Rain drips from the canopy above, each droplet a small detonation against the forest floor. The sound is wrong. Too close. Too real.

She is lying on her back, pine needles digging into her palms, her robes soaked through and clinging to her skin. The sky above is a flat, oppressive grey—not the soft grey of Scottish mornings, but something heavier. Bleaker.

Her wand hand is empty.

She pushes herself upright slowly, every muscle screaming in protest. The movement sends a spike of pain through her skull, and she presses a cold, trembling hand to her temple. Her fingers come away clean. No blood. Small mercies.

The forest stretches in every direction. Towering trees with bark like dark iron. Ferns curling at their roots. Moss draped over fallen logs like discarded robes. There is no castle. No lake. No warm glow of candlelight from distant windows.

There is only the rain. The trees. And the silence that watches her breathe.

Ahead, barely visible through the dense foliage, a road sign gleams wetly. White letters on green. She blinks rainwater from her lashes and reads it twice before the words settle.

Somewhere in the distance, an engine rumbles. Growing closer.