I didn't know where I was.
All I remembered were those black silhouettes—faceless shadows dragging me into this nightmare they dared to call a dream.
It was cold. Bone-deep cold that gnawed at every part of me I could still feel—or thought I could.
The air reeked, a stench of rot and decay, thick and clinging, as if death itself had soaked into every breath.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Far off, faint pinpricks of light flickered—distant, weak. Not close enough to guide me, only to mock me with their unreachable glow.
The cold wasn't just around me—it lived inside the shadows, like a sickness that had learned to speak. Seeping into my skin, freezing my bones.
I tried to rise.
I think I rose.
But my limbs—if they were still there—felt like dead weight, distant echoes I couldn't grasp.
I was moving, but not moving.
I stepped forward toward the light, blindly, dragging myself through the void.
I walked.
And I walked.
For what felt like hours—two, maybe more—time twisted and bled together in this endless emptiness.
The light ahead never grew brighter, never closer.
Then, finally, it did.
I could see it clearer, flickering like a fragile flame desperate to survive the darkness.
So I ran.
I pushed forward, every step a battle against the numbness, the choking cold, the crushing weight pressing down on my chest.
My breath came ragged, heart hammering—not with hope, but with dread.
Because I was not alone.
The shadows held those lights.
Not gently.
They grasped them, twisting and crushing, as if feeding on their fragile glow.
I realized then—horrifyingly—that I had not truly walked all this time.
My arms, my legs—gone.
I couldn't feel them. I couldn't see them.
And that was the worst part.
The absence of pain was a lie, a cruel mask.
Then the pain exploded—raw, sharp, and burning—flooding from places I didn't know were missing.
I screamed.
A scream ripped from the deepest, most broken parts of me—carried on the windless air of this void.
My limbs fell away, my guts spilled out like molten fire.
I was dying.
Alone.
Again.
I was dying.
And it was slow.
Not the kind of death where life is pulled like a cord, quick and clean—This was unraveling.Like my soul was being flayed piece by piece.
My eyes sank into the dark, but my vision remained.A cruel trick of the dream, or whatever this place was.I saw myself—what was left of me—fall apart.My skin peeled in places.My stomach writhed like something lived inside.
There were no screams anymore. Only silence.And my thoughts.My cursed, cursed thoughts.
"This is what I am now. A thought stuck in a corpse. A soul rusted to the marrow."
I waited for it to end.But it didn't.
The pain didn't stop.It grew quieter, not lesser—like a whisper you hear before the blade cuts.And then—
White.
Blinding. Sterile. Silent.
I gasped, but no air came out.I was lying on something soft. Smooth. Cold.
The bed was too smooth, like no one had ever truly laid on it. Like it was pretending to be comfort.
A bed.A white bed.Inside a white room.
The light didn't flicker. It glowed. Controlled. Artificial.It felt… expensive. Like a hospital built for the dead.
I sat up slowly.My eyes dragged across the room like broken camera lenses.No shadows.No blood.No stench.
Just white.
A desk stood across from the bed, like it was waiting.On it—a single pen.
I didn't think.
I stood.
I walked.
The floor didn't creak. My feet made no sound.I was a ghost in a dollhouse.
I picked up the pen.It was heavy.Metal. Sleek. Perfect.
I looked at my reflection in it.Dead eyes.Lips pale.Neck bare.
I didn't hesitate.
With trembling precision, I dug the tip into my throat.It slipped past skin like a whisper.I tore upward.
Blood bloomed, warm and real.It dripped onto the white.It painted purity red.
As I fell, I thought:"If I die here, maybe it will stop. The pain. The memories. The voices. Maybe—finally—it ends."
But it didn't.
I blinked.
I was sitting.
Not lying. Not crawling.Sitting.
In front of me—she moved.
A girl. No, a warrior.Beautiful, deadly, fluid.Her spear traced arcs in the air like silver wind.She didn't even look at me.
The field was green, lush, too vivid to be real.And yet, I could smell the grass.Hear the soft shuffle of her bare feet.Each step perfect. Trained. Timed.
I stared at her, numb.
My jaw clenched.
My mouth opened.
And I bit.
Hard.
I bit down on my tongue like it was the only way out.I wanted to bleed, to choke, to end.
But before flesh could tear—
CRACK.
Pain burst on my cheek.
I blinked.
A spear hovered beside my face—its tip resting against my skin.A thin line of red ran down, shallow but sharp.
She had thrown it.Without looking.Without warning.
Her voice followed, calm but cold:
"Don't. We have a mission to complete."
I froze.
She turned her head, finally.And her eyes—silver and piercing—met mine.
"You're not allowed to die yet. Ascendants don't get to choose death. We finish the mission. Then maybe… maybe you earn it."
I didn't speak.I couldn't.
Her words weren't kind.But they held me.
Not with comfort.
With purpose.
I lowered my jaw slowly.
The pain didn't stop.The hollow inside didn't vanish.But she was real.
And she stopped me.
...and for a second, the silence inside me wasn't gone. But it flinched.
She walked away. The spear returned to her hand like it never left.And I followed. Not because I wanted to.But because I didn't want to stay.