I sat curled up on the couch, clinging to Elias as though he were the only thing tethering me to the earth. He knelt in front of me, arms wrapped gently around my trembling frame, one hand stroking slow circles against my back in an effort to soothe me. I buried my face in his shoulder, my sobs muffled by his shirt.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice laced with worry. “What are you talking about?”
“My father…” I choked out between ragged breaths. “He killed my mother. She told me. In the dream. She said he murdered her.”
Elias hesitated. “Lyra, it was just a dream. Maybe it wasn’t real.”
But it was real. I could feel it in my bones. It wasn’t just some figment of my imagination — it was a message, a warning. My mother had come to me. Not as a memory, not as a wish — but with
