The battlefield stretched endlessly, a grim expanse of death and decay. Bodies littered the once-vibrant plains, now soaked in blood and muck. The stench of rot mixed with the metallic tang of burning flesh, thickening the air. Ash blotted out the sun, casting the world in shades of grey, cold and uncaring.
Einar stood amidst it all, his crimson eyes wide but distant, the weight of the war pulling his body down like lead. His sword—an extension of himself—was clenched in his shaking hand, the grip slick with sweat and blood. He couldn't remember whose blood it was. His? Someone else's? It didn't matter. Not here. Not now. The pain had faded into the background long ago, overshadowed by exhaustion and something far worse: hopelessness.
"Einar!"
The voice sliced through the chaos like a knife. He turned, slowly, his movements sluggish. His eyes locked on her. Celestia.
Her golden hair, usually so bright and beautiful, was matted with grime and streaked with blood, her armor dented and scratched. She was exhausted, pale, and barely holding on, but there was still fire in her eyes—stubborn, defiant fire. She had always been like that, hadn't she?
She was the only thing left in this nightmare that made sense.
"He's coming," she panted, the words barely audible through her laboured breath. Her lips were cracked, voice thin, as though the effort to speak had drained her of what little energy she had left. Her hands, usually so steady, shook where they gripped her sword.
Einar followed her gaze, his breath catching in his throat. Emerging from the shadows, the hulking figure of a creature dragged itself across the battlefield. It had once been a dragon, majestic and terrifying. Now, it was a twisted, rotting thing. Its scales peeled away in strips, revealing festering wounds beneath. The creature's wings hung useless, dripping foul liquid, and its eyes—once glowing with power—now burned with a sickly, yellowed corruption.
Something deep in Einar's gut twisted violently. It wasn't just the creature's appearance that terrified him. No, it was the familiarity. As if staring at this monstrosity was like looking into a cracked mirror. A reflection of a future he was afraid would become his own.
"You're weak, Einar," the figure rasped, its voice like stone grinding against stone. "You can't protect her. You can't protect anyone."
Einar clenched his teeth. He could feel the sweat rolling down his face, stinging his eyes. His muscles screamed in protest, his lungs burning for air, but the words—those words—cut deeper than any sword. Protect her? He had failed. He could feel it in every fibre of his being. The battlefield was a graveyard, and he was a living ghost, too exhausted to die, too damned to survive.
The laugh that threatened to bubble up in his chest died before it reached his lips.
"We have to end this," he muttered, though the words were hollow, drained of conviction.
Celestia nodded, though the tremble in her hands betrayed her fear. "We will," she whispered, as if trying to convince herself. Her voice was barely more than a prayer.
The figure laughed, a hollow, jagged sound. "End this?" it mocked, stepping forward, the ground beneath it wilting and blackening with each stride. "You think you can end this? You can't even end yourself."
Einar barely had time to register the words before a sharp pain flared in his side. The figure's claws had struck deep, tearing through his armour and flesh. His breath hitched, vision blurring as the pain spread, hot and searing. Instinctively, his hand flew to the wound, feeling the wet warmth of his blood spilling out in a slow, steady stream.
He staggered, the world spinning, his body betraying him. The realization came crashing down on him with brutal clarity: he was dying.
"How…" He tried to speak, but his voice failed him, choked off by the taste of blood in his mouth. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the ground, the cold, wet earth soaking into his clothes. His sword fell from his grasp, landing with a lifeless thud beside him.
His vision dimmed, the edges darkening as his strength drained away. He could hear the muffled sounds of the battle still raging around him, but it felt distant now, like a bad dream.
Through the haze, he saw her. Celestia, running toward him, her face twisted in fear, desperation etched into every line of her features.
"Einar!" Her voice cracked, breaking under the weight of her terror. She was so close, yet so impossibly far away.
He tried to move, to reach for her, but his body was numb, the pain a distant echo now. His fingers twitched, but that was all. He was too weak. Too broken.
"Run…" He tried to say the word, to tell her to leave him, but his voice had abandoned him entirely. Celestia's face, now only inches from his own, blurred as the darkness closed in, wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket.
And in that moment, he hated himself—hated the fear he saw in her eyes. He had failed her. He had failed himself. And now, there was nothing left but the silence.
The last thing he saw before the world went black was her face, her lips moving in a wordless plea.
** **
Einar woke with a gasp, his body jerking upright, drenched in cold sweat. His heart hammered against his ribs, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. For a moment, the battlefield was still there—he could smell the blood, the ash, the death. He could feel the wound in his side, burning, throbbing with a pain that was far too real.
But when his hand flew to his side, there was nothing. No blood. No wound. Just smooth, unmarked skin.
The room around him was dark, silent, the air cool against his fevered skin. Reality, cold and unforgiving, settled in around him. It had been a dream. Just a dream.
But not just any dream. A memory of sorts.
Einar sank back against the bed, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. His breath slowed, but the tightness in his chest remained, a dull ache that wouldn't fade. He stared up at the ceiling, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a shroud.
For months now, these visions had haunted him, growing sharper, more vivid. They weren't just dreams. They were something more—something ancient, something that felt like truth. And always, always, she was there.
"Celestia" her name slipped from his lips in a whisper, a faint plea and a curse all at once. He didn't know who she was, but she knew him. She had loved him, fought for him, bled for him. He felt it, deep in his bones.
But none of it was real. At least, it shouldn't have been. And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was.
Einar's legs felt heavy as he got out of his bed, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a damp mist. His heart was still pounding, his mind replaying the last image of Celestia's face before the blackness swallowed him. There was a strange hollowness inside him now, like something important had been torn away in that moment, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was.
A gentle knock sounded on his door, pulling him from the fog. His mother's voice followed, soft but firm.
"Einar? Breakfast is ready."
He closed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering weight of the dream. Celestia's name was still on his lips, but it tasted bitter, like something forbidden.
"I'm coming," he called out, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the cold wooden floor, grounding him, pulling him back into the world of the living. But his mind kept drifting, still trapped in the battlefield, in the blood and the dying. And her.
He dressed quickly and made his way to the kitchen, the smell of fresh bread and warm herbs wafting through the house. It was comforting, familiar—but it did little to ease the tightness in his chest.
** **
As he entered the kitchen, he saw his mother, Lyna, setting the table. Her ember-red hair, so much like Alice's, glowed softly in the morning light. Her green eyes, always sharp and full of quiet strength, softened when she looked up and saw him. But Einar caught the slight tightening of her brow, the quick flicker of concern that flashed across her face before she masked it.
"Another dream?" she asked, her voice calm, yet Einar could hear the undercurrent of tension.
He nodded, sinking into his usual chair at the table. He could feel her eyes on him, studying his face, looking for the answers he wasn't ready to give. The pendant around her neck—a crystal inscribed with delicate runes—caught the light as she moved, faintly pulsing. He had seen that pendant for as long as he could remember, but today, it seemed...different.
"What was it about this time?" Lyna's voice was carefully neutral, but he could hear the weight behind it.
For months, they had danced around this topic. He had told her about the dreams, about the battles, about the strange magic that felt as natural as breathing. She had listened, always calm, always reassuring, but never offering more than vague reassurances. Never giving him the truth.
This time, though, he couldn't keep it in any longer. He needed answers.
"I was on a battlefield," he began slowly, his gaze fixed on the worn wooden table. "There was a woman with me. Her name was Celestia."
He glanced up just in time to catch the flicker of recognition in his mother's eyes. It was so brief, so carefully hidden, that he almost missed it. But he didn't. It was like a knife twisting in his gut. She knew. She had always known.
"Einar," Lyna began, her tone gentle but firm, "you've been having these dreams for a while now. They're just that—dreams."
"Dreams don't feel this real," he said, his voice tightening with frustration. "I can feel the pain, the blood...it's too vivid. And this woman, Celestia—she feels real. Like I know her, but I've never seen her before. How do I explain that?"
His mother's fingers tightened around the pendant, her knuckles whitening. She said nothing for a moment, her eyes drifting to the window, as if searching for something—some way to deflect the truth.
"It's...not uncommon," she said finally, but her voice lacked conviction. "Sometimes dreams can feel real when your mind is troubled."
Einar clenched his fists under the table. He could feel the frustration building, but he couldn't bring himself to push her further. He trusted her—he had always trusted her—but this wall between them was suffocating him. He wanted to tear it down, but the fear of what lay beyond held him back.
"Maybe," he muttered, his voice low, though he didn't believe it.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the unspoken tension between them. The clinking of silverware as Lyna continued setting the table felt loud in the quiet house, but it did little to break the awkwardness.
Just when the silence became unbearable, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the stairs. The tension shattered as Alice, with her usual burst of energy, rushed into the room, her bright voice cutting through the unease like sunlight through storm clouds.
"Brother!" she called, her excitement bubbling over as she practically bounced into the kitchen. "Are we still going to training today? You promised we'd go to Iris Lake."
Her fiery red hair shimmered in the morning light, and her green eyes, so much like their mother's, sparkled with anticipation. She was a whirlwind of hope and youthful optimism, blissfully unaware of the dark clouds that had settled over the breakfast table.
Einar blinked, the weight of his dream momentarily lifting in the face of Alice's relentless enthusiasm. For a second, just a brief moment, he almost smiled.
"Yeah," he said, though his voice was still rough from lack of sleep. "We're still going. But first, I need to pick up the sword from Bron. It won't take long."
Alice's expression soured, her lips pulling into a pout that Einar recognized all too well. She folded her arms, tilting her head in a way that always preceded an argument.
"You said that last time," she huffed. "Don't make me wait all day, Einar. If you're late, I'll go without you."
He raised an eyebrow at her, amused despite himself. "You? Go to the lake alone? You'd get lost before you even reached the forest."
"I would not!" she shot back, her voice rising with mock indignation. "And this time, I'm going to find my magic element, just you watch. I've been practicing."
Einar chuckled, though it sounded heavier than usual. "Alright, alright. I'll be quick, I promise. I wouldn't want to miss your big moment."
Alice beamed, her stubborn pout dissolving into a grin. "You'd better not. This is the day I unlock my magic, I can feel it."
Across the room, Lyna watched the exchange with a small smile, though her eyes held a sadness that only Einar could see. It was as though every laugh, every moment of joy, was shadowed by something darker. Something she carried alone.
She cleared her throat softly, breaking the quiet between them. "Don't keep her waiting too long, Einar," she said, her voice gentle but with a hint of caution. "You know how impatient she can get."
He nodded, pushing back his chair and standing. As he did, his eyes caught the crystal pendant around her neck again. The faint pulsing glow from before—it wasn't his imagination. He could have sworn it pulsed in time with her heartbeat, like it was alive.
"I'll be back before noon," he said, more to himself than anyone else. But even as he said it, the strange feeling of unease gnawed at him, the weight of the dream still pressing down on him like a shadow he couldn't shake.
Alice stood up as well, her excitement practically vibrating in the air. "Don't be late," she warned again, though her smile betrayed her good mood. "This is going to be the day, I know it."
Einar forced a grin, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just try not to blow up the lake when you do."
Alice's laughter filled the room, light and full of life, a stark contrast to the heavy thoughts swirling in Einar's mind.
As he turned to leave, he felt his mother's gaze linger on him longer than usual. When he glanced back, her green eyes were watching him intently, and her hand was gripping the pendant tightly, as if she were holding on to something far more important than just a piece of jewellery.
"You should hurry," Lyna said softly, her smile strained. "Alice has waited long enough."
Einar nodded once, the strange feeling of dread still gnawing at him, but he forced it down. There was no time for it now. He had a sword to collect and promises to keep. Whatever was happening in his dreams, whatever his mother was hiding—it would have to wait.
The morning air was cool and crisp as he stepped outside, but it did little to chase away the weight in his chest. The world felt heavier today, like something unseen was shifting in the shadows, waiting for him.
But that was a problem for later. Today, he had to be there for Alice.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd find a way to make sense of the dreams that wouldn't let him go.