Danuski woke in the dead of night-not to a sound, but to a suffocating sensation, as if his very skin was on fire. The room was drenched in silence, yet his body waged an invisible war: sweat poured in torrents, as though a hidden heat roasted his flesh slowly. Sharp stings, like poisoned needles, pierced his back, climbing his shoulders to rest at his neck, turning every breath into a burdensome struggle.
He leaned against the cold wall behind him, hoping its chill might absorb some of the inner blaze, and whispered in a tense murmur:
"This is the second night ... what on earth is happening to me? What is this weight?" He tried to sit up, but his muscles refused to obey. His blanket-once a sanctuary for sleep-had become a wet rag, amplifying the shiver of fear crawling through his limbs. He feared illness would strike before he could understand the cause. With a laborious motion, as if carrying mountains on his shoulders, he dragged himself toward the bathroom, driven by the instinct to cleanse this corruption. The Mirror and the Horror
Before the mirror, his heart skipped a beat. His neck had taken on a strange brown hue, alien to his pale skin. He reached out to touch it-and pain erupted instantly: an insane itch and throbbing agony radiated with every tilt of his head. He shut the door firmly, as if danger could
be trapped behind it, and began peeling off the heavy garments that had nearly suffocated him.
Pouring water gently over his body, he tried to soothe the burning sensation-but then his eyes caught something unexpected. Amid the folds of fabric lying on the floor, between the tangled threads, he saw movement: tiny insects writhing in the dim lamplight. He did not scream; instead, he steadied himself and crushed them underfoot, repulsed, before finishing his bath. The Harsh Truth
Returning to the mirror, the brown hue began to fade back to his natural skin tone, though the ache lingered like a memory beneath the flesh. He glanced at his clothes: the imposing garments of the Seagull Clan. Broad at the edges, complex in their folds, adorned with buttons that reflected the grandeur of their history. When he pulled a water bucket from the well to rinse them, blood ran cold in his veins: this time, the insects were larger, with tiny eggs clinging to the fibers as if part of the fabric itself, In that moment, Danuski realized the bitter truth: these creatures did not attack him from the outside-they lived, breathed, and reproduced within the very "symbol of his clan's greatness." The clan's clothing, meant to protect, had become a fertile for silently
ground
a nightmare
growing.