Night in Ashvale was usually peaceful.
Except, of course, when your house contained a former demon queen masquerading as a six-year-old with an affinity for fire and a knack for stealing socks.
Elias stirred awake to the sound of something scratching against the floorboards.
Shhk… shhk… thump.
He sat upright in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Moonlight spilled in through the wooden shutters, casting faint shadows across the small room. He blinked, adjusted his eyes—and frowned.
Rhea's bed was empty.
Blankets tossed. Pillow on the floor. No sign of the girl.
"Rhea?" he called, voice still groggy.
No answer.
He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the robe hanging by the bedpost. The cold floorboards bit at his toes as he padded out into the hallway. The scratching sound came again, this time from the main room.
Shhk… shhk…
He crept forward, nerves tight. A few weeks ago, the most dangerous thing in his life had been moldy herbs or clients allergic to healing potions. Now? Firebomb toddlers.
He rounded the corner—
—and froze.
There, in the dim flicker of the hearth's dying embers, was Rhea.
She stood barefoot in the center of the room, eyes half-lidded, arms limp at her sides. Her hair had come undone, black strands drifting across her face. A red glow shimmered faintly beneath her skin, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
"Rhea…?" Elias whispered.
She didn't respond.
Instead, she turned—slowly—and stared straight through him.
"I won't burn it again," she whispered, voice distant and raw.
A chill ran down his spine.
Then, suddenly, her legs gave out.
Elias lunged, catching her before she hit the ground.
"Whoa—hey, hey, I've got you."
She sagged against him, still breathing but pale. Her lips moved, barely audible.
"Too much fire… I told them not to make me do it… the throne is ash…"
"Rhea, it's okay," Elias murmured. "It's just a dream."
But even as he said it, he wasn't sure it was.
He carried her back to bed, tucking her in with a gentleness he hadn't known he possessed. She whimpered once, then fell into a deeper, more peaceful sleep.
He sat beside her for a long while, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. Moonlight bathed the room in silver. Somewhere outside, a nightbird called.
And Elias whispered, "What happened to you…?"
The next morning.
Rhea blinked blearily at her bowl of porridge like it had personally insulted her.
Elias poured tea while watching her over the rim of his mug. "So, weird night, huh?"
She poked the porridge with her spoon. "Why is this lumpy?"
"It's rustic," Elias said. "It builds character."
"Character tastes like sadness."
"Good. That's how you know it's authentic."
She scrunched her nose. "I dreamed of fire again."
Elias paused. "Do you remember what happened?"
She thought for a moment, eyes distant. "There was a castle. Big and black, with spikes everywhere. And it was… burning. People were screaming. I think I was screaming too."
Elias nodded slowly. "That… doesn't sound fun."
"It wasn't." She looked up at him, small and serious. "I was sitting on a big throne. Everything was on fire. But I wasn't scared. I was… angry."
He set down his mug. "Angry at what?"
"I don't know." She rubbed her arms. "But I said something in the dream. I said, 'I won't burn it again.'"
Elias tried to keep his voice steady. "That's what you said last night."
Her eyes widened. "I did?"
"You were sleepwalking. Looked like you were half-glowing, too."
She shivered. "Is that bad?"
"No," Elias said gently, reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Just concerning. Maybe ancient demon trauma or… y'know, past life stuff."
"Is that like a cold? Can I sneeze it out?"
"If only."
Rhea giggled, then dipped her spoon in the porridge and took a brave bite.
"Still tastes like sadness," she muttered.
Elias grinned. "Good. Builds more character."
Later that day, Elias visited the local archives.
Ashvale's library wasn't exactly prestigious. It smelled like ink, dust, and failed ambition, and the librarian—a very elderly elf named Mevrin—treated every visitor like a personal offense.
"You're… researching dream possession?" Mevrin squinted at Elias, adjusting his monocle.
"Or demonic memory bleed. Or reincarnated magical trauma. Anything under the 'kids glowing red while sleepwalking' category, really."
"Right…" Mevrin tapped a gnarled finger against a ledger. "We have Repressed Soul Trauma and You, but it's mostly allegorical."
"Does it include spontaneous combustion?"
Mevrin looked over his glasses. "Do you want it to?"
Elias sighed. "Give me everything with the words 'demon,' 'dream,' or 'explosive toddler.'"
Two hours and a stack of dusty tomes later, Elias sat hunched at a corner table, flipping through pages with growing unease.
He found references to "soul echoes"—residual memories from powerful beings who reincarnate.
Some fragments could bleed through in dreams.
Especially if they were tied to catastrophic events.
He closed the book, rubbing his temples. "So she's got the haunted version of PTSD."
Rhea was only six.
At least, technically.
That night, Elias tried a different approach.
He lit a few calming incense sticks—some lavender, some probably expired—and set a warm mug of milk by Rhea's bed.
She tilted her head at the steam. "What's that?"
"Dream potion," Elias said solemnly. "Guaranteed to block fiery nightmares and make you dream of happy things. Like clouds shaped like sandwiches."
Her eyes sparkled. "Sandwich clouds?"
"With cheese lightning."
"I want ten."
She gulped it down, licking the foam from her lip. "Will you stay tonight?"
Elias blinked. "In the room?"
"Until I sleep."
"Sure."
He settled into the nearby chair as she snuggled under the covers.
For a moment, all was quiet.
Then—
"Elias?"
"Yeah?"
"If I go scary again… will you stop me?"
He looked at her. Small. Fragile. But deep down, something immense lurked. Not evil. Just… heavy. Ancient.
"I will," he said. "And you'll stop yourself, too."
Rhea's voice was a whisper. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"Even if I remember who I was?"
Elias smiled faintly. "Who you were doesn't matter as much as who you're trying to be."
Silence fell.
Then a tiny voice said, "I want to be someone who doesn't burn everything down."
"You're off to a good start," Elias said gently. "One unburnt cottage at a time."
She fell asleep smiling.
Elias stayed in the chair long after, watching her breathe.
Somewhere in the quiet, the rune on his palm pulsed faintly. It didn't hurt. Just… hummed. Like a heartbeat trying to sync with another.
And Elias whispered, "We'll figure this out. Together."
To be continued…