BODIEI don’t sleep.

Not really.

I lie on my back in the guest chamber they’ve given me, stone walls, low fire, the steady hum of the den settling into night, and stare at the ceiling until the patterns in the rock begin to blur. Every time I close my eyes, the image of the way she stood in the clearing hunts me.

Lana.

The name still feels dangerous in my mouth, like saying it aloud might undo whatever fragile reality I’ve managed to hold together.

I replay it over and over: the way she ...