Arami. The name was his sole possession, an anchor in a sea of unknowing. He was awakened not by a sound or a touch, but by the silent pull of the moon. The mattress beneath him was firm, woven from dry straw and covered with a coarse linen cloth, yet there was an honest comfort in it—a solid foundation in a world that felt so fragile. With slow, careful movements, as if his body were a borrowed vessel he was just learning to use, Arami lowered his feet to the cold wooden floor. Each plank groaned softly beneath his weight, the quiet friction sounding like a whisper in the thick night silence.
He walked to the window, each step a conscious effort. A faint pain still throbbed in his head, no longer a raging storm, but the aftershock of an earthquake—a constant reminder of the devastation he had endured. Why? he thought. Why does this pain still exist even after the dream gave me a name? He wasn't sure. Perhaps a name was merely a label for an empty, fractured vessel.
The moonlight called to him. Arami leaned forward, resting both hands on the rough window frame. The cool night air brushed against his face, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. He looked up, at the silver disc suspended in a sea of black velvet, so bright the surrounding stars seemed shy. When his eyes fell back to earth, sweeping across the grassy courtyard below, he saw her.
Someone.
In the middle of the courtyard, bathed in spectral light, a figure was moving. Her hands were outstretched, turning with an unfeigned grace, painting invisible circles in the air. Her feet moved in intricate steps, sometimes swift as the wind, sometimes slow as dripping honey, following a rhythm only she could hear. Was she dancing? Arami didn't know. This was not a dance of celebration or joy. This was something else. Something more primal. Her movements were a ritual, a prayer given form through motion, a silent conversation with the moon and the shadows.
Arami continued to watch the person, or rather, the woman. Her long, dark hair whipped around her like black silk each time she spun, catching the moonlight and reflecting it back. The simple white dress she wore seemed to glow, making her look like an apparition, a forest spirit emerged to dance under the sky's vigil.
Arami watched her, mesmerized, hypnotized. He didn't know how long he had been standing there—minutes or perhaps an hour. Time seemed to lose its meaning, melting into a single, repeating moment. But the woman? She remained, tireless, her movements never faltering, as if she could dance forever.
And then, she stopped.
Abruptly, in the middle of her most graceful spin, she came to a dead halt. Her body was facing directly toward Arami's window.
The woman... she sees me. She's staring at me.
Even from this distance, Arami could feel the intensity of her gaze. It was not an ordinary look. It was a gaze that pierced through wood, glass, and darkness, stabbing directly into his soul. It was a gaze of recognition. She knew he was there.
Arami stared back, unable to look away. And that's when something strange happened. He felt his strength being siphoned away, as if invisible threads had extended from the woman and were pulling the life energy from him. His legs, which had been firmly supporting him, now felt like jelly. His knees trembled. A cold weakness crept up from his feet, paralyzing his muscles.
What's happening? he thought in a panic. His vision began to tremble at the edges. The woman in the courtyard remained motionless, a marble statue under the moon, her eyes locked on Arami.
Move, my body! Back away! Hide! Arami screamed inside his head. But his body wouldn't obey. He was frozen in place, pinned by the mysterious woman's stare, feeling his strength drain away, drop by drop, into the silent night.
Her gaze was an anchor, drowning me. Slowly, my vision began to surrender. The edges of the moonlit world softened, then bled into a hazy watercolor. Indistinct. It grew blurrier and blurrier, the silver and black swirling into a formless grey vortex. Finally, total darkness swallowed me, a black velvet curtain descending with absolute silence. I couldn't see. My body was a rebel; it no longer obeyed my commands. My strength was gone, my muscles slackened like heated wax. What is happening? Who is that woman? Don't mess with me! A silent scream echoed within my hollow skull.
CRASH!
The sound exploded in my silence, the loud bang of a wooden plank being struck, followed by a series of thuds and the clatter of shattering clay. The sound of a woman gasping in shock and falling. The darkness in my eyes fractured, replaced by a flash of light and a piercing pain in the back of my head.
"Ah... my head hurts..." I whispered to myself, my voice raspy. My hand instinctively rose to cradle the back of my head, where a sharp throbbing was centered. I was no longer standing by the window. I was lying on the floor, beside the bed. "Wait... was that a dream?" The dream of a dancing woman, of my strength being drained... was it all just a hallucination?
Arami slowly pushed himself up, leaning his back against the bedframe. His still-focusing eyes fixed on the source of the chaos. On the floor, not far from him, a pile of food—steaming oat porridge, chunks of red berries, and toasted bread—was scattered among the shards of a broken bowl. And in the midst of it all, a young woman was kneeling. Not the dancing woman from his dream. This was another girl, perhaps a servant, who was now staring at the spilled food with an expression of such pure heartbreak.
"Are you... alright? I'm sorry," I said, the words coming out sincerely. I didn't know what had happened, but a vague guilt began to creep over me.
The woman flinched as if only just noticing my presence. She quickly scrambled to her feet, her simple clothes now stained with porridge and some kind of herbal drink. She didn't raise her head; she just bowed deeply, her shoulders trembling violently. Without a word, she turned and practically fled from the room, her choked sobs faintly audible down the hall.
What happened? Did I fall and knock into her? Was it my fault? The questions floated in my mind, but I quickly dismissed them. It didn't matter now. Something else felt more pressing.
Arami used the bed to pull himself to his feet, choosing the left side since the right side of the floor had become a sticky canvas of chaos. His body felt unstable, as if the connection between his mind and limbs had been stretched to the breaking point. He walked unsteadily, his hands pressing against his still-throbbing temples. Each step was an experiment, like a baby learning to walk for the first time, rediscovering his balance.
With slow but steady steps, he returned to the window—the scene of his nightmare. The world outside was now alive and vibrant. The morning sun bathed the settlement in a warm light. People bustled along the packed-earth paths. Some wore simple cotton clothes, busy with their daily chores. Others, groups of sturdy men and women, wore chainmail reinforced with bone plates, carrying bows on their backs and shortswords at their hips. Are they the Phylakes? The guards Aelia had mentioned. They conversed in low voices, their eyes ever-watchful, scanning their surroundings. The common folk carried baskets filled with fresh vegetables and game, their laughter and chatter creating a melody of normal life. A normality that felt so distant from my own experience.
Arami returned to his bed, sat on its edge, and simply stared at the overlapping wooden rooftops. He tried to understand.
A soft knock came at the door, followed by the creak of hinges as it opened.
"Varthas?" I asked, recognizing the stately silhouette even before my eyes could adjust.
It was him. Varthas stepped inside. But he was not alone. Behind him, head still bowed, was the servant girl who had fled. Beside her stood another young man, perhaps not much older than Aelia, but built sturdy and rough, with a firm jaw and a sharp, suspicious glare.
"How rude, newcomer!" the young man snapped, his voice harsh and accusatory. "You must address him by his proper title! Call him Lord!"
Varthas glanced briefly at the young man, then his gaze returned to me. There was an unreadable glint in his eyes, perhaps amusement, perhaps agreement. "Correct," he said, his voice calm but carrying a new weight. "Quite right, Gaius." He folded his arms across his chest, his posture radiating undeniable authority.
"Call me, Lord Varthas," he continued, his voice now loud and clear, filling every corner of the room. It was no longer an introduction; it was a command.