That night, Briar dreamed.
She stood on a frozen lake. A castle loomed above her, built from ice and sorrow. Its towers shimmered with frostbite light. The sky above was starless, suffocating. A raven landed on her shoulder—black as pitch, with three glowing eyes.
It spoke in a voice that echoed through her bones.
"Run."
Thunder cracked. The ice beneath her feet splintered. She fell—not into water, but into fire. Flames licked her skin, but she did not burn. Screams echoed from every direction.
She jolted awake, heart hammering.
Her hand burned.
The ravenmark was seared into her palm—a spiral of feathers and fire. It pulsed faintly with each heartbeat.
Corva sat at the edge of the hut, sharpening her blade.
"It's begun," she said without looking up.
"The world remembers you, even if you don't."
Briar clenched her fists. "Who am I really?"
"You'll find out soon enough. The mark means they'll come for you."
"Who?"
"The ones who buried you. And the one who gave the order."
Outside, something howled.
The hunt had already begun.