Echoes That Would Not Sleep
The night was quiet.
Too quiet.
Vanella lay still on the narrow bed allotted to her, eyes open, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep hovered close, but never fully claimed her. Every time she closed her eyes, her chest tightened—as if something unseen pressed against her ribs, demanding attention.
Then it came.
Not like a dream.
Like being pulled.
Cold swept over her skin. The air thickened. Her breath caught—and suddenly, she was no longer in the palace.
She stood barefoot on stone slick with moisture.
Chains.
The sound reached her first—metal scraping against stone, slow, deliberate. Her heart slammed against her chest.
"Laura…"
The name left her lips without permission.
The space shifted.
A narrow chamber. Pale light bleeding through slits in the wall. And there—curled against iron bars, wrists bound, hair tangled with blood—was Laura.
Alive.
Vanella's knees nearly gave way.
Laura's face was thinner, bruised, but her eyes—those familiar, stubborn eyes—burned with defiance even as tears slid down her cheeks. A man stood before her, his back to Vanella, his voice sharp with disgust.
"You will apologize," he said. "Or rot."
Vanella recognized him.
Her father's right hand.
The traitor.
Rage surged so violently that the space trembled. Water seeped from the stones beneath Vanella's feet, unnoticed by her, pooling faintly.
"No," Laura whispered. "I would rather die."
The scene fractured.
Vanella gasped—and the vision dragged her onward.
Ross.
Or what remained of it.
Charred rooftops. Empty streets. Banners torn down and replaced with unfamiliar sigils. People moved slowly, heads bowed, fear etched into their bones. Soldiers watched from corners like vultures.
A woman whispered to another, voice low and broken.
"They say the royal line is gone."
"They say we belong to new masters now."
Vanella clutched her chest.
She saw children working fields meant for men. Elderly nobles reduced to laborers. The great halls of Ross—once filled with music and laughter—now cold, occupied by strangers.
And then—
Laura again.
Kneeling.
Head bowed.
Pretending.
Vanella felt it then—the lie wrapped around her friend like chains heavier than iron. Survival masquerading as submission.
"Don't," Vanella whispered, tears sliding silently into her hair. "Please don't break."
Laura's head lifted suddenly.
For a heartbeat—just one—it felt like she looked straight at Vanella.
The vision shattered.
Vanella bolted upright, gasping, hands clutching her sheets. Her skin was damp. The basin nearby rippled, water sloshing violently before settling.
She pressed a hand to her mouth to silence the sob that threatened to escape.
Laura was alive.
Ross was not dead—but it was suffering.
And someone was wearing her father's crown.
Vanella swung her legs off the bed, resolve hardening like steel beneath her grief.
"I won't stay blind anymore," she whispered into the dark.
From this night onward, she would begin searching—not recklessly, not openly—but carefully. Quiet questions. Hidden paths. Clues buried in whispers and glances.
Because Ross was bleeding.
And Laura was waiting.