The voice came from a girl with pale horns and opalescent eyes. She sat cross-legged beside me, her sleeves billowing with faint magical shimmer.
I didn't answer.
I turned to look at her. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
"No," she said. "It's just the truth."
I sighed. "They think I'm weak."
"They think you're not worth noticing," she corrected. "That's worse. But temporary."
I gave her a look.
She shrugged. "Things change around here. Fast."
I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her again—the woman with my face, the one from the dream. Her silver eyes were wild, her claws sharp as razors. She screamed at me with each strike.
Die. Die. Die.
It wasn't just rage in her voice. It was desperation.
I woke up gasping, heart hammering, drenched in sweat. The moon hung high outside my window, full and bright, but I didn't feel the usual pull beneath my skin. No shift. No stir.
Just silence.
Like I was hollow.
The sun rose too fast.
