It began with a smell.
Not fire. Not ash. Not even blood.
Roses.
The scent drifted up from nowhere, thick and cloying, unwelcome in the dawn air. Ember jolted awake, heart racing, lungs tight. Her fingers clutched the hilt of her dagger before she realized she wasn't under attack.
Not physically.
She glanced toward the others. Ash sat cross-legged by the dying campfire, tracing sigils in the dirt with the end of a charred stick. Eila dozed nearby, wrapped in a rough wool blanket, her journal clasped to her chest like a lifeline.
But the roses persisted.
She hadn't smelled roses in years.
Not since…
"Ember."
The voice came from behind her, familiar in a way that made her skin crawl. She spun fast, blade in hand, but no one was there. Just the wind, brushing gently through the trees.
Then again…
"Ember."
She froze.
This time it came from the treeline.
Not a whisper.
A woman's voice.
Warm.
Kind.
Her mother's.
No, she thought. You're dead. You died in the fire.
