"Don't you ever fucking talk back to me again!"
I'm choking on my own blood. I gasp, struggling for air, my vision blurring as a searing pressure builds in my chest. The sensation of suffocation wraps its fingers around my throat, and my face flushes red from the lack of oxygen. Panic swells, and I thrash, trying to pull each breath into my lungs, clawing desperately at something that isn't there.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops. I wake up, jerking upright, my heart hammering against my ribcage. The world around me snaps into focus, a dimly lit room with pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. For a few moments, the terror lingers. Then I remember. It was just a dream. No, not just a dream—it was the past. The dream is finally over.
Some might call it a nightmare, a vision conjured only to torment me, but they misunderstand. Yes, these dreams are painful, suffocating, but they are necessary reminders of where I came from. They keep me grounded, force me to remember who I once was and the promises I made to myself. Without those experiences, how could I understand who I am now? They also serve as a warning—a stark reminder of what awaits me if I ever stray from my path. A reminder that even in peace, the shadow of my past is never far behind.
This was my first night in a real room—one with walls, a ceiling that seemed to soar above me, and no trace of wind sneaking through the seams of a tattered tent. I had grown accustomed to the cold embrace of canvas shelters, with makeshift beds pressed against damp earth. This room felt like heaven compared to those days. The bed was large, with thick, soft blankets that swallowed me whole, as if trying to protect me from the horrors I faced within my own mind. There was a desk with polished wood, and beside it, a chair made of sturdy oak that didn't creak with every movement. A wardrobe stood in the corner, filled with clothes that had been neatly folded and pressed, waiting for me like old friends.
Across from the bed was a large mirror, its surface reflecting the faintest glint of moonlight. I stood before it, studying my reflection—skin still pale and clammy, hair in disarray from restless sleep. Yet it was me, standing tall. I was still here. I was alive. The ceiling above, so high I could stretch my arms without fear of bumping my head, seemed to promise me freedom.
I slipped into my uniform, the fabric stiff but comforting, a symbol of duty that kept me focused, and then poured myself a cup of freshly brewed coffee. The rich scent filled my senses, awakening me further, and I stepped out onto the balcony to greet the dawn. I wasn't greeted by gunfire or the deep rumble of artillery shells, but by the crisp air and a scene of life and vitality. Below, a group of recruits was running—young, energetic, the future. They moved with a mix of determination and exhaustion, their faces flushed, sweat trickling down their foreheads as the morning sun slowly crept over the horizon.
I watched them closely, my eyes catching on a young boy near the back of the group. His face was streaked with tears, and his hands were raised above his head in a pose of pure endurance. His legs pumped forward, driven by something deeper than mere training. His comrades, sensing his struggle, cheered him on, and he responded, raising one trembling arm in a victory salute as he reached the end of his route. He collapsed to the ground, gasping, his tears now mixed with laughter as his fellow soldiers gathered around, clapping him on the back.
A round of applause followed, and a flicker of emotion touched me. Strength of spirit like his is rare, and it's a shame that we don't hold our leaders—the ones who send these young men to war—to the same expectations of perseverance and sacrifice. These recruits reminded me of our ragtag days, when we were merely a rebellion—a group of desperate souls bound by a shared need for survival. We had no real training, no discipline, just a fire that refused to be extinguished.
"Outstanding!" I called down, my voice cutting through the morning air, commanding yet filled with pride. My applause echoed across the courtyard.
For a moment, the drill instructor paused, staring up at the balcony to identify me. I was too far away, a vague silhouette wrapped in the uniform of a superior officer, or perhaps just someone unhinged enough to demand their respect.
"Platoon, fall in!" the instructor barked, choosing to err on the side of caution.
The recruits snapped to attention, their backs straightening as they formed a perfect line. A synchronized salute followed, their hands rising with precision. I returned the gesture, then motioned for them to resume their training. The scene stirred something within me—envy, perhaps. They were learning honor, discipline, the values we had never been able to teach ourselves back when we fought like starving wolves over scraps. I looked forward to what these young soldiers would become—our future leaders, ones forged with steel and principle rather than desperation.
***
Today, I was to accompany the chancellor as one of his military advisors at the first press conference of this new era. Democratization had flooded our country with newly independent news outlets, each one hungry for a story, hoping to capture the essence of our fragile rebirth. The carriage ride to the congress building was long, and the city unfolded around me through the window. I let my gaze wander, taking in the architecture—buildings pressed close, their walls unique in their designs, a patchwork of colors and shapes that created a vivid tapestry of life.
Not all streets were lucky enough to be untouched by the war's cruelty. We passed through areas still marred by destruction—rubble piled along the streets, and the remnants of old lives waiting to be cleared. I saw people working, their faces tired but determined, hauling stones and shattered wood, trying to rebuild some semblance of normalcy.
At a large intersection, shops lined the street, their windows filled with goods—books, magazines, snacks, and even used armor, anything that might tempt someone to buy and help them keep their livelihoods. The economy bore the scars of the empire's ambition, and many of these small businesses were on the brink of collapse. Unemployment was rising, and now the people looked to the new government for a miracle. It felt as though we were all balancing on a knife's edge—one wrong step, and everything would fall apart. Another revolution, another round of suffering, loomed if we couldn't find our footing.
The citadel building loomed ahead—an imposing stone structure, its dome towering over the rest of the city. Despite its size, there was something warm about it, a sense of hope emanating from its walls. Inside, the reception hall buzzed with activity, journalists and their assistants bustling about, preparing for what was to come.
My eyes were drawn to one journalist standing alone, apart from the crowd. She seemed different—not because of her appearance, but because of her posture, her focus. She wasn't rehearsing questions or fixing her hair for the cameras. She stood ready, alert, like someone looking for an opportunity to seize.
"Excuse me, sir, are you attending the press conference?" she asked, her voice direct and clear, without any hesitation or introduction.
I glanced at her, my expression hardening. "No comment."
To my surprise, she didn't falter. Her gaze remained steady, her expression unchanging—no fear, no sign of being intimidated. Just a raw determination that matched my own.
"Do you know what the chancellor will discuss in his opening statement?" she pressed on.
"No comment," I repeated, more forcefully this time.
She nodded, as if expecting my answer, then extended a small business card. "I understand. Still, if you have anything you want to share, please reach out to me."
I took the card, more intrigued than I wanted to admit. I walked away without another word.
***
The briefing room was a cacophony of muttering voices, each advisor giving the chancellor updates, their respective fields summarized in quick bursts. I found my place at the long table, opening my briefcase and pretending to review my documents. In truth, my presence here was mostly symbolic. The chancellor would face questions on economic policy, on reconstruction—topics that had little to do with my expertise. Yet I remained, because security, especially in our current state, was more fragile than anyone cared to admit. Neighboring countries were watching, their militaries arming up, their leaders sensing our vulnerability.
When the chancellor rose to head to the podium, I noticed the exhaustion etched into his face. He mumbled to himself, rehearsing answers, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped his brow. The doors swung open, and the room filled with journalists, photographers, and more people than expected. There were too many—standing at the back, crowding the walls. The chancellor began to speak, his voice steady, but I could feel a tension in the air.
My gaze drifted to the corner of the room, and there she was—the journalist from earlier, scribbling notes with a ferocity that almost made me smile. My fingers played with the business card she had given me. "Aurora Snow: Political Journalist"—a name that spoke of boldness, a desire to carve a place for herself.
But something felt wrong. My instincts, honed by years of war, began to scream at me. I scanned the room, and my eyes fell on a group near the back—four, maybe five of them. They held notebooks and pens, but none were writing. Their eyes shifted from the chancellor to the guards, watching their movements, calculating.
I hesitated. Was I imagining things? Acting out of paranoia could cost me my reputation, make me look foolish.
"Traitorous demons!" a voice suddenly bellowed from the back.
"Nothing but rebel dogs in fancy clothing!" Another voice joined in.
The head of security moved, a desperate rush toward the chancellor, but time seemed to slow as a deafening pop shattered the air. A gunshot, then another, and another. The crowd erupted in chaos—shouts, screams, the sounds of people scrambling for cover. The head of security hit the ground, and I dropped behind my seat, instinct taking over as a bullet whizzed by, striking the wall where I'd been a moment before.
Now behind a pillar, I peered out. The shooters were gone, blending into the panicked crowd as they surged for the exits. The guards hesitated, their rifles ready but unable to shoot without risking civilian lives. My eyes swept the room, desperately searching.
And then I saw it. The podium.
There was the chancellor, slumped to the ground, his blood spreading across the marble floor.
"Hey... hey! Get a medic!" I shouted, my voice cracking with urgency. "The chancellor has fallen!"
Time seemed to freeze. The fear that had haunted me since the beginning—the fragility of all we'd built—had materialized before my eyes. The dream was over, and reality was now a nightmare.