THIRTEEN #2
“Amara.” Rian’s urgent voice slices through the roaring in my head. “What’s wrong?”
His strong hand lands on my shoulder.
“Ah—!” he shouts, his hand suddenly locking still against my shoulder.
Lyra rushes over, scarves trailing behind her. She stops short, staring at the scene before her: a tiny woman gripping my hands, perfectly still, her eyes black; me, unable to pull away; Rian, a massive warrior frozen with one hand locked against my shoulder.
“What’s happening?!” Lyra shouts, eyes wide. “Should I call the others? Should—”
Kieran ducks through the doorway, concern etched across his face. “We heard shouting. Is everything okay?”
“Don’t touch us,” Rian orders through gritted teeth.
Neither of us can move.
We stand trapped in place like statues, fully aware of everything happening around us.
“Rian,” I breathe. “What’s happening?”
“It will pass.” The words come clipped and strained. “Just . . . breathe through it.”
He squeezes his eyes shut.
“Never seen it myself. Heard of it.” Another breath. “When a powerful seer is taken by a vision, it overtakes everything.”
I feel his hot breath on my neck as he breathes hard.
“Kieran.” Rian says, jaw clenched. “Tell the men everything is fine. Go back to your position, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he disappears back through the doorway.
“Mara?” Lyra’s voice shakes.
I turn my eyes toward her. Her green eyes shine with fear. I force myself to stay calm for her.
“I’m not in pain,” I tell her carefully. “I can’t move, but I’m okay.”
Then, a voice that seems to come from everywhere at once says, “Mind the shadows that follow you. They probe for weakness. They want to get in.”
The old woman’s voice is no longer high and musical. Now it is deeper, reverberating in my bones.
“Something is coming.”
A pause.
“A test.”
Her tiny hands tighten painfully around mine, her strength startling.
Then everything is swallowed by darkness.
And I see.
She is ageless.
Her skin is pale in a way that does not belong to the living, smooth and untouched by sun or time. Her lips are the color of fresh blood, curving into a smile that could be a promise or a threat.
Her eyes—silver, luminous, bottomless. Not soft like moonlight, but sharp like steel catching the light.
White hair spills down her back like silk. Her nails taper into blood-red points.
She wears elegance like armor, her robes dark enough to swallow the light around them.
She moves with the certainty of something that has never once doubted itself, as though the very world bends to make room for her.
She does not raise her voice.
She does not need to.
Her power is in the way people hold their breath when she enters a room, in the way even the strongest warriors look away too quickly.
She is not loud. She is not chaotic.
She is inevitable.
The Shadeheart.
I blink as light and color slam back into the world.
I’m back in the shop.
Mirelle still grips my hands. Rian’s warm hand remains locked on my shoulder. Lyra stands in front of me, eyes wide.
Then Mirelle speaks again.
“The wound is already open.”
She throws her head back, gray coils cascading down her back. Her pupils constrict to pinpoints against the startling blue of her irises.
“And she has already begun reaching for him.”
Her hands suddenly release mine.
Air rushes back into my lungs.
Mirelle stumbles backward, blinking rapidly behind her spectacles.
“What in the gods . . . ” she whispers.
A beat.
“Shit. Not again.”
Then she looks up at me, genuine concern flickering across her face.
“What did I say?”
Rian bends forward, bracing his hands against his thighs as he pants heavily. “I don’t feel right.”
“Shit—Rian.” I place a hand against his back, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulders.
“Oh dear. I am so sorry!”
Mirelle rushes toward the back of the store.
“He got caught up in a vision that was not meant for him. I have an elixir that will help,” she calls over her shoulder.
Lyra moves to Rian’s other side, both of us clearly out of our depth seeing him like this.
Rian stumbles back against the wall and slides down it heavily. He bows his head between his knees, breathing hard. Lyra crouches beside him, resting a careful hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve got it!” Mirelle calls, hurrying back toward us, her spectacles askew on the bridge of her nose. She pushes them back into place once she reaches him.
Mirelle cups his chin and gently tips his face toward her. “Let’s see that handsome face.”
Rian lifts his head, sweat beads across his forehead. His eyes struggle to settle on anything.
“Alright now, open up,” Mirelle says gently.
Rian obeys.
Within moments, his gaze steadies, finally locking onto the old woman.
Lyra lets out a quiet breath of relief before pushing herself back to her feet. I lean against the wall, the tension draining slowly from my body.
“How are you feeling?” Mirelle asks, her hands fluttering with nervous energy.
Rian offers a weak smile. “Much better. Thank you, Mirelle.”
“It’s quite alright. I am so sorry that happened to you. The problem with being a seer is that although we can glimpse the future, we never know when the visions will strike!” she says, gesturing dramatically. “It’s terribly inconvenient.”
He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. Mirelle’s lips purse as she studies him.
“You’ll feel right as rain in just a few more minutes. Stay seated. Your body is still catching up.”
Then she reaches for my hand. Without meaning to, I flinch away.
“Oh, it’s all right, Amara.” Her voice softens. “I know that was unexpected—for both of us—but it will not happen again now that the vision has passed.”
She extends her hand once more.
“May I?”
Hesitantly, I place my hand in hers. And just as she promised, nothing happens. This time, all I feel is the softness of her skin against mine.
Her deep blue eyes hold mine. “Now please listen to me, child. If a vision came for the Spiritborn, I need to know what was said so I can help you understand it. What did I say?”
“Something about shadows probing, trying to get in. And a test.”
My gaze drops briefly as I search through the memory.
“You said the wound is already open.”
Then the final words return to me.
I look back up, frowning.