Circe woke with a sharp gasp, her heart hammering wildly against her ribcage. Her breaths came in fast, shallow bursts, each one raspier than the last. For a moment, she lay frozen, her wide eyes staring blankly at the ceiling above her as she tried to anchor herself back to reality.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest in an effort to calm the frantic rhythm of her heart.
"A dream," she whispered, as though saying the words might lessen the grip of fear still clinging to her. "It was only a dream."
But even as she spoke, she knew it wasn't entirely true. It hadn't felt like a dream. No, it had been far too vivid, too tangible. It was the clarity of it that disturbed her the most. Circe rarely dreamt at all, and when she did, they never lingered like this. They never clung to her skin like cold sweat, never wrapped around her throat like an invisible noose.
