One Great Year by Tamara Veitch, Rene DeFazio

Marcus to follow her.
    Outside, the sky had grown dark and sinister, and sheets of rain battered the city. Buildings had begun to crumble and fall, and Theron knew intuitively that they must get to the wharf as soon as possible. Through the deafening wind and noise she shouted to him. The couple ran the two miles to the port, circling on the curved roads and passing over the canal bridge as it disintegrated behind them and fell into the now surging canal below. All around them people were running and yelling, and Theron sensed their fear but was unable to help.
    When they arrived at the wharf White Elder was there, and she was ordering students in different directions—some onto the waiting boats and others back toward the Great Hall. A fork of lightning shattered the ominous sky, and the queue of students trembled as the thunder shook the Earth. The students were soaked through to the skin and shivered as they huddled in the bitter wind, waiting to be sorted.
    â€œTheron, at last. Load on the boat, daughter. Hurry,” White Elder directed. “Marcus, go back to the city, I will return there shortly.”
    â€œNO!” Theron screamed, her eyes wide and disbelieving. “No!”
    â€œHe has not been chosen, Theron,” White Elder shouted over the din. The winds were increasing and she crouched slightly to steady herself.
    â€œStay with me, Theron!” Marcus shouted, as two surly men were summoned by a nod from White Elder and began to lead him forcibly away.
    â€œMother, please!” Theron cried, nearly hysterical as she watched Marcus being dragged farther and farther from her.
    â€œYou must choose if you are a keeper of the secrets. Will you become an Emissary? There is not much time!”
    â€œLet him join me, please!”
    â€œI cannot. It is not for me to say. You must choose!” White Elder commanded, as the tempest worsened.
    Theron ran to Marcus. He was released by those holding him, and she flew into his arms. Marcus held her, crying into her hair without speaking. Theron held him but after a moment took a step back.
    â€œI have to go!” she shouted through the chaos. Marcus looked as though she had hit him. Water ran in thick streams down their faces.
    â€œYou can’t leave me,” he cried, gripping her thin arms harder than he realized.
    â€œI must!” she replied, twisting her body to free herself of his grasp.
    â€œEmissary!” the deep baritone voice called, and Theron bolted upright in her bed, rescued, saved from the torture of her dream. She was soaked from head to toe with sweat, and her tangled hair clung in damp clumps to her skin. She had been put out of her misery at the first possible second—in the first moment that it was clear she had made a choice, Theron had been allowed to wake.
    A dream within a dream , she marveled, shaking. She had been chosen as an Emissary. She was certain of that. Theron wondered if Marcus had dreamed, or astral traveled, or anything at all. It had all been dreams, and he was still safely asleep across the courtyard in his bed.
    Theron looked out the window into the calm night. It was hours until dawn and Atitala slept peacefully, but she was unwilling to close her eyes and risk more dreams.
    When Marcus finally slept, he had two powerfully vivid dreams. First he dreamed of astral travel, traveling the Grid and finding Theron there. Their souls united; he bathed in her light until the sound of a gong suddenly pulled him back into his body. He awakened from that dream with a start, excited and overwhelmed with his love for Theron, his skin vibrating with their energy. It took a while to fall back asleep, and then his second dream came like a tigress waiting to pounce.
    He was back in the cenote. This time he was alone. The sun gleamed through the earthen ceiling above him, dancing in silver circles on the still blue water. Marcus was hot; so hot it was as though he were sitting in front of a roaring fire