A woman knelt in the dirt near the hawthorn, her pale blonde hair shot through with silver, her hands buried wrist-deep in rich earth. Patches of heather and primrose, mandrake and sage, surrounded her, along with the hum of familiar power. It was the same kind that sang in Muriel's own blood.
“You must understand,” the woman said without looking up, her voice carrying a lilt that might have been Irish or Scottish or something even older. “The Codex doesn't choose lightly. When it calls, you answer. When it teaches, you listen.”
Muriel tried to speak, to ask who she was, but apparently her voice didn’t work in this place.
The woman finally raised her head, and Muriel's heart stopped. The eyes were her own—the same unusual mix of hazel and green, the same gold flecks near the iris. But the face was older, sharper, weathered by time and sorrow and fear.
“When it warns,” the woman said, standing slowly,brushing earth from her hands, “you must be ready to run. Or to fight.”
Movement appeared at the edge of Muriel's vision. She turned to see a figure emerging from the shadows near the wall. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a cloak of secrets. She couldn't see his face. Couldn't tell if he was approaching to help or to harm.
The woman's gaze flicked to the figure, and something complicated crossed her features. Not quite fear. Not quite hope. Something tangled between the two.
“Can you trust him?” the woman asked, but Muriel didn't know if she was asking about the shadowed figure or asking the same question Muriel had been asking herself for days. “Can you trust anyone with the responsibility you carry?”
The garden began to darken at the edges. Not the gentle darkness of evening but something else. Something… wrong. Shadows poured over the stone wall—thick and oily, reeking of malevolence.
“They're coming,” the woman said, and her voice was layered now—not one voice, but many, echoing back through time. “The hounds are always hunting. It is their way. They hunted me. They'll hunt you too.”
Power crackled around the woman's hands like green lightning. The shadowed figure moved closer—toward Muriel or toward the threat, she couldn't tell. Everything felt tangled, confused, urgent.
“But you're stronger than I was,” the woman continued, even as those oily shadows crept closer, even as thefoxglove withered and the roses began to bleed darkness. “The Codex knows. It's been waiting. And it's not the only thing that's chosen you.”
Her gaze cut to the shadowed figure, then back to Muriel.
“Some bonds are written in stars and sealed in blood. Some choices were made before you were born. But trust—” The shadows were almost upon her now. The woman stood her ground, magic blazing, defiant even in her final moments. “Trust must still be earned.”
Muriel tried to run to her, but her feet were rooted to the earth. She tried again to call out to the woman, to no avail.
The darkness swallowed the woman whole. The Codex's voice—or was it the woman's?—whispered through the consuming dark: Remember. Choose carefully. Trust slowly. The hounds are coming.
Muriel jolted awake with a gasp,her heart hammering so hard it hurt. The guest room materialized around her in the dim glow of moonlight through the window—safe, familiar, and real. The scent of night-blooming jasmine replaced the lavender and rosemary, and the only sound was her own ragged breathing.
Not a dream. Avision.
Muriel looked at theCodexbeside her. In the moonlight, its leather cover seemed to pulse with a faint,rhythmic glow. Like it was satisfied it had finally gotten through to her.
Unfortunately, she had more questions than answers. What was she supposed to remember? What choice was it talking about? Was it telling her to trust later but not now?
And what about that shadowy figure? Had he been friend or foe?
She could feel Brandon’s presence like a steady heartbeat, his magic thrumming in quiet harmony with hers through the resonance bond. Was he awake too? Could he feel her distress the way she sometimes felt flashes of his emotions?
Trust must still be earned.
Muriel pulled the blanket tighter and stared at the ceiling, unwilling to close her eyes again. The vision was already fading at the edges the way dreams do, but three things remained crystal clear:
The woman had her eyes.
Danger was coming.
And somewhere, a figure wrapped in shadows waited, and she didn't know if he was there to save her or destroy her.
12
VISIONS AND DEADLINES
BRANDON