Her Dangerous Visions (The Boy and the Beast Book 1) by Brandon Barr

Winter had felt horrible pain coming from her brother. It was as if the pain were flowing from his heart into hers—a sense of loss, not of death, but something close to it.
    The second vision came as she dressed herself that morning. It was much more trivial, but still dark. A bird had landed beside an old fallen tree that was green with moss. The bird was young, maybe a month out of the nest, its red speckled grey wings fluttered as it hopped lightly across the undergrowth in search of something. Beside a large rock a centipede crawled out from under the leaves. The bird’s head cocked to the side, eyeing the insect, then its wings spread and it leapt. There was a flash of movement from the rock beside the insect. Something sprang out, pink and long, and struck the bird’s gold-brown chest. The bird was yanked from the air and sucked into a giant mouth that crushed the nimble body, leaving its tail feathers and feet shuddering against the rim of the mouth. The rock, she had realized, was an enormous toad. In one spasm, the creature opened and closed its mouth, and the bird disappeared.
    Winter had rushed at random through the woods, stopping at every mossy log she came across. Two hours of searching, brought her to where she was now, frustrated, but not giving up on the rescue of the small bird.
    How can I save others…how do I use this gift…
    Unlike the myriad of trivial visions she always saw, these were closer to the dark visions she’d had six months ago, that led to her parents’ deaths. They added to the hopelessness she felt with her inability to intervene. Like the first dark vision of the smoke and bodies. The identity of the dead had been only speculation until it was too late; she and Aven lost everyone dear to them except each other.
    Then there were the ants and the blood—the death of Rozmin, as Aven finally told her, once he found his voice again. She’d learned the details of that night. How Aven and Harvest had been overheard, her brother’s attempt to save the two families, ending with Rozmin being shot by the Baron and the yellow ants coming from the wall.
    The sky above was the same one she looked up into as a young girl, the same colors, the same tree tops, but they no longer brought solace to the battles raging inside her.
    The warmth of the blue canopy above had grown hard and sterile. So, too, the trees and rocks and all of nature. Blemished in some way. Everywhere she glimpsed beauty and loveliness, she also saw cracks and rot. The woods surrounding her, though magnificent and full of power, were full of death and decay, and only ever her naivety and ignorance had allowed her to think otherwise.
    She was part of that brokenness. Guilt and remorse twisted like worms in her heart—the thought of her sitting idly in her room as smoke strangled her mother and father’s lungs. She felt certain she could have saved them. Harvest’s family, and her own. Next time she would act, no matter how scared. She wouldn’t push the weight of her visions on Aven. They were her responsibility. If they crushed her, that would be the Maker’s fault. But she wouldn’t let them crush Aven again. Where she had grown more determined to battle—to never cower in fear again—Aven had…lost his will. His strength. Winter knew she had to face this alone. The Makers hadn’t destined Aven, but her. The gift was not to be shared.
    Winter crawled atop a boulder, surveying the woods for fallen logs where moss grew in shaded glens or beneath copses of trees.
    Where are you, little bird?
    The blue wings on her chin folded up, then opened again. Slowly the butterfly moved to her cheek, then stopped, opening, folding.
    Everyone she knew disliked the Makers. In farm stories, they were characterized as cruel and malevolent, or sometimes as blithe, powerful beings unconcerned about the happiness of the creatures they created. She’d heard that even the Guardians of the portal, that great and powerful people who knew