Normally, I would not follow, but I watched them sitting perfectly, whirling and churning, and I found myself stepping outside of camp, following them through the wood.

The leaves crunching at my feet were the only sounds as I made my way over the craggy earth. When I reached the first misty orb, it began to fade. I watched it until it was gone, and then I glanced back toward camp. It was still within view, looking ominous, a series of black pinnacles erupting from the ground.

Another orb drew my attention as it flew in a circle around me. I followed and did not look back again, nor did I stop as each orb faded away.

I did not know how long I walked, but I came to a lake over which more orbs had settled. Their ghostly reflections led to the very center and then stopped.

I shed my robe and my boots, leaving my blade atop the pile before wading into the water. I expected it to be cold like it had been at Lake Galat, but this—this was warm, and from it, I felt an energy seeping into my skin. It felt dark but also light, no more dangerous than life itself.

The water was up to my shoulders as I came to the final misty orb floating at eye-level. It began to disappear as if it were smoke, and when the final tendril was no longer visible, I closed my eyes and dropped below the surface of the lake. Everything went white.

***

Someone was humming, and as the sound vibrated against my skin, I recognized the song—a lullaby my mother used to sing.

Moon above and earth below. I mouthed the words but did not speak them aloud. Then I became aware of fingers running through my hair. I opened my eyes and sat up, meeting the dark-eyed gaze of my mother.

I burst into tears and covered my mouth, but I could not contain the barrage of emotion that accosted my body. I shook, wracked with incomprehensible feelings.

This could not be. It had to be a spell, some form of witchcraft used to hurt me.

I shook my head, tears burning my eyes.

“Do not cry, daughter,” she said in a smooth, balmy voice.

She held my face in her soft hands, brushing away tears. I wished she had been around to do this my whole life.

“You aren’t real,” I whispered.

“I am as real as any dream,” she said.

“That is no comfort,” I said, and she smiled.

She still held my face, and I latched onto her wrists, wanting to feel her touch always.

“I am so proud.”

“Proud? I have done nothing to earn your pride.”

“Know who you came from,” my mother said, and her voice was stern.

“But I don’t know who I came from,” I said. “I know nothing of our people—”