The scream tore through her throat before she even opened her eyes.
Acantha bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving as if she had just run through a warzone. Her sheets were tangled, soaked, sticking to her skin like shrouds of guilt. Her breath came in harsh, uneven gasps, and her wide eyes darted across the room—searching for the remnants of the nightmare that still clung to the corners of her vision.
But the blood was still there.
Still fresh in her mind.
Adrianna's blood.
On her hands.
In her dream, she had plunged her dagger deep into Adrianna's chest. Watched her fall to her knees. Watched her smile—smile—as the life drained from her eyes. That serene, heartbreaking smile that said I forgive you even as she collapsed into the dirt.
Acantha shuddered violently. Her hands trembled, and she looked down at them as if they might still be stained red. They weren't, of course. But the phantom weight of the act lingered, choking her with its silence.
