Layla hated dreaming. She could never remember a time when she had a pleasant one. Even on the nights when her mother would sing her to sleep over the sounds of her father's drunk raving, her gentle fingers running through Layla's hair. She would still dream about waking up and finding herself, left alone only in her stiff bed and threadbare sheets until one day it was no longer a dream.
Not even when she was sold off into priesthood, where she was given three meals a day and a warmer bed, did her dream reflect any positive on looks. She dreamed of barred windows and chained cuffs that kept her locked away in the sanctuary with whispers of how special she was and how honored she should be to serve the gods. 'Such a pure soul like you, it is only what's right.' They would whisper. Those dreams were a reality too.
