Chapter 7
7
Anora
M y bare feet sink into the cold, wet, muddy earth, the squish of it between my toes grounding me. There’s a cool breeze against my face, sharp and fresh, and it feels real. Too real. My dreams are starting to mess with my head. I don’t even know what’s real anymore.
I look around, confused. I’m in the forest. Again. What is it this time? What am I supposed to see? There’s nothing unusual at first. Just trees everywhere, their leaves swaying gently in the wind like they’re completely unaware of how insane my world feels right now.
I start walking, the soft crunch of my bare feet on the damp ground the only sound around me. The cool air clings to my skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. I look up, the sky dark above me, dotted with stars. The kind that feel endless. The moon sits low and bright, its glow spilling over everything like it’s trying to keep the darkness at bay. It’s beautiful, calm, peaceful .
It’s nothing like home. Midtown Detroit never looks like this. There are no stars, no moonlight, just streetlights and headlights. The air doesn’t feel fresh; it’s heavy and smells like the city. I don’t smile much anymore there, but here—here my lips curl into a small smile as I stare at the sky.
Then I hear it. The sound makes my stomach turn before I even register what it is. Screams. My smile vanishes, replaced by a frown as fear creeps through me.
The screams echo through the forest, desperate and terrified, and I pick up my pace, the sound fueling my steps. Bright lights glow ahead, shining between the trees. My heart pounds against my ribs as I push forward, my feet slipping slightly in the mud. The lights grow brighter, and the screams grow louder, piercing and raw, like someone’s insides are being torn apart.
I break through the edge of the trees and stop dead in my tracks. My eyes widen, and my breath catches in my throat.
It’s chaos.
War.
Slaughter.
Blood.
Fire.
Everywhere I look, supernaturals are running, scrambling for any kind of safety, but it’s no use. They’re no match for the dragons hovering above them, huge and merciless. The dragons move like lightning, powerful and deliberate, blowing fire that rains down on everything in their path.
I watch, frozen, as flames engulf the forest floor, swallowing everything and everyone. Supernaturals scream as the fire rushes over them, their bodies turning to ash before they can take another step. I can feel the heat from the flames, like it’s crawling across my skin, threatening to burn me too.
I cover my face with my hands, screaming along with them, horror and helplessness hitting me all at once. I’ve seen bad things in my dreams before, but this? This is different. This feels personal. This feels like the end of everything.
Dragon shifters, killing their own kind. Why? Why would they do this? Why am I seeing it? Why am I dreaming about this?
The heat is unbearable now, blistering against my skin until it feels tight and raw. Ash fills my lungs with every breath I take, coating my throat until I can taste death on my tongue. The screams aren’t just sounds anymore—they vibrate through my bones, become part of me, each one driving deeper into my soul like physical wounds. My body trembles with their pain, their terror becoming mine.
The dragons move with deadly precision, their massive wings creating gusts that fan the flames higher. I watch as one swoops low, its scales gleaming like polished obsidian in the firelight, its eyes cold and merciless as it unleashes another stream of flame. The heat wave hits me like a physical wall, and I stumble backward, choking on the thick smoke.
I can feel it all—the pain, the hatred, the loss. Someone’s agony sinks into me, almost drowning me in it, and I can’t escape. I want it to stop. I need it to stop.
Tears stream down my face as I stand there, trembling and powerless. I wish I could do something. Anything. But I know I can’t. I never can, not in these dreams.
It’s always the same.
I can’t move, I can’t help, I can’t change anything. All I can do is stand here and watch it happen. And right now, it feels like it’s tearing me apart.
More flames roar across the battlefield, tearing through everything in their path. It’s complete destruction—wood splinters, stone crumbles, bodies burst into ash. The stench of death is suffocating. I can smell it: the pain, the burning flesh. The heat is unbearable, stinging my skin as ash rains down around me.
“Stop! Please stop! You’re killing them!” I scream, but my voice is useless. No one hears me. Or, maybe, no one cares.
The dragons keep going, their fire raining down mercilessly. They destroy everything, wiping out the battlefield in what feels like minutes. By the time they’re done, there’s nothing left—just ash and bone. The dragons hover a moment longer, their work complete, before flying off into the night sky, disappearing as quickly as they arrived.
I drop to my knees, the mud cold and wet, soaking through my skin. My hands fall to the ground, trembling, as sobs rip out of me. The lifeless battlefield stretches before me, empty now except for the charred remains of the people who were here just moments ago.
So many. So many lives just… gone.
Why? Why did this happen? Why would the dragon shifters do this? And why am I here? Why am I being forced to watch?
As tears streak my face and my chest heaves, my sobs suddenly stop. The air shifts. I feel it first—a presence behind me. Something heavy, blocking the moonlight spilling over the destruction. Coldness runs through me, even in the heat of the aftermath.
Slowly, I turn my head, afraid of what I’ll see.
A woman stands there, tall and calm, her face partially shadowed by the hood of the cloak draped over her. Her smile is unnerving, sharp but unmoving, and her bright blue eyes cut right into me like they already know everything about me.
There’s something ancient in those eyes, something that makes my soul want to shrink away. Power radiates from her like a cold wind, making the air around us thick with it. Despite the inferno around us, ice seems to spread from where she stands, as if her very presence can freeze the world solid. Her smile doesn’t waver, doesn’t change, but somehow grows more terrifying with each passing second. She looks at me like she’s been waiting for this moment, like she’s seen me coming from centuries away.
She tilts her head slightly, then murmurs softly, “Aya Bailey.”
Her voice lingers like an echo, prickling my skin.
Before I can ask her what she means, she raises a single finger, pointing ahead, toward the devastation left behind. I look where she points, but I don’t understand. None of this makes sense.
Who is Aya Bailey?
My eyes snap open, and I sit up in bed instantly, coughing and choking like the fire from my dream somehow followed me into the waking world. My chest heaves, and I slap a hand over it, coughing hard until my lungs clear. The air feels thick and wrong, as if the heat and smoke from the dream still linger in the room.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and let my bare feet hit the cold, icy floor. The chill shocks my senses, but it’s grounding. I push myself up and cross the small space of my studio apartment to the kitchen. It’s not much of a walk—just a few steps from my bed to the tiny sink. I grab my kettle, take it to the faucet, and fill it with water. Setting it on the stove, I turn on the burner .
While the kettle heats, I open the cabinet over the sink, pulling out a large coffee mug and my box of calming tea. This is my routine after one of those dreams. The ones that feel too vivid, too raw. The tea helps. Sometimes it’s the only thing that does.
But the dreams are coming more often now. I glance at the tea bag in my hand, frowning. Are they even dreams? Because they don’t feel like it anymore. It’s like I’m being pulled into something, shown pieces of Wintermoon’s history firsthand, as though I’m not just dreaming—it’s like I’m there . The thought makes my stomach churn.
The sound of water heating fills the apartment, and I head into the bathroom to splash some on my face. Leaning over the sink, I watch the water run warm before cupping it in my hands and pressing it to my skin. It feels good at first, washing away the sweat and heat from the nightmare, but when I straighten and look at my reflection in the mirror, the discomfort returns.
Puffy eyes. A pale face. I look like hell, but worse—I feel like hell. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I need to get out of this apartment and start fresh somewhere else.
I let out a slow, shaky breath, grabbing a towel to dry my face. Twice this year, I’ve come into money by some stroke of luck. Not enough to live comfortably forever, but enough to get out of this dump. Enough to start over. But twice now, I’ve used that money to take care of Mrs. Sarah, my neighbor on the first floor.
She’s elderly and sweet, the only person who’s ever cared about me in this run-down building. We’ve looked out for each other since I moved in. She’s my only real friend. Like me, she doesn’t have anyone to lean on—no kids, no husband, no family. She reminds me of who I could be one day, an older version of myself, struggling alone in a world that doesn’t care.
The money came at the right time both times now because Mrs. Sarah doesn’t have insurance. And the way this cruel world works, they would’ve just let her die, written her off like something disposable—one less person to care for. They’d toss her in a box and move on.
So, instead of leaving this place, I stayed. I covered her hospital bills, made sure she had what she needed, that she was okay. And even though I don’t regret it, it weighs on me. This building should’ve been condemned years ago. It’s falling apart, and it’s not safe. But I can’t imagine leaving without her.
I turn off the faucet and glance back toward the kitchen. I don’t know where the money came from. I don’t know why it showed up both times when I needed it most. But it saved her life. Twice.
And now I wonder, how many more times will I get so lucky?
I turn off the bathroom light, and just as I do, the kettle starts to whistle. I step back into my tiny space, turning off the stove and pouring the hot water into my mug. I dunk the tea bag in, add some honey, and then tiptoe back to my bed. Climbing in, I pull the blanket around me as I take a sip of the warm tea, the heat spreading through my chest. My eyes scan the room, taking in the cramped, cluttered space that’s been my home for years.
“What is wrong with me?” I murmur to myself, shaking my head. These dreams—these nightmares —are wearing me down. I just want them to stop, to get one good night of sleep without waking up sweating and panicked.
I take another sip of my tea and set the mug down on the small nightstand beside my bed. My hand smooths over the mattress instinctively, but I pause. My brows furrow as my palm lingers on the surface. The mattress— it’s warm. In this freezing room, it feels unexpectedly warm.
Why?
My head snaps up, and I glance around the room, my stomach twisting. Did someone come in here while I was asleep? The thought sends unease coursing through me, and I spring out of bed, moving quickly to the front door. My fingers rush over the three locks, checking each one. They’re all secure.
I let out a sigh, feeling a little silly as my lips tug into a nervous laugh. “You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath. Of course no one’s been in here. The locks are fine. I’m fine.
Shaking my head at myself, I walk back to the bed and sit down on the edge, still feeling that strange warmth coming from the mattress. Something nags at me, pulling my attention to one of the pillows near the headboard. I don’t know why—something just tells me to grab it.
I reach for the pillow and pull it to my face, inhaling deeply, and my whole body freezes. That scent—it’s so familiar. Sandalwood and musk. Earthy. Comforting. Home.
It’s Amir’s scent.
My heart starts to race as my eyes dart around the room, searching for any sign of him, any clue that he was here. “Amir?” I call out, my voice soft but full of hope. For a moment, I think I’ll hear him, that warm, familiar voice.
But there’s nothing. Just silence.
It’s just me. Just me and my wild imagination again.
I sigh, clutching the pillow closer to my chest as I lie back down. The warmth of the mattress, the scent of sandalwood, it’s enough to keep the questions swirling in my mind, but not enough to bring answers .
Still, I hold onto the pillow, my fingers tracing the fabric where his scent is strongest. I swear I can feel the ghost of his presence, like he was here moments ago, watching over me. The mattress holds the lingering warmth of someone who sat here, someone who might have watched me sleep, kept my nightmares at bay. The thought should terrify me—a stranger in my room while I slept—but instead, it makes me feel safe. Protected.
Even as my rational mind screams that I’m losing it, my heart knows different. The way the warmth seems to wrap around me like an embrace, the way his scent makes something deep inside me settle and calm—it’s too real to be imagination. Amir isn’t just a dream. He can’t be. Not when he feels this solid, this present, this right.
I press my face deeper into the pillow, inhaling that earthen scent that feels like home, like belonging. Maybe I am going crazy, but if this is madness, then sanity is overrated. As sleep pulls at me again, I could swear I feel fingers brush through my hair, gentle and protective, but when I force my heavy eyes open, there’s nothing there but shadows and moonlight.
Slowly, my body relaxes, my breathing evens out, and I let sleep take me again, soothed by a presence I can feel but not see.