She was warm.
That was the first wrong thing.
Warmth hadn't touched her in months—not the clean kind, not the kind without blood behind it. But here, in this memory, it seeped through her skin like sunlight.
Her mother's fingers ran through her hair, gently untangling knots with soft hums between them. Her lap was a pillow. The old blanket—striped red and cream—still smelled of flour and woodsmoke.
"Don't fight the world all at once," her mother whispered, brushing a lock behind Serai's ear. "Just for today, you get to be mine."
Serai wanted to cry. Or maybe she was already crying. The memory didn't care.
Her mother was younger than she remembered. No lines around the eyes. No sick-cough in her voice. Just peace. Just a day in a time before soldiers, before swords, before betrayal.
She didn't want to leave this. She never wanted to leave this.
But then—
The hum stopped.
Her mother looked down at her—but the eyes weren't right. They weren't her mother's anymore. They were clearer. Sharper. Gold.
Like hers.
"This isn't the world you live in anymore," the voice said.
Serai sat up sharply—
And woke.
Chains clinked.
Cold bit into her spine. Her breath fogged the air. She was lying on stone. The warmth vanished like a lie.
Pain returned, slowly, limbs aching, lips split, shoulder bruised from where she'd hit the floor during the collapse. Her head spun, not from injury, but something else. Something that had pressed itself into her.
Hope.
It still pulsed faintly in her chest. Not hers. Or not now. But hers from somewhere else. A version of herself she didn't recognize. A version who believed she would live.
It made her sick.
Her eyes darted across the dim holding chamber. The walls were thick Veyrian stone—tight, windowless, meant for silence. One guard at the door. Another near the far end, distracted. Neither noticed her wake.
But someone else did.
She turned her head, and saw him.
High above, on a platform through the gated view slit—him. The boy from the balcony. Pale cloak, hands behind his back. Watching her like he knew what she'd dreamed.
Something twisted in her chest—not attraction. Not recognition. Not hate.
A thread.
She hated the feeling instantly.
"What did you do to me?" she whispered, hoarse but steady.