PROLOGUE.
dreamscape

THERE SHE STOOD, bow and arrow in hand while she circled her opponent — her enemy.

It felt like she was having an out of body experience, watching from the sidelines as a version of herself fought against someone whose face she could not see. The girl has had many dreams before. Ones that felt real. But not as real at this one. It was as if she was there, standing in the shoes of her older self. A version she had never seen before. The girl believed she had to blink a few times to let it sink in that the bow and arrow wielding hero was actually her.

She was a lot older than her fourteen year old self. This version of her was nothing like the girl she thought she was. She wasn't wearing flower printed shirts and baggy denim jeans. She was wearing her armour with pride, wielding a bow and arrow. A deadly weapon the girl never saw herself being able to handle, let alone wield it like she knew every corner and crevice to understand how it worked. And she wasn't clean faced either. She could spot the faded scars from miles away, one across her cheek and the other across her neck.

And she was tired. So tired. Like she had fought more than enough wars to last her a lifetime.

But she didn't once back down. She called out to her opponent, a pleading look in her eyes, like she was begging them to stop. But the sound of the pouring rain and the clap of thunder roaring above was enough to drown out her voice. But from what the girl could see from afar, she didn't want to hurt her opponent. It made her wonder if the boy who approached her, sword in hand, was really her enemy, or someone she was trying to save. Someone who she truly cared about. Someone she loved deeply enough to fight for instead of fighting against them.

     The fight went on for what seemed like forever. All the girl could do was stand and watch as her older self shot arrows across the battleground, but she wasn't intentionally trying to hurt anyone. They were warning shots. The faceless opponent didn't want to hurt her either. He was getting closer, but he was holding back. He couldn't cut her into two if he truly wanted to cause damage, however, he pulled himself back each and every time he would swing his sword towards the girl. He was scared of hurting her. Then why were they fighting to begin with?

Flashes of lightning cascaded across clouds, and thunder continued to rumble loudly across the night sky. The sound made the young girl jump in her own skin right where she stood. Then she began to shiver from the rain soaking through her baggy shirt and pyjama pants. She wanted to run away and find shelter from the violent storm looming over her. However, she couldn't move. It was like she was frozen from the inside and out, unable to move or make a sound. Just like a deer in headlights, she was stuck.

    All she could do was stand and watch as the fight in front of her continued to unfold. The two individuals began to get closer, forcing the older version of herself to drop her arrows and use the bow to defend herself, blocking a deadly hit from her opponent to withdraw a blade from her belt. She then dropped her bow along with the arrows, the weapon clattering against the ground before she went head to head in a close combat battle. Her blade was a lot smaller than her opponent's, but she used all her strength and skills to put up a good fight.

And while he continued to hold back, she was still no match for him and his own set of sword skills. And then the unspeakable happened.

     It all happened so fast. She tried to fend off her opponent, their swords clashing for a moment, metal grinding against metal, sparks erupting in the process before he gained the upper hand and drove his blade through her gut. The young girl gasped from where she stood, a sharp pain digging through her own gut, like she was the one who was impaled. She raised her hands to press hard against her stomach, dropping to her knees from the excruciating pain radiating throughout her body.

     She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, wincing in agony. And when she opened them again, she was no longer standing on the sidelines. She was lying on the ground, being cradled in the arms of the person responsible for her own demise. The girl cried, looking down to see the blood staining the fabric of her dark clothes, pooling out of her wound and onto the ground, the crimson colour beginning to surround them like the Red Sea. She was in pain. She was bleeding out. . .

     She was dying.

     However, she couldn't let her killer get away this time. The girl lifted her gaze from the wound in her gut, slowly tilting her head up to gaze into the eyes of the one responsible. But before she was even given the chance, everything quickly faded to black before she shot up awake, screaming in terror, salty tears rolling down her warm cheeks. And once the initial shock seemed to wear off, it soon registered that she was no longer dying in the arms of her killer in the pouring rain, basking underneath violet thunderstorms.

     She was now sitting upright in her bed, surrounded by the familiar four walls of her bedroom covered in various music posters. She was no longer the bow and arrow wielding hero in her dream. She was Feyre Blanchard. Safe and sound in the comfort of her home in a small New York City apartment. The girl breathed a sigh of relief, but there was still this agonising feeling in her stomach that she couldn't shake, like a phantom pain that haunted her in the darkness. A reminder that the dream was as real as her own reality was.

     Suddenly, her bedroom room creaked open and Feyre turned her head to see her mother, Rosalind Blanchard rushing into her bedroom, taking a seat down on the edge of Feyre's bed in the process. Rosalind stared at her daughter, her face full of concern. "Another bad dream, Sunshine?" Feyre felt her heart melt when she heard the all too familiar nickname roll off her mother's tongue. No matter how old the girl got, she never got tired of that nickname.

     Feyre didn't say much. She just nodded her head, causing for Rosalind to lift her hand and brush her thumb against Feyre's warm cheeks, wiping away her tears. "It's okay. You're safe and sound at home with me," She reassured the young girl.

     "But it was different this time, Mom," Feyre countered, shaking her head. "My dreams feel almost real."

     Rosalind furrowed her brows together. There was this strange foreboding feeling that bubbled in the pit of the woman's stomach, dread washing over her the second she heard those words leave her daughter's lips. "What do you mean?" She inquired curiously. She had to push for answers. She had to be sure.

    Feyre was quick to notice her mother's change in demeanour. She heard the worry lingering in the woman's voice, but she didn't dare question it. Maybe she should have. But instead she continued to speak, "It was raining. I was watching from afar while an older version of myself fought someone. She was wearing battle armour and was fighting with a bow and arrow..." Feyre saw the look in her mom's face drop. "She fought against this other person for what felt like forever and then he...he stabbed her...me...he stabbed me. And when I woke up I could still feel the pain in my gut, like it was actually happening, or will happen," She elaborated.

     Rosalind swallowed thickly upon hearing the details of her daughter's harrowing dream. She felt tears prickling at her eyes. She wanted to throw up at the thought of the truth behind a simple dream. It was just a simple dream. A terrifying one, sure. However, Feyre didn't understand why her mom looked so worried on the outside. And on the inside all Rosalind could do was come to the realisation that spending years hoping and praying that her daughter would be safe under her protection was for nothing.

Because Feyre Blanchard's dream wasn't any kind of dream. And the girl was far from safe, even in the comfort of the bedroom she grew up in. Rosalind was forced to stand up from the bed and leave the room, not uttering a single word in her path. Once Feyre was alone again, she continued to sit in silence, listening to her mother's muffled cries, an uneasy feeling forming in her stomach. It caused for her heart to hammer hard against her chest, wondering how the details of her dream could trouble her mother so much.

     Feyre didn't know it yet, but she wasn't like most girls her age. No matter how hard Rosalind Blanchard tried to shield her daughter from her truth, it was never going to be enough for her to avoid it. Fate was a tricky thing, and it always had a way of coming back to haunt the ones who tried to run away from it. This just happened to be one of those instances. Rosalind knew she wasn't strong enough to protect her daughter anymore, not from the truth, and not from the girl she was destined to become.

     And come morning light, Feyre Blanchard's life would be altered forever.

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authors note.
The prologue is here!! And words cannot describe the excitement I'm feeling for this story. This is just a little intro to the kind of dreams Feyre is having of her future and a small insight into her relationship with her mum to set up their future moments together. (Everyone was thinking she was dead in the intro which is funny because it's heavily implied she is...but let's breathe people, Rosalind Blanchard is very much alive. Chapter one will reveal why they don't see each other anymore).

Until then I hope you guys enjoyed this prologue and I'll update again very soon!!