Three weeks had slipped since Verina last saw Victor, each day blurring into the next, weighed down by unspoken truths and a growing sense of incompletion. Despite the chaos swirling in her mind, an invisible thread pulled her back to the church, where Sam's presence had become an unexpected solace.
As she stepped inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and incense enveloped her, wrapping her in a tranquil calm that eased her troubled thoughts. Sam sat on their usual bench, absentmindedly tossing a small stone from hand to hand. When he looked up, a warm smile softened his features.
"You're early today," he remarked, his voice radiating the warmth she needed.
Verina slid onto the bench beside him, her hands knotting in her lap. "I couldn't sleep. There's just… so much on my mind."
Sam tilted his head, concern flickering in his eyes. "Want to talk about it?"
She hesitated, her tangled thoughts pressing down on her chest. How could she express the storm within? "It's everything. I can't shake this feeling that I'm missing something important." Her gaze drifted toward the altar, where flickering candlelight danced in the dim air. "That's why I came here—to seek guidance from Saint Seraphina."
A flicker of curiosity ignited in Sam's eyes. "Saint Seraphina, huh?" He leaned back, his tone shifting to intrigue. "I heard a legend about her that you might find interesting."
Verina's curiosity stirred, cutting through the fog of her unease. "What kind of legend?"
Sam glanced around, ensuring their privacy before lowering his voice. "It's said that Saint Seraphina has a chosen one. But this chosen one isn't just a follower; they're known as her blade."
"Her blade?" Verina echoed, her heart quickening at the words.
"Yeah," Sam continued, his voice on a mysterious edge. "The blade represents her will—a person chosen to carry out her justice in the world. It's not a literal weapon, but a symbol of her power to restore balance."
Verina's pulse raced; the term 'blade' resonated within her, stirring something deep and unexplainable. "So… this blade has a destiny to fulfil?"
Sam nodded, the weight of his words heavy between them. "In every age, there's one who embodies her spirit, destined to confront darkness and restore order. It's an enormous responsibility, but also an honour."
Her mind whirled with possibilities. Could this legend be more than just a story?
"How does someone become this blade?" she whispered, a tremor of fear creeping into her voice.
"That's the tricky part," Sam said, tossing the stone one last time before pocketing it. "Some say the chosen one is born into it, while others believe it happens when life calls them—when something pushes them toward their destiny."
The weight of his words hung in the air, thick with significance. A chill ran down Verina's spine. The idea of being chosen—of having a purpose that transcended her understanding—filled her with both fear and exhilaration. "Do you think anyone could be… that important?"
Sam's expression softened. "I believe we all have a purpose, even if we can't always see it. Maybe you're meant for something bigger than you realize."
For a moment, the church held its breath, and Verina's thoughts churned, the edges of her world shifting ever so slightly. Was she destined for something greater? Or was this just another distraction from the doubts that plagued her?
With a sudden burst of laughter, Sam shattered the tension. "I'm just kidding, Verina! Don't look so serious."
Embarrassment flushed through her, but she managed a smile, even as the weight of his words lingered. "Very funny," she muttered, though her mind continued to whirl.
What if he wasn't entirely joking?
As she stepped outside, a surge of resolve washed over her, mingling with her fears. She was ready to confront whatever lay ahead—to uncover the truth of her past and embrace her potential as the eternal blade of Saint Seraphina. But deep down, questions lingered: Who was she? And was she prepared to accept a destiny that could change everything?
The weight of Sam's words clung to Verina long after their conversation ended, and when sleep finally claimed her, her mind descended into a haunting dream.
She found herself in the shadowy forest, the same dark, mist-filled place that had tormented her. Tonight, the air felt colder, more oppressive, charged with a tension that made her skin crawl. The whispers that usually echoed in the distance were now louder, insistent, as if trying to warn her.
Her feet moved on their own, carrying her deeper into the woods, where the trees twisted unnaturally, their branches forming a maze of shadows. Each step drew her closer to something unseen, something lurking just beyond the mist.
A soft glow pierced the darkness ahead. At first, Verina thought it might be the blade again, that strange weapon from her previous dream. But as she drew closer, her breath caught in her throat.
Through the fog, she saw a figure kneeling on the ground, their posture bent in pain or submission. Before them stood another figure cloaked in darkness, face hidden beneath a hood. The faint light caught the edge of a gleaming blade, raised in the air.
"No…" Verina whispered, trembling, unable to look away. She wanted to scream, to rush forward and stop what was about to happen, but her legs refused to move, as if the shadows had rooted her in place.
The blade came down, swift and merciless.
Blood splattered across the ground, staining the earth beneath the figure. The kneeling person crumpled to the forest floor, lifeless. The one who had delivered the blow stood over them for a moment, staring at their fallen victim before vanishing into the mist without a sound.
Verina's heart pounded, shock freezing her in place. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think—only the vivid image of blood remained etched in her mind. The dark figure's blade gleamed in the shadows, a mockery of her helplessness.
Who had they been? Why had this happened? And why was she forced to witness it?
Suddenly, the ground shifted beneath her, and she stumbled backwards. Her vision blurred, and the mist swirled violently, pulling her toward the place where the lifeless body lay. The shadows, heavy, wrapped around her legs, drawing her closer until she stood directly over the bloodied figure.
Her gaze fell on the lifeless face, and she gasped in horror.
It was her.
The corpse lying at her feet was her. Pale and cold, her unseeing eyes stared back, blood pooling beneath her still form. Verina's knees buckled, breath ragged as she reached out, her trembling hand hovering above herself.
She recoiled, horror flooding her mind, but the scene wouldn't let her escape. The whispers grew louder, demanding she face the truth she wasn't ready to confront.
The figure holding the blade turned slowly, their hood falling back to reveal a face she had never seen but felt she should recognize. Cold eyes locked onto hers, piercing through the mist, as if they knew she was there, watching. The air stilled as their gaze cut through her.
Without a word, the figure wiped the blood from the blade, movements eerily calm, almost ritualistic. Then they spoke, their voice low and venomous, chilling Verina to her core.
"… It is yours."
The voice was unmistakable, carrying a chilling finality. The figure raised the weapon toward her, offering it with a twisted sense of inevitability. "You cannot escape your destiny."
Verina shook her head, backing away as her pulse thundered in her ears. "No, I don't want this!" she cried, her voice cracking with fear.
"You will be next," the figure whispered, their words slicing through the silence like ice.
Suddenly, the forest began to distort; the trees twisted and warped around her as shadows surged forward. The ground gave way beneath her, and she was falling—falling into darkness, the sound of the blade slicing through the air still ringing in her ears.
Verina awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, trembling as if emerging from the depths of a nightmare. Her heart thundered like a war drum, each beat resonating painfully in her ears, mirroring her spiralling thoughts.
Panic gripped her lungs, making every breath shallow and ragged, as if she were drowning in the aftermath of her dream. Instinctively, her hands shot to her throat, searching for an imagined wound, but there was nothing—no blood, no pain. The haunting image of her lifeless body clung to her, searing itself into her mind like a brand, a grotesque memory refusing to fade.
Cold sweat soaked her clothes, clinging to her skin like a shroud as she kicked off the heavy blankets, desperate for air and clarity. The pale dawn light barely reached the corners of her room, casting long shadows that felt alive, creeping closer, amplifying the suffocating dread that settled deep within her bones. The chill in the air felt like fingers of ice wrapping around her spine, igniting her fear with every passing moment.
"What was that dream?" she murmured, her voice barely a whisper as she struggled to piece together the fragmented images. Shadows danced in her mind, whispering dark truths she wasn't ready to confront. Trembling, she buried her face in her hands, the echoes of Sam's words still ringing in her ears, reminding her of the weight of her purpose, of being the blade.
She needed to confront the fear that gripped her heart. "Saint Seraphina…" she breathed, the name slipping from her lips like a prayer. "What does it mean?"
With a surge of determination, Verina swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet on the cold floor. She had to face whatever lay ahead—had to understand her dream, her fears, and the truth of who she was meant to be. There was no turning back now.