It’s the same dream again. I’m looking down at blood on my hands, blood smeared on clothes. My hands tremble as I try to decipher whose blood it is, but I can’t. It’s as if I have no memory—no recollection of who I am or where I’ve been—yet what I’m going through feels awfully familiar.

I peer up, surrounded by tall, lurking tress and a dense fog. I’m lost.

“Willow!” a man yells from a distance. “Willow, can ya hear me?”

This man sounds familiar—like he wants to help me. My heart beats faster, reacting to his voice. I try to scream—to call out to whomever he is, but I can’t.

I grab my throat but it’s wet and sticky. Pulling my hands back, I study them—more blood is on them now, wetter, thicker. It’s spilling from my throat. I’m bleeding…but why haven’t I died yet?

“Willow!” the familiar voice shouts again and I stagger to a stand, stepping on sticks and twigs that snap. A soggy leaf glues itself to my bare foot, and the air becomes cooler. I try to find the voice, but I don’t make it far.

Something grabs me from behind, its hands like ice, and I turn around to a figure in black. All I can see is their smile and the red eyes pointing upward at the edges like sharp crescents. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Go to him,” the dark figure growls. “So he can die.”

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