Cora stood in a tower. Not the stone towers of Ashford, with their modern lights and safety rails, but an ancient spire of white marble that reached toward a sky full of strange stars. Below her, a city sprawled—not Verland, not any city she knew in this life. Spires and bridges and canals of silver water. Lanterns that burned with blue flame. Streets crowded with people in robes and tunics, carrying staves and wands and crystals that glowed with inner light.
She was the Archmage of the Silver Tower.
Her name had been Elara Vance. Not that it mattered now. The name was ash, like everything else.
In the dream, she was young. Ageless, really. Magic kept her face smooth, kept her body strong, kept time at bay. She stood on the balcony of her study, looking out at the city she had protected for three hundred years.
"You're brooding again."
She turned.
