The first thing I noticed was the color of the trees—white, not from frost, but from something bone-deep. Their bark had the texture of old parchment, and their leaves hung like paper feathers, dry and whispering in a language I could almost understand.
This was no ordinary forest.
And I had no memory of walking into it.
I remember leaving the ruins of Rosehall with Elias behind me. I remember the wind curling like smoke across the moors. Then, I blinked—and I was here.
Not quite dreaming. Not quite awake.
The air was thin. Not cold, but hollow, like something had drained the life out of it. The sky overhead was pale gold, cracked with silver veins like a broken mirror bleeding light. Everything shimmered with a wrongness I could taste.
This was the place between sleep and waking—the edge of the dreamworld I'd lived in for a hundred years.
Something had opened the door again.
The path beneath my feet was lined with black stones that pulsed faintly when I stepped on them. I followed them deeper, though every instinct screamed at me to turn back. But fear has no power once you've already died in your sleep.
Branches bent around me like arms. Some leaves brushed my hair as if they knew me.
In the distance, I saw it: a reflection.
Suspended between two trees was a mirror—an old one, cracked in the center. But it didn't show me. It showed… a girl. Blonde. Crowned. Laughing.
Then she screamed.
I stumbled backward as the image shifted. Her eyes turned black, her smile twisted into a leer. A voice—not hers—rasped through the clearing.
"She left you here."
I couldn't breathe. The forest leaned in.
"The godmother who kissed your brow. The king who locked your door. The ones who said they'd save you."
"No," I whispered. "They tried to—"
"—forget you."
The mirror shattered, its shards hovering mid-air like fireflies frozen in time.
I turned to run, but the path was gone. The forest shifted again. I was no longer between trees. I was in a circular clearing, ringed by seven mirrors standing like gravestones.
And each one showed a version of me.
One wept. One was covered in blood. One slept still, pale as death. One danced. One held a knife. One stood with fire behind her. One looked just like me—but her eyes were empty.
They watched me in silence.
My pulse thundered in my ears. I stepped toward the one that wept.
She reached out too—and I saw the burn on her arm. The same brand I had felt the night before.
I pressed my palm to the glass.
Suddenly, I was inside.
The world flipped. Gravity tilted. I fell through a memory not my own—and landed hard on marble.
I was in a bedroom I recognized, but not quite—pillows too soft, curtains too heavy, everything a shade too perfect. This was my childhood, twisted. I heard music outside the window, faint and hollow.
Someone stood at the door. A tall figure in a robe made of shadows and stars. No face. No hands. Just presence.
He said nothing.
But he felt like Oruun.
I backed away.
He raised one hand, and a golden string emerged from my chest. A thread of light. He held the other end.
"Cut it," I whispered.
He tilted his head.
"I said—CUT IT!"
The thread snapped.
And I awoke in the real forest, gasping, knees in the dirt.
Elias was there, kneeling beside me. His hand on my shoulder.
"You went too deep," he said, voice grim.
"What was that?" I asked. My voice shook.
"A memory shard," he replied. "Left behind in the dreamworld. They hold pieces of you. Pieces stolen. If you're going to survive this—if you're going to end it—you'll need to recover them all."
"And if I don't?"
Elias looked up at the gold-split sky.
"Then Oruun finishes what he started. You fall asleep again. But this time, you don't dream."