Dagan stood on the riverbank, anguish and horror scrawled across his face, but as the world went dark, he shifted back into the Boatman, and a single sentence exited the Boatman’s mouth in a cry that seemed to come from the depths of the watery graves over which I was floating:

“Beware.”

“Kammani—wake. Arammu? Wake. Please.”

Dagan’s tear-streaked face hovered over me as I spluttered out of my vision. As I pushed away, the horror that he’d thrown his dagger at me knocked the wind from my lungs, and the small red bottle fell from my hands.

“Get away from me! Don’t hurt me!” I cried. Cowering, I crawled, knees, hands, knees—faster!—to the corner of the tent, my heart hammering as I got my bearings.

“I never would! What do you mean?” He stretched one hand out to me. The other went over his heart. “I would never hurt you. I love you!”

Clawing at my throat, I searched for the dagger that had been embedded, but it was nowhere near me. It was safe, in Dagan’s scabbard where it always was. My stomach churned, bile rising to my throat.

“You fell,” Dagan said simply, letting his hands drop to his lap. “You fell over and woke me, but you were screaming and clutching your throat.” His anguished amber eyes searched my face. “Do you think I would ever hurt you? Because I would rather die than cause you pain.” He flexed his hands open and closed into fists.

I felt my throat. I am safe. Nothing is wrong. It was a dream. A vivid one, yes. But a dream nevertheless.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if it was…a message?

Breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, I calmed myself, considering the possibility. The distinct possibility.

I hadn’t listened to my instincts before, and Warad had died and Iltani had been stolen. Rish’s arm severed. Maybe it was time to bear heed to my gut, no matter what my brain told me to do. My gut felt as if the message was clear. It felt true. Real. As real as the nose on my face. The digging of the blanket into my knees.

My voice shaking, I held out my hand. “Give me your dagger.”

“Why, Arammu?” His eyebrows came together in confusion.

“Because I need it,” I squeaked. I held my hand out again. “Please.”

He pursed his lips and thought about it, but gently pulled it from his waist and looked at it in his hands. It was encrusted with emeralds. Sharp. Gleaming with danger. “Why do you want it?”

“Because the Boatman warned me that one day you would kill me with it, Dagan.” I forced my chin up, though my hands shook. “And I haven’t been listening to my gut, and maybe this is what I should’ve been doing all along. Listening to the Boatman. I don’t know why he sent me a message or what is going on, but he did! Again! He tried to reach me in the tent with Rish. Broke through, but I pushed him away. He held a bottle in his hands, and I think we must use it somehow. Mudi told me he’s trying to earn his way out of his post by helping me save lives and that I should listen to him! And just now, he showed me that dagger embedded in my throat. Maybe he’s trying to save my life, too, so I can help others.” I laid my hand flat, fighting the nausea rising in my belly at asking it of him. At not believing in Dagan. “So please, hand it over.”