The sound that tore me from sleep was a far cry from the polite chime of an academy bell or the distant murmur of morning chatter in the halls.
It was the raw, dying echo of a war horn, so vivid it vibrated in the marrow of my bones.
I jolted upright, a strangled gasp ripping from my throat. My hands flew out, grasping not at silk sheets, but at the phantom memory of a fur-lined cloak, the coarse texture of a horse's mane, and the solid, startling warmth of a calloused palm around mine. The cold was a physical presence, a deep, clawing chill that had seeped into my core and refused to relinquish its hold. I was shaking, my breath coming in ragged, visible puffs in the warm, predawn gloom of my room.
Not real. Not here.
