Annemarie woke abruptly, her lungs dragging in the air like she had just surfaced from the depths of the ocean. The first thing she registered was the quiet.

  Not the suffocating, dream-heavy silence that had wrapped around her for what felt like months, pressing in on all sides, thick and unmoving. This was real, waking silence— the soft creak of wood shifting in the morning air, the faint rustle of fabric as she stirred, the low, steady sound of someone breathing nearby.

  The cottage was dimly lit, early morning light filtering through the wooden shutters in fractured beams, cutting through the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air. The smell of firewood, faintly burnt herbs, and something sharper— Brandon’s soap, maybe— lingered in the space.

  The warmth of blankets clung to her skin, the imprint of sleep still pressed into her limbs. But her body felt... light. Not in the way fever made her light, not like floating in the slow, dragging haze of exhaustion.

  No, the heat was gone. The fever that had held her hostage, that had kept her trapped in an endless, suffocating fog, was just— gone.

  Or rather, it had been replaced. Not by relief. Not by exhaustion. By something else.

  A pulling sensation, deep in her chest.

  Not painful, not sharp. Just present. Constant. Like an invisible thread had wrapped itself around her ribs. Tugging. Not hard, but insistently.

  She wasn’t surprised to see Brandon sitting beside her.

  He looked awful. His usual composure was nowhere to be found— his hair was unruly, his clothes rumpled, and there were shadows beneath his eyes so deep they looked bruised. He sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his expression hovering somewhere between exhaustion and relief as he watched her stir.

  “You’re awake,” he breathed, rubbing a hand down his face, voice thick with something she couldn’t quite name. “Finally.”

  Annemarie swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Apparently.” She pushed herself upright, fully expecting her limbs to protest— to feel weak and disconnected, like her body wasn’t hers anymore. But they didn’t.

  She was steady. Her muscles didn’t ache. Her heartbeat wasn’t frantic. Her mind wasn’t fogged. Her body felt fine.

  That was wrong. Something had changed.

  She already knew why.

  She met Brandon’s gaze, searching it for confirmation. “We’re leaving soon, aren’t we?”

  He hesitated, just for a second. But then he nodded. “Yeah.”

  Annemarie exhaled slowly, the pulling sensation in her chest growing stronger. She barely noticed the way her body leaned forward, like her muscles had already decided to move— like something inside her already knew the direction it needed to go.

  West.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  The others were waiting outside.

  The air was crisp with the lingering chill of morning, dew still clinging to the grass beneath Annemarie’s bare feet as she stepped onto the worn wooden threshold. The scent of damp earth and woodsmoke filled her lungs, grounding her.

  Melissa stood closest, adjusting the straps of her pack, rolling her shoulders like she was warming up for a fight. The motion was restless, her fingers flexing against the leather as though she needed something— anything— to do with her hands. Her usual smirk was absent, replaced by a thin, tense line of determination.

  Julia stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, her expression carefully neutral. Too careful. Her stance was stiff and controlled, but Annemarie knew her well enough to recognize the storm brewing beneath the surface. She wasn’t just thinking— she was calculating. Running through every possible outcome, every risk, every reason this was a terrible idea.

  But she wasn’t saying anything.

  And near the edge of the group, standing just far enough away to seem casual, was a stranger. Annemarie took her in immediately.

  Black hair so dark it was almost blue, piercing grey eyes, a lean, almost lazy stance that somehow still radiated predatory awareness. She wasn’t just standing there— she was watching, appraising, as if she could read the weight of Annemarie’s soul just by looking.

  A slow curl of smoke escaped from the long wooden pipe resting between her fingers. The woman exhaled, watching Annemarie with mild curiosity. Like a cat observing something that had yet to prove worthy of hunting.

  And she had pointed ears.

  “Well,” the elf drawled, tilting her head slightly. “You actually got up. That’s a good start.”

  Brandon sighed beside her. “Annemarie, this is Brenna Siulin. She’s—”

  “A curious tagalong,” Brenna cut in, smirking. “If you’re going to go traipsing into cursed lands, might as well bring someone who knows things.”

  Annemarie stared at her, gaze flicking down to her hands— faint magical wards tattooed along her fingers, half-hidden beneath the ash-smudged skin.

  “You’re like me,” she blurted.

  Brenna tilted her head slightly, taking another slow drag from her pipe. “Something like that. But no— not like you. Few are.”

  But Annemarie knew. The air around Brenna was off— not unnatural, not threatening, but heavy. Magic clung to her, not just in the symbols inked into her skin, but in the way she moved, the way she existed. It wasn’t just talent, it was something older. Something dangerous.

  “Nice to meet you,” Annemarie said carefully.

  Brenna’s smirk deepened. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

  A low sigh broke through the exchange as Beryon stepped forward, his expression set with something more serious than his usual measured calm. His brown eyes flickered over each of them, lingering on Annemarie. The weight in his gaze was unmistakable— this wasn’t just a warning. “Before you go,” he said, his voice even. “there’s something you need to understand.”

  The group fell quiet. The wind stirred the leaves above them, carrying the distant scent of rain.

  Beryon’s gaze held Annemarie’s, steady and unyielding. “Callista Nazenne has faced tremendous odds. No ordinary noble girl could survive what she has doubtlessly survived. “

  Annemarie’s fingers twitched slightly, but she didn’t look away.

  “She is either cursed,” Beryon continued, “or something worse. If you find her, be ready for that.”

  Annemarie nodded once. “I know.”

  Gwri, standing just beside Beryon, exhaled sharply. They rubbed a hand over their face before leveling Annemarie with a searching look. “Steel yourself, Annemarie Bennett. You have not faced the worst of it yet.”

  Annemarie closed her eyes for half a second, inhaling deeply. The pull in her chest remained constant— steady, insistent, tugging her forward. As if some unseen thread had already been tied too tightly around her ribs to ever be cut.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I understand.”

  will be a book 2, FYI- these characters have not lived rent-free in my mind for fifteen years to be one-and-done.