There, in the center of the horde, now flies a wyvern slightly larger than the others, bearing a rider in royal blue. The pitch of my stomach says that if he comes closer, I’ll recognize his dark, thinning hair and the annoyed purse of his lips, even if logic argues that I won’t, that it’s just a fucking dream. My heart rate soars as fear soaks into my skin, colder than the rain and melting snow around us. “As you can see,” Mom says, tearing her gaze from the horde. “It’s too late for wards now.” “It’s not!” I argue.
