Page 3 of The Panther's Price

She could still hear it. Faint. Distant.

The voice in the dream.

Not words, exactly, just the ache of meaning. A knowing in her bones. Like her blood remembered something she didn’t.

“Evryn,” it had said. Or maybe justgirl. But it was always the same presence, cloaked in smoke and pain and inevitability. It never touched her. Just watched. Just waited.

She hated that most of all.

Evryn dragged herself out of bed and padded barefoot across the room to the sink, where the faucet groaned before sputtering out brown-tinged water. She splashed it on her face anyway, hissing at the cold.

“You look like hell,” a voice drawled from behind her.

She didn’t flinch. Just wiped her face with the hem of her tank and turned to face Eamon.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, all scruffy chin and tired eyes. The kind of man who looked like he’d fought death once or twice and didn’t quite win—or maybe didn’t want to. His coat was the same dusty thing he always wore, patched and faded and soaked in road dirt.

“Nice to see you too,” she muttered.

“You were talking again. In your sleep.”

Evryn grimaced. “Was I?”

He nodded, stepping into the room and handing her a mug of steaming something. Probably bitter root tea again. The man brewed potions like witches were still trendy.

“Same dream?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. Just sipped the tea and looked out the cracked window.

Grayridge was as bleak as ever, crumbling buildings slouched like old men, rusted signs swinging in the wind, streets lined with potholes and patched tar. The Veil’s edge loomed faintly in the distance, a shimmer only she could see, like a mirage half-forgotten by the world.

“Something’s shifting,” she said softly. “I can feel it.”

Eamon sighed. “You’ve been feelin’ it for months, girl.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugged. “Now it feels like it’s feelin’meback.”

He grunted, clearly unhappy with that response. “Might be time we moved again. This place’s gettin’ too warm.”

Evryn turned to him then, finally meeting his gaze. “I’m not running, Eamon. Not again.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.”

His eyes softened, even if the scowl didn’t. “Stubborn.”

She gave him a tired smile. “You taught me that.”

“Yeah. My bad.” He scrubbed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “You’ve got gifts, Ev. But gifts attract eyes. We’re not the only ones who know what the Sight looks like.”

She bristled. “I’m not marked. You said so yourself. No House would even spit in my direction.”

Eamon stepped close then, hand gripping her shoulder. Not gentle. Not cruel. Justreal. “That’s what I hoped. That’s what I prayed. But you’re changin’. They’ll come lookin’. And when they do…”

Evryn looked away again.

“I’ll be ready.”

---