What meaning could it have?
Even as I sat at the long dining table the next morning, staring at the plate before me, my thoughts were a thousand miles away. The eggs had gone cold, the bread untouched, but I barely noticed. My mind circled back again and again to the dream. It gnawed at me like a persistent thorn under the skin, an itch I couldn't ignore.
The voice, the mist, the vines, the flowers. My blood.
It wasn't just a dream. I knew that. Dreams didn't leave behind wounds that bled.
"It could be telling you something," Leika murmured inside me.
I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth.
"You think so?" I whispered back, though only in thought.
"Why else would you carry a wound from your dream into the waking world?" my wolf pressed. "Something is at play. Dreams are one thing, but this… this is a message. Or a warning."
Her certainty made my heart skip. "But why? What is the message?"
