A wave of energy blasted from Twelve that knocked everyone to the ground and shook the lodge mercilessly. The light was blinding white and the heat searing. It sucked the air out of her lungs with a whoosh as the blaze mushroomed across the walls. Twelve and Sharpspark were the only creatures still standing and, through the glare, she saw the unthinkable happen. The walls—walls that had stood strong for a thousand years—began to fracture. Fiery cracks cobwebbed across the stone with a sound like whiplashes.

Sharpspark took his hand off her face. With their connection broken, Twelve resurfaced as though from underwater. She sucked in a heaving breath and fell to the ground, her limbs like jelly, her heart sluggish in her chest.

“They have a mage!” a goblin screamed nearby, his panic audible.

“Where is Morgren?” cried another.

The world faded in and out of focus as Twelve struggled to stay conscious.

She saw Seven, Five, and Six plant themselves solidly around her, their weapons back in their hands.

She saw the Hunters rally to Hoarfrost, swords wrenched from goblin hands, Hunters pouring into the armory with the Elder in the lead.

She saw the stables catch fire, panicked snagglefeet fleeing, strands of burning hay floating over everything.

Then she saw nothing.

Chapter

Fifty-One

Leaves were rustling in a warm breeze and the air was laden with the heady scent of cloudflower. A strip of cloth, worn soft with use, was tied loosely over Twelve’s eyes, but she felt sure she knew where she was nonetheless.

Nearby, there was a muffled giggle. A twig snapped as light footsteps circled closer, then away again. Twelve turned slowly on the spot, following the sound. She knew she wasn’t supposed to remove the blindfold, but suddenly her curiosity was too strong to resist, and she pulled it off, blinking in the light.

It was as she had thought. She was in the clearing, the one that had been their place. The bushes around her drooped under the weight of white blossoms, the air alive with the hum of nectar-drunk insects.

“You always peek!”

A small figure emerged from the explosion of white, moving hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, coming closer until Twelve could finally see her clearly.

Slight build. Gray eyes. A cloud of dark hair.

“Poppy,” Twelve whispered.

She looked around for Starling, who always pulled her through these dreams, but there was no one else, just her and Poppy.

“She’s not here,” Poppy smiled, stopping in front of her. Her favorite blue dress rippled in the breeze. “This time it’s my dream, not yours.”

“I don’t understand,” Twelve said. For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crept through her and she took half a step back.