Chapter 2: Echoes from the Pasture
Aurenya's POV
The scream ripped through the midnight silence like a shard of shattered glass.
I gasped awake, drenched in sweat, my breath shallow and erratic. My heart pounded so violently it felt as though it might break through my chest. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender and old wood, clinging to the back of my throat. I blinked rapidly, trying to orient myself, but the room around me swam in a haze of shadows and moonlight.
My bed—familiar. The carved oak frame, the faded quilt stitched with curling vines and tiny roses, the worn-down dip where my body had once rested every night... It was all exactly as it had been.
Except it shouldn't have been.
My gaze darted around the room, catching on the framed painting of the garden outside the manor, the small porcelain figurines on the mantel, the gold-rimmed mirror above the vanity—everything was just as I remembered it. As though no time had passed. As though I hadn't left this room behind, locked it away with the girl I used to be.
No. No, no, no.
I clutched the sheets, gripping them until my knuckles turned white. This wasn't right. This wasn't now.
My wedding... the poisoned goblet... the cold look in Zevran's eyes as I collapsed...
I shot up in bed, lungs burning, chest heaving. I pressed a trembling hand to my stomach. No wound. No pain. Just the ghost of it, as though death had only brushed its fingers across me before releasing its hold.
Was I dead?
Had I been dragged back by some cruel twist of fate?
A soft knock startled me.
"Miss?"
I froze.
That voice.
It was a whisper from the past, delicate and warm, tinged with concern. My heart lodged in my throat. My skin prickled with something colder than fear.
"Miss?" the voice came again. "Forgive the intrusion, but it's nearly sunrise. Shall I open the curtains?"
My mouth opened, but no words came. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The door creaked open slowly, and the girl stepped inside, silhouetted against the dim corridor light.
It couldn't be.
"Elara?" I whispered, the name torn from my throat like a prayer.
She turned, her face half-illuminated, and smiled softly. "Yes, Miss?"
My world tilted.
Elara.
Alive.
Whole.
Breathing.
Wearing the same neat braid, the same soft blue dress with the slightly crooked hem, the same silver locket I'd given her on her seventeenth birthday. Her eyes were the same—warm brown, gentle, intelligent, always watching. Always knowing.
"Elara..." My voice cracked. "But you... you're dead."
She paused mid-step, her brow furrowing. "I beg your pardon?"
"You died." I could hardly hear myself. My voice felt miles away. "You died. Six months ago. I buried you."
Confusion flickered across her face, soft as candlelight. "Miss, I think you must be dreaming still. Perhaps you've had a nightmare. Should I fetch some tea?"
I shook my head violently. "No. Don't you remember? The fire? The— the letter? They said it was an accident. You were in the west wing when it collapsed."
She stepped closer, concern growing in her features. "There's never been a fire in the manor, Miss. Not in the west wing, not anywhere."
I stared at her, numb.
This wasn't a hallucination. Her scent—honeysuckle and soap—was real. The warmth in her eyes. The lines in her palms. The lilt in her voice when she said Miss, like a tease only I ever noticed. All of it was real.
"Elara, what day is it?" I asked suddenly, grasping for logic.
She blinked. "The 8th of Embermoon. Same as always."
"What year?"
Now she hesitated. "The year of the Silver Crescent, Miss. Just as it was yesterday."
Silver Crescent. That was... six months before the wedding. Before everything.
I brought my knees to my chest and hugged them tightly, shaking. Elara approached cautiously, kneeling beside the bed. Her hand reached out instinctively, brushing the hair from my face.
"You're burning up," she murmured. "You must have had a terrible dream."
I wanted to believe her. Desperately. But my heart screamed otherwise.
"Elara," I said, barely above a whisper, "do you remember last winter's festival? The night we snuck out to the lake?"
She smiled then. "Of course. You wore those ridiculous boots that got stuck in the ice."
My throat tightened. "And what did you say to me when I tried to cross the frozen stream?"
Her smile faded slightly. "I told you not to be foolish. That I'd always be there to catch you."
I stared into her eyes, willing myself to see any crack, any glitch in this impossible miracle. "You said, 'If you fall, I fall with you.'"
She laughed quietly. "I did, didn't I?"
Tears stung my eyes.
"Elara, I saw your grave."
She grew very still.
"I put lilies on it. I screamed at the sky. I begged for a second chance. And then..." My voice broke. "And now you're here."
Elara's confusion deepened, but she didn't pull away.
"I don't understand," she said softly. "You've been here all along. Nothing's happened. I'm still me. You're still you."
But I wasn't.
Not anymore.
A second chance. That's what this was, wasn't it?
Not a dream. Not a delusion. Not death.
A reset.
And if the gods or fate or time itself had granted it to me, then there was a reason. A warning.
"Elara," I whispered, gripping her hand like it was the only solid thing left in the world. "Don't leave me. Not again."
"I won't," she promised, brow furrowed in concern. "I never would."
And in her voice, I heard the truth—the same fierce loyalty that had always bound us together, beyond titles and status and duty. Maid. Friend. Sister in all but blood.
I had her back.
And I would not waste this.
Whatever this second chance meant, whoever had granted it, I would find the truth. I would not walk blindly toward death again.
This time, I would change everything.
Even if it killed me.