She scoffs, reaching for his hand, trying to pry it free of her shirt. She doesn't even care when the empathy bond flares to life, her frustration and anger flowing through it. She's so sick of this, so sick of doing almost nothing, so sick of being at the mercy of things more powerful than her.

"What if they kill him before that? What if I never find him?"

Back home, she could have handled something like this. She knew the rules, and she was dangerous enough to be a threat in her own right. Here—whether in the real world or this stupid dream—she feels like she's been stripped of everything that makes her matter.