Chapter Seventeen: The Blood Omen

The warehouse was still.

The fire had long burned down to embers, its dim glow barely flickering against the rusted walls. Shadows stretched like reaching hands, and the air felt thick—too thick.

Tara's body was heavy, her limbs sluggish as if she had been swimming through darkness. The last thing she remembered was the crows.

Their voices had been like whispers from another world, filling the space around her, filling her.

Now—silence.

She inhaled sharply, pushing herself up onto her elbows.

The room tilted.

Something was wrong.

A metallic tang sat thick on her tongue. Her breath hitched as her fingers brushed across her lips—wet. Sticky.

Blood.

Tara's eyes darted up.

Above her, tangled in the rafters, a crow hung lifeless. Its body was limp, wings outstretched as if frozen mid-flight. Its throat had been torn open, the wound raw and glistening in the dim light.

And its blood—its blood was dripping into her mouth.

She choked, scrambling back.

Her stomach twisted as the taste settled, iron-rich and bitter—but before she could spit it out, the world lurched.

The walls flickered. The warehouse shifted.

And then, she was somewhere else.

⸻

Tara stood on a battlefield.

The sky above her was blackened with smoke, the ground soaked in mud and blood. Corpses lay strewn across the fields, their armor shattered, their eyes unseeing. The air reeked of fire, of metal, of death.

In the distance, a figure loomed atop a jagged cliff. Draped in a cloak of shadows and wings, her eyes gleamed like twin obsidian stones.

The Morrigan.

Tara knew it was her before she even spoke.

"It is time, daughter."

The goddess' voice cut through the wind, sharp as a blade.

Tara's heart pounded. "Time for what?"

The Morrigan lifted her hand.

The battlefield shifted. The corpses moved—no, twisted. Shapes formed from the bodies, their limbs unnatural, their faces stretched into masks of agony.

Shades.

Hundreds of them, crawling across the blood-soaked earth.

Tara's pulse slammed against her ribs. "I don't understand."

The Morrigan's eyes pierced through her. "You will."

And then, the sky shattered.

Tara fell, plummeting through darkness, through time, through something more ancient than she could comprehend.

She hit the ground with a gasp.

⸻

Tara lurched forward, gasping for air.

The warehouse was still around her. The fire. The shadows. The bodies sleeping in their makeshift beds.

But something was different.

The air was charged.

Her hands trembled as she wiped blood from her mouth, her breath coming in uneven bursts.

The prophecy.

The warning.

It is time.

Tara scrambled to her feet, knocking over an empty crate in her haste. The noise was enough to stir someone nearby.

"Tara?" Ballad's voice was thick with sleep, but there was a sharpness beneath it.

Tara swallowed hard. "We have to go."

Ballad blinked, sitting up. "What?"

Tara didn't wait. She turned sharply, reaching for her boots, her fingers fumbling against the worn leather.

Ballad was already on her feet, crossing the room in three strides. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Tara met her gaze.

"The DNHA are coming."

The words were barely above a whisper, but the weight of them was deafening.

Ballad's expression darkened. She didn't ask how Tara knew. She didn't waste time questioning.

Instead, she turned and kicked Collin.

"Up," she hissed.

A groggy curse later, the entire crew was awake.

Lottie swore under her breath, already moving toward the weapons pile. Collin stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders like this was just another night. Talulah lingered by the fire, eerily still.

Skye leaned against the far wall, watching Tara.

She felt his gaze—felt the weight of it.

He knew.

He knew she had seen something.

Landon was the last to rise, rubbing a hand over his face before his eyes landed on Tara.

A silent question lingered between them.

She didn't answer it.

She turned to Ballad instead. "How fast can we be out of here?"

Ballad's lips pressed into a thin line. "Five minutes."

"Make it three."

The crew didn't argue.

They moved with precision, stuffing whatever supplies they had into makeshift bags. No wasted movements. No hesitation.

They had done this before.

Tara clenched her fists.

This was real.