There was no sound—only the slow pull of breath and the restless churn beneath her skin.
In the dark space between waking and sleep, Aya floated. Her body lay still in her bedchamber, but her mind had slipped beneath the surface of the world, into the current of something ancient and pulsing. The warmth of the blankets no longer mattered. Neither did the muted scent of sage still lingering in the room nor the faint weight of Killan's hand near hers.
Below it all, something was moving.
She didn't see it—she felt it. The blood in her veins, once quiet, now stirred with intention. It whispered not in words but in pull and instinct. Power coiled just beneath her ribs, rising like a tide. The more she tried to retreat from it, the closer it pressed.
And then she saw it.
A glimpse—no, a vision.
Stone gates breaking. A sky lit in unnatural red. Shadows pouring in over the hills like smoke with teeth. Soldiers on horseback shouting commands in a language she didn't recognize. Her bannermen overwhelmed. The banner of House Svedana burning in a brazier.
And above it all, a single banner rising—a wolf crowned with thorns.
Aya gasped—but not aloud. In the dream, she turned to run, only to find her feet rooted in mud. Thick. Dark. Not earth, but something deeper. Blood mixed with ash.
A voice echoed—hers, but older. Wiser. Angrier.
"Wake, or burn with it."
Her eyes snapped open.
Aya's breath hitched sharply as her eyes flew open.
She sat up too quickly, chest heaving, the blankets falling away as if they burned. Her hands gripped the mattress, white-knuckled, her gaze wild and unfocused—still half in that other world.
Killan was on his feet instantly.
"Aya," he said, voice low but urgent, one hand reaching to steady her shoulder. "It's alright. You're safe."
She didn't answer.
Her storm-gray eyes were glassy, locked on something beyond the walls. A horizon only she could see. Her lips parted, whispering a word he couldn't quite catch.
Killan moved to kneel beside the bed, placing both hands gently over hers. "Aya. Look at me."
Slowly—so slowly—her gaze shifted, landing on him. It took a moment longer for recognition to return.
"K-Killan?" Her voice cracked like old stone. "They're coming…"
He stilled. "Who's coming?"
Her breathing stuttered. "The West… I saw them. A siege. Our gates—they won't hold."
Killan's jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. "Was it a vision?"
She nodded once, then again, more desperately. "It felt real. I could smell the ash. I—" Her hand flew to her chest. "It was inside me. My power. It… it dragged me there."
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself against the rush of anxiety he would not allow to show.
"You're alright," he said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. "You're not alone in this. Whatever's waking in you, we'll face it. And whatever comes from the West—we'll be ready."
She looked like she might collapse again, her shoulders trembling from the weight of whatever she'd seen. Killan caught her before she could fall back, guiding her gently down onto the pillows.
"Rest," he murmured. "You're safe now. I won't leave you."
She didn't respond, but her hand tightened weakly around his.
Killan sat beside her, eyes never leaving her face, even as his thoughts churned with strategy, warnings, and the growing certainty that whatever had begun with Seth… was far from over.
Killan remained seated at the edge of the bed long after Aya had drifted into a fitful sleep. The fire had burned low in the hearth. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, but he did not move to light another candle.
He watched her chest rise and fall beneath the blanket, slower now, steadier—but not at peace. A fine sheen of sweat clung to her skin, her brows drawn as if even in rest she was bracing for a blow.
"A siege," she'd said. "From the West."
Killan's jaw clenched. His instincts, honed from years on the field and at court, told him this was no fever dream. Aya hadn't spoken like a woman unraveling—she had spoken like a soldier issuing a warning. And somebody with her station didn't say such things lightly.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight before his mouth. His voice was calm with others. His face unreadable. But inside, he was already drawing lines, assessing risks.
If Aya's vision was true—and he believed it was—the kingdom would burn without preparation. The Western lords had long held a grudge, their allegiance to the Western crown fragile at best. But for them to march so soon, so brazenly…
He glanced at her again, at the faint pulse in her neck, at the fire beneath her skin she was just beginning to awaken.
We have weeks. Maybe days.
He stood, finally, his shoulders taut as he approached the window. The mountains stood in the distance, jagged and silent. He had defended this land with steel. But he would need more than that now. He would need more. And he would need the truth of Aya's blood before it tore her apart.