Elle is in the market of Hereswith, accompanied by two of her sisters and her father. Things feel normal but the light is gray, and distress ripples at the edges of the dream, like the pounding of a distant drum. The mountains are dark shadows in the distance, but fires burn along their slopes, marking the fortress in the clouds. Night falls, sudden and nonsensical, and the crowd in the market vanishes in a blink. Elle is alone, searching for her father, her sisters. A cold mountain wind blows, rattling shop signs and scattering loose papers on the street as Elle runs from door to door, knocking, begging to be let in. They are all locked, the windows darkened, shuttered. And then comes a different noise. One that pierces Elle’s heart with fear.

Heavy footsteps. They meet the cobblestones slowly, deliberately, clinking like strange music.

At once, Elle’s thoughts race.

Hide, hide. Whatever it is, don’t let it find you. Hide . . .

She runs through the streets but there is nowhere to hide, and the heavy footsteps faithfully follow her. They grow louder—closing the distance between them—and Elle whimpers as she tumbles back into the market green. She crawls toward a wagon and cowers beneath its bed, crying, although no matter how hard she tries to scream for her father, no sound emerges from her mouth.

She finally sees a glimpse of the one who is hounding her, whose tread makes that strange music.

A knight is walking to her, as if he knows exactly where she hides. She sees him from the knees down as he approaches the wagon in those measured, heavy steps. His armored legs and feet gleam silver in the darkness. Plated steel and rusted with blood.

He unsheathes a sword, but he lets the tip of it drag along the cobblestones at his side, as if he wants to hear the tempered steel screech and spark against the rock.

He comes to a stop, directly before the wagon. Elle trembles, stares at his steel boots, the edge of his sword. And then she hears the creak of his armor as he begins to bend, to crouch, reaching for her . . .

I jolted.

The dream had broken, spitting me back into reality, and I drew in a deep breath.

I was sitting in the Fieldings’ cottage. The afternoon was warm, the light golden as the family gazed at me, and yet I felt the chill of Elle’s nightmare. I could still hear the echo of those strange, armored feet that had followed her. The ring of the sword dragging on the stones.

Who was he? I wondered, glancing at Elle.

But I couldn’t ask the girl. Not now, with the dream lingering like smoke in the air, choking us both with fear.