Chapter 1

1

CAROLINA

T he clock reads 3:03 a.m. when I jolt upright and find myself clutching my throat. Its bright, neon-red numbers taunt me in the otherwise dark room. Breathing is no longer an unconscious process. I’m forcing myself to gulp down breaths that don’t quite reach my lungs. It’s painful to go through the motions, but eventually, air finds its way down my windpipe.

The panic begins to subside, but the lingering sense of dread remains. It always does. I’ve learned to live with it.

I know when I hold my hands out in front of me, I won’t find any trace of the flames on my skin, but I can’t help it. The flames from my dream felt so real that I needed to see them to be sure. The heat, the crackling sound, the smell of burning flesh—my burning flesh—it all stays with me like a ghost that refuses to leave.

Blinking my eyes to make them adjust to the darkness, a wave of my hand creates an orb of light to illuminate the area around me. No burns coat my skin, and no heat lingers in the air, but I’m there again when I close my eyes.

I see the torch’s flame catch at the base of the pyre, but I can’t make out the face of the catalyst. Ropes tear at my wrists as I try to loosen their hold on me. Tendrils of fire lick up my legs, and I whisper an incantation to dull the pain, but I don’t finish because screaming begins from beside me. My head whips to the side, but I can’t see his face. He’s a shroud in the smoke that consumes my vision.

Burning . I’m burning .

It’s all I can think to myself as the screaming becomes more desperate and the heat seeps into my skin. While visceral, I know the pain belongs to a version of me that no longer exists. I know that I’m safe at home in my bed, but it’s the pain that wrenches me from the vision, nonetheless.

The pain is always what brings me back—back to the present, back to a life that, no matter how much time passes, feels borrowed.

My eyes spring open and refocus on the dimly lit room. My hands grip my sheets for purchase. The softness of the sheets juxtaposes the memory of the ropes biting.

Another forced breath in, I exhale slowly through my mouth. I wiggle my toes, and the tips of them rub against the velvet comforter I put on my bed every autumn. It’s then that I realize there’s a chill biting at my shoulders. Our home has always been drafty, and I’m thankful for it now. The cold is a welcome reminder that I’m here, in this body, in this life—not burning, not dying.

I wipe away the sweat that has collected at the back of my neck and roll my shoulders. The tension in my upper back loosens but doesn’t disappear. It’s always there in the background of my mind and body.

When I was little, I was plagued with nightmares so vivid I was afraid to close my eyes.

As I grew older, I learned that the nightmares were real and not just figments of an overactive imagination, but I became better at telling apart visions of my past lives from the lives of strangers that also consumed my dreams.

When others’ memories or futures found me in my sleep, it was more like I was an observer. I couldn’t feel their emotions or what was happening to them, no matter how severe the dream was. If I could feel flames on my skin, water filling my lungs, or a rope taut around my neck, I knew the dream was about me—or, more accurately, a me that once was.

From another time when witches were burned at the stake or hung for their gifts. A time when being different meant a death sentence. But even now, in a world that claims to be more accepting, I know better than to reveal too much. The past has taught me that.

The distinction between a gift and a curse in my world is a blurred line with breaks along its path for the two to bleed into each other.

Magic isn’t good or bad. It just is . What we choose to do with it, how we wield it—that’s what defines us. But history has a way of painting witches in shades of black and red—evil, dangerous. And I’ve seen firsthand what fear of the unknown can do.

I’m still sitting upright in my bed when my eyes dart to the corner of my room, where I meet Luna’s gaze from her perch in front of my window. The sky is cloudless, and the moon hangs high against the dark backdrop.

A waning gibbous. A bad omen.

Luna’s stare is unwavering, as if she knows what I saw. Her eyes are wise, and sometimes, it feels like she knows the future just as well as she knows the past. It’s as if she shares in my suffering, watching over me, protecting me when I can’t protect myself .

“Go back to sleep. It was just a dream.” It’s been my mantra for years, but my voice comes out weaker than I intend, and whether I’m trying to convince her or myself is uncertain to even me.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, the second my toes touch the cold wooden floor, I feel more grounded in this reality. Pulling my robe off the post at the end of my bed, I wrap it around myself and secure it with a satin sash at my waist. I don’t put on my house shoes; I want to feel the floor under my feet.

My steps are light as I make my way to the stairs so I don’t wake Camila down the hall.

I grew up in this place. I know every creaky floorboard and warped plank that would threaten to trip me in the dead of night. In the darkness of the hallway, I don’t even have to reach out to find the railing of the staircase because I know exactly how many steps it is from my room.

Camila and I live in the apartment above our coffee shop, Cup I could tell from the gravity of her words.

My lips seal in a firm line as I take them in. “Then we should prepare for whatever’s coming. Go into the city tomorrow to see Esme and stock up on supplies. I’ll open the shop in the morning.”

Camila dips her head in a nod. It’s unlike her to be so solemn, let alone to agree with me. I know it’s because of her dream, but I stop myself from questioning what she may have seen in her darkness. I know better than to force a witch to relive her nightmares; I have spent an eternity running from my own.

Still, a part of me aches to know. What did she see in that darkness? What’s waiting for us on the other side of it? And why do I get the sinking feeling that no amount of preparation will be enough?

As I watch her ascend the stairs, her figure casting long shadows against the walls, I feel an overwhelming sense of dread settle deep in my bones. It’s as if the house itself knows something we don’t and is bracing for whatever storm is brewing. Camila doesn’t turn back, but I can feel her energy still lingering, a soft pulse of concern that echoes my own fears.

I clutch the mug tighter, my knuckles whitening. It’s always been the two of us—against everything, against everyone. But now, I wonder if, even together, we’ll be enough. Whatever’s coming, it’s bigger than anything we’ve faced. And this time, I’m not sure we’ll make it through unscathed.