The candle flame flickered erratically, casting fractured shadows that crawled across the walls like restless spectres. Verina sat in the dim room, the only light coming from the small, trembling flame. The coin lay cold and silent in her palm, its silver surface glimmering faintly, etched with intricate symbols that seemed to whisper from another time. The room's quiet felt suffocating, thick with an unseen tension, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something to break the silence.
Her finger traced the patterns on the coin. Each curve, each line, seemed to pulse beneath her touch, as if alive with a purpose she could barely comprehend. The man's words echoed in her mind, hollow and sharp: She will need it. The weight of those words pressed down on her like a heavy shroud, suffocating her with their meaning. What did they mean? Why now?
The coin wasn't just a coin—it was something more, something tied to her fate. She could feel it in her bones.
A tremor ran through her as she gripped the coin tighter, willing herself not to feel the chill creeping into her bones. Her heart raced, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive stillness of the room. This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't meant for her—a simple bakery worker lost in the mundane rhythm of flour-dusted days and the sweet scent of rising bread.
Then, suddenly, the surrounding air thickened, and the shadows in the room stretched and warped like dark hands reaching for her. The flame of the candle flared, casting long, grotesque shapes on the walls, and then—nothing. The sharpness of her breath broke the silence, echoing in her ears.
The world rocked. A sickening pull seized her very soul, dragging her from her body, twisting her into a place far removed from her own existence.
The stench of decay hit her first—old stone, dust, and the bitter tang of blood. She stood now in the centre of a vast, cathedral-like hall. Towering statues of forgotten saints loomed in the shadows, their eyes hollow and judgmental. The air pressed against her like a physical weight, suffocating. Shadows clung to the corners, deeper than the mere absence of light, as though something monstrous waited just beyond her vision.
In the centre of the hall stood an altar—blackened and stained. A blade rested upon it, its golden hilt glowing with an unsettling light. Verina's heart hammered in her chest, an instinct to run surging through her. But she couldn't. Something compelled her to step forward. Her footfalls echoed deafeningly in the oppressive silence, swallowed by the vast stone walls that surrounded her.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the blade. The instant her fingers brushed the hilt, the world fractured. A burst of light—blinding and searing—consumed her, and the stone beneath her feet crumbled away.
She gasped for breath, ash choking the air. Each inhalation burned her lungs, but the pain didn't matter. The fire scorched the ground beneath her, the sky above bleeding crimson, a wound pulsing with each beat of an unseen heart. Below her, an army clashed—a sea of soldiers locked in desperate, bloody combat. The stench of sweat, blood, and desperation filled her nostrils. The earth trembled beneath the weight of war, the cacophony of pain and death ringing in her ears.
On a distant hill, a cloaked figure stood unmoving, watching the carnage unfold below. In one hand, the same silver coin she held now glowed, dark tendrils of energy crackling from it, striking the ground and leaving scorched shadows in their wake. The figure raised the coin high, and with it, a wave of darkness surged, swallowing the world whole.
The battlefield dissolved, collapsing into a dense, suffocating forest. Into her lungs pressed the air, heavy and thick. The trees towered above her, their branches skeletal fingers grasping at a sky that felt too small. And there, standing in a clearing, was a woman.
The woman's armour glinted under the faint light that broke through the canopy. Verina's breath hitched in her throat. The woman's face—it was her own, yet not. There was a darkness in her eyes, a weariness far beyond anything Verina could understand. Sorrow and regret filled those eyes, once bright with hope and youth. The same sorrow Verina had heard whispered in the voices of the villagers—stories of the Saint's Blade, a legend of a figure bound to fate and darkness.
The woman stepped closer, her movements deliberate. Her lips moved, whispering something—an ancient language, soft and unintelligible. But the sound… the words tore through Verina like a forgotten lullaby, twisted and corrupted.
Their eyes met, and in that instant, an unspoken question passed between them—one Verina felt deep in her bones. It was a question meant for her, yet the answer eluded her, slipping through her grasp like water.
Then the vision shattered.
Verina gasped, the world snapping back into focus. The surrounding room was too small, too tight. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. She felt the coin in her palm, cold and sharp. Her fingers were numb, but the coin was still there, the weight of it pulling her down. Her mind raced, her thoughts crashing together in a chaotic blur. She staggered to the window, desperate for something normal. Outside, the village lay still, bathed in the indifferent glow of the moon.
The coin was warm now, its surface alive with heat. She squeezed it tighter, as though it could anchor her to this world, this life. The coin is a key; the thought whispered in her mind, cold and undeniable. But to what? What was she unlocking?
She pressed her forehead to the glass; the coolness doing little to ease the burning weight in her chest. Outside, the village was still, its quiet mocking the storm inside her. Nothing had changed, but everything had.
The coin burned in her hand, its warmth seeping into her skin, anchoring her to a reality that no longer made sense. She wasn't meant for this. Yet here she was, trapped in visions, bound by an object she couldn't understand.
The woman's face—twisted by sorrow—haunted her thoughts. A question had passed between them, unspoken, yet it lingered in her bones. Why her?
Her breath hitched, the air pressing in on her, suffocating. The coin pulsed in her palm, alive with heat and something darker, a promise, a burden she couldn't escape. She wanted to scream, to run, but she couldn't. The coin was the key, and she had no choice but to face whatever it unlocked.
Tomorrow. She would go to the Church of Saint Seraphina. The answers were there, buried in the silence, in the prayers. But what if there was no way back? The thought pressed down on her chest, and with it, the bitter truth: She wasn't just caught in this. She was at its centre.