, she muttered.

She didn't wait for an answer but opened the door and went out into the snow.

The forests were dense with quiet.

No birds. No rustling. Only the crunch of her boots along the ice-hardened path.

She headed towards the clearing.

The bullet she avoided.

The spot where initially the petals fell.

Where Lena had last spoken during the shattered hush.

Bare now. No vines. No circle of rocks. Only winter-touched earth and a distant sound of dripping ice.

But she could still feel it. beneath her skin, in her blood. The dream had arrived. What it had shown her had not been imagined.

She sat in the center, her eyes closed.

"Why are you bringing it to my attention?" she whispered to the wind.

No answer.

No vision.

And something caressed her wrist. a cold sensation moving as a breath.

She gazed downwards.

And she had a nice scrape on her palm.

Fresh. Superficial. A curve of flawlessness.

A symbol.

But it wasn't on fire. It wasn't even glowing.

It was  waiting.

Joel knelt at the icy stream, a map of the north border laid out in front of him. Wind lashed at the back of his neck, and he still didn't move.

She's dreaming, he grumbled.

The northern Alpha, Lazaro, didn't raise his head. "You'd know?"

I always know.

The second man remained silent, only pushed a large rock along the map to mark another familiar enemy base. "Then let her dream. She can learn something we can't possibly teach her."

Joel's jaw clenched. "Or she'll fall too far. Like Lena."

Lazaro narrowed his eyes at him. "Do you not believe her?"
I don't question her. I question the powers around her as wolves with bloodied teeth.

The breeze shifted, and on it was the scent of something intensely old. red iron, ash, and sea salt.

"She's been targeted," Lazaro said rather nonchalantly

Joel swiveled his head towards him. "You've seen it?"

"No," the north alpha whispered. "The far-north tree flowered last night. It was red-petaled. It only blooms red when a bloodline remembers."

He struggled to his feet, the snow being brittle beneath his boots. "Then we don't have time."

You never did.
Alas

Emerald returned to the cabin at the time of sunset. The feeble and faint light cast long shadows on the floor. The butler was not silent when she returned but simply delivered a small folded paper to her.

Hawk delivered it, he answered.

Emerald grabbed it, her hands cold and numb. She beheld the seal. Joel's.

She opened it, holding her breath.

> Still breathing.

I hear the snow fall quietly.

Be careful with your hands. They're beginning to react.

>. J.

She stared at the ink, the distinct impression of the strokes of the pen.

Be careful with your hands.

She looked again at the faint line on her palm.

She never said it. He somehow knew.

She slept during the day.

She sat in front of the hearth, the jar beside her on her lap, and watched the flames dancing.

Not a single petal had curled.

There had been not a whisper.

Yet, she realized another dream lay in wait.

She would not run from it this time. This time, however, she would delve deeper. To whatever reality existed beneath the roots. To whatever echo still answered to her name.