Gagging on mud, and muck, and totally icky bottom-of-the-river sludge. Something hard and metallic clanging against my upper molars and floating on my tongue—something I’m determined to rid myself of.

I push up onto my elbows, and then onto my knees. Balanced on all fours, I spit onto the ground, scoop a finger around the inside of my mouth, and rid it of rocks and debris along with a strange medallion that pops out and dangles before me—hanging from a brown leather cord I wear at my neck.

I lean back on my heels, pinching the piece between my forefinger and thumb as I peer at a small silver circle of a snake swallowing its own tail. Thinking it curious, more than a little interesting, but having no idea where it came from.

No idea why I find myself wearing it.

No idea what it could possibly mean.

I fall back in exhaustion, close my eyes against the sun. At first enjoying the feel of it, the way it dries my clothes and warms my skin, but it’s not long before the pleasure’s diminished by rays so intense they leave me sweaty and breathless and suddenly overcome with a deep parching thirst that has me scrambling back toward the river, hoping to drink, only to find the river is gone. Replaced by a landscape of sand, a multitude of cacti, and two blazing suns overhead emitting dual sets of harsh, unforgiving, searing hot rays.

My skin begins to blister and burn as my lips crack and bleed, and with no shelter to be found, and too weakened by my thirst to go searching for one, I’m left with no choice but to curl my body into a ball. Bowing my head until my chin is tucked tightly to my knees, my hair hanging down before me, hoping it will shield me, only to end up sacrificing the back of my neck in order to spare my face.

Think. I squinch my eyes tightly, try to center myself, try to concentrate.

Think, I scold. Remember.

But the heat’s so intense it’s impossible to focus on anything but my scalding skin and unquenched raging thirst.

I yank my sleeves down, down past my wrists and over my hands, all the way down to my fingertips. Trying not to cry out when the cotton rubs against the blisters, splitting them open and allowing the juice from the wounds to sizzle right there on my flesh. Working past the pain, I shove them deep into my pockets, attempting to make myself small er, less of a target, trying to hide from the heat, but it’s no use. With dueling suns, one at my front, one at my back, there is no escaping their wrath.

My fingers squirm deep, and then deeper still. Ultimately coming across something slick and hard with rough edges—a stone of some kind.

A stone I cannot remember.

I work my way along the sides, along the cool smooth surface, knowing I need to think, to concentrate, to remember… something… but having no idea what that something might be.

I turn the stone over. Explore each side, again and again, until a flicker of light plays on the underside of my crusted, shuttered lids. A flash of color, a myriad of varying hues, creeping into my vision—my inner vision—accompanied by a string of words meant to prod me, nudge me, insistently swirling through me, demanding my notice—though I’ve no idea what they mean.

Words that continue to loop and repeat, playing over and over, each and every syl able stressed with greatest urgency, until it sounds something like:

Dark—like his eyes.

Red—like the blood that flowed from me.

Blue—like the river, like the stone in my pocket.

A stone I must see.

I work it up past my hip, slide it across my belly and over to where I can see it. Marveling at how it’s managed to stay cool despite the raging inferno around me, daring to slit one eye open, despite my lashes singeing, my skin scalding, and my retina searing, I peer upon it, twirling that brilliant blue-green crystal around in my fingers, awed by the sight of it, until I notice something even more wondrous—the energy that radiates from my skin like a halo of the brightest, most radiant, golden-flecked purple.

The color reminding me of the one I felt earlier. The one that thrummed right through my body, back when I was in Summerland, just after I’d inadvertently traded Fleur’s experience for mine. That colorful feeling convincing me there was more to Damen’s and my story.

That we’d both lived a life we’d yet to acknowledge.

And suddenly I know what it means—know what it is.

That brilliantly shimmering shade that I see is the color of my soul.

My immortal soul.

It’s what my aura would look like if I had one.

The truth descending upon me so hard and fast it leaves no room for doubt in my mind.

I can’t die here.

Can’t die anywhere.

While it’s true that my body may not outlast this heat, no matter what, my soul will live on.

Like the snake that hangs from the cord at my neck—each life feeds into the next.

And the moment I acknowledge that, accept it for a fact, a soft spring rain begins to fall and I jump to my feet, smiling, laughing, as I tilt my head back. Opening my mouth as wide as it will go, encouraging a small pool of water to collect on my tongue. Aware of the sand fading beneath me as my toes curl into a lovely expanse of flowers and grass that springs up to replace it. Aware of my skin healing, regenerating, as one sun sparks and fades and burns itself out, while the other one dims into a warm, forgiving, life-sustaining glow.

I spread my arms wide and twirl in the field, skipping, and leaping, and dancing in a rain that, having healed me, is now reduced to a light, shimmering drizzle.

I did it! I can’t help but smile triumphantly. I won! I outsmarted the river—remembered the one thing that matters most—with a little help from my friends, of course!