Everyone has nightmares. Some remember them vividly, as if fear itself had carved the images into their bones. Others forget, brushing them off as fleeting shadows that vanish with morning light.
But for Viviane, the nightmare did not fade. It followed her into waking hours, seared into her life like a scar she could never escape.
That nightmare was her mother, Isolde.
Viviane's body froze—not from the searing pain of her wounds or the blood dripping down her chest, already stitching itself together—but from the flood of memories clawing their way back.
Every cruelty, every humiliation her mother had inflicted replayed in her mind, trapping her in that same cage of fear. Her body trembled against her will.
"No… this is just one of her tricks. Just her bloodline skill… playing with my mind!" she whispered, desperate to believe. But the words rang hollow.
