A resigned sigh escaped my lips as I sank into the comforting softness of my bed. The weight of the day pressed down on me, heavier than the exhaustion I should have felt from school. For most students, life followed a predictable rhythm: home, school, maybe a club, then back home. But not for me. My path diverged sharply.
Every day after school, my siblings and I trudged to the old temple on the outskirts of town for training that felt like walking a tightrope between life and death. Our master, a strict yet mysterious martial artist, shaped each lesson to our limits—and sometimes beyond. Each strike, each fall, was meant to make us stronger. To prepare us for what was out there.
"I won't let that happen again," I whispered to the ceiling, my fists clenched as Allyson's glowing eyes burned in my memory. The words tasted bitter, like a promise I couldn't break. My chest tightened as the memory of that terrible day clawed its way into my mind—Allyson's rage, the bullies' screams, and the way the world had shifted beneath my feet.
The bullies had been relentless, feeding on Allyson's quiet nature. She was their perfect prey, always the one to turn the other cheek. I remembered finding her that afternoon behind the school, cornered like a frightened animal. They pushed her, hit her, sneered. Fury had blinded me, and I lunged to protect her. But they were too strong. They threw me against the wall, and pain erupted in my head as I crumpled to the ground.
Then, everything changed. Allyson wasn't Allyson anymore. Her trembling fear melted into something primal, raw. Her eyes glowed with an unearthly light, and power I didn't understand exploded from her. She didn't just fight back—she crushed them. It was terrifying, and exhilarating, until Master arrived and pulled her from the edge of destruction.
The memory left a bitter aftertaste, and the helplessness I felt that day lingered like a shadow. Allyson's transformation haunted me. If it happened again, would I be able to stop it? Would I be able to protect her?
I closed my eyes, expecting sleep to claim me. Instead, the bed vanished, replaced by the gritty texture of sand beneath my fingers. A cool, damp breeze brushed my cheeks. My eyes snapped open.
The ceiling was gone, replaced by a sky smeared with hues of twilight. The sea stretched out before me, vast and shimmering, split by a golden sandbar leading to a tiny, distant island.
"Okay, calm down, Anne. Think," I whispered aloud, panic tightening its grip. I went to school, trained, went home, and fell asleep. So why am I here?" I glanced around, bewildered. The breeze blew again, carrying with it a strange serenity that didn't match my growing fear.
I stood up, brushing sand from my clothes. This has to be a dream. The vibrant colors, the surreal tranquility—everything was too perfect, too vivid. Yet, it felt real. Each step I took was heavy with uncertainty, the sand shifting beneath my feet.
Ahead, a simple nipa hut came into view, nestled beneath a canopy of swaying palm trees. The air was filled with the soft scent of sea salt and flowers, a strange harmony that only heightened the strangeness of the scene.
"Mom!" A boy's laughter rang out, bright and carefree. He couldn't have been older than five, his bare feet kicking up sand as he raced from the hut. His mother followed, her golden hair cascading down her back like sunlight. She was radiant, ethereal, the kind of beauty that belonged in legends.
The boy ran right through me, as if I wasn't there. I reached out instinctively, my fingers slicing through air. "What the—?" My voice trembled, but I kept moving, drawn to them despite the oddity of it all.
I watched as they were joined by a man carrying wood. His rugged features were softened by the warmth in his eyes as he pulled them into a gentle embrace. It was idyllic. Perfect.
But something was off. Beneath the surface of their tranquil life was a tension, a whisper of danger lurking in the corners.
As days passed—if they were days—I felt trapped, caught between wanting to understand this strange family and the gnawing fear that I didn't belong. Until one evening, the stillness shattered.
Liora's trembling voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Alistair, are we sure about this?" Her question hung in the air, heavy with dread. The candlelight flickered, casting jagged shadows on their faces, deepening the lines etched by fear and resolve. Her hands, normally steady, quivered as they clutched the table's edge.
"We don't have a choice, Liora." Alistair's grip on her hand tightened, and the warmth that usually softened his gaze was gone, replaced by a grim determination. "If we don't act now, they'll find us."
The ominous ringing began, distant at first, like bells tolling at the edge of the world, each chime growing -louder and more urgent. The couple sprang into action, the calm veneer of their routine shattering like glass.
Alistair dropped to his knees, his hands moving with practiced precision as he traced a circle onto the floor with chalk, each stroke purposeful, each symbol radiating power. Liora, her face a mask of sorrow, led their son into the circle. The boy's small frame trembled, his wide eyes darting between his parents.
"Mom?" His voice wavered, frail and uncertain.
Liora knelt beside him, cupping his face in her hands, her fingers brushing away a tear that rolled down his cheek. She forced a smile, though it trembled at the edges. "Everything will be fine," she lied, her voice cracking with the weight of her false promise. Her eyes, however, betrayed her: they shimmered with anguish, as if she were already mourning what was to come.
Alistair's voice broke the fragile moment, rising with a steady rhythm, the ancient incantation filling the room like a storm:
"Essence stirred, with dawn's embrace,
Unveil roots of dormant grace.
Into a vessel, life reborn,
Eternal now, no soul forlorn."
The air grew heavy, charged with an oppressive energy that pressed against my chest. The boy's screams shattered the chanting, raw and primal, his small body convulsing violently. Blood poured from his mouth, staining the chalk symbols with dark crimson.
I wanted to scream, to intervene, but I was frozen—an invisible witness trapped in this nightmare. My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat as I watched. How could they do this to their own child?
"Mom, Dad, it hurts," he whimpered, his voice frail and broken, his body writhing in pain.
Alistair didn't falter. His chant remained steady, each word deliberate, weaving through the room like a relentless current.
"Whispers on winds, grant me sight,
Wisdom borne on borrowed light.
From dawn to dusk, knowledge take,
Unveil the truth, for life's own sake."
Liora clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She stood rigid, her face a mask of steely resolve as her heart shattered beneath the surface.
The boy convulsed again, his cries growing weaker. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, pooling on the floor. I felt suffocated, drowning in the helplessness of it all.
After what felt like an eternity, the chanting ceased. Liora and Alistair embraced their son, their expressions devoid of any warmth—just cold, hollow resignation.
Before the air could settle, the front door exploded inward with a deafening bang, sending shards of wood flying across the room.
A shiver raced down my spine. Something far more terrifying than the ritual had arrived.
Alistair rose swiftly, his voice sharp and commanding. "I'll stall them. Grab his things and go." His eyes softened for a moment as he kissed Liora and their son on their foreheads. "I love you," he whispered, the words heavy with finality.
Liora hesitated only a moment before wiping her tears and gathering what little they had. She slipped out the back door with her son in tow, and I followed, my every instinct screaming to run faster.
Another bang echoed, followed by the crackle of flames. The house was burning. The air grew thick with smoke, but Liora's chant continued, unwavering as we reached the edge of a cliff:
"Echoes of the past, hear our plea,
Return us to where we used to be.
In the tapestry of time and space—"
Her words were cut short by the arrival of figures cloaked in black, their presence suffocating.
"Give us the child!" the leader hissed, his voice venomous.
A massive root burst from the ground, impaling Liora through the stomach. She staggered but didn't fall. Another root followed, piercing her side, yet she stood defiant, her face twisted in pain but unyielding.
"Don't be stubborn like your husband," the leader sneered. "Is it thrilling for both of you to be torn apart?"
Blood soaked Liora's dress, but she continued her chant, her voice stronger now, fierce and unbreakable:
"Rewind the threads to the chosen place.
Let present merge with days of yore,
Time's dance, a rhythm we restore."
"You won't get what you want," she hissed, smiling through the agony. With a final, desperate push, she shoved her son—and me—off the cliff.
The wind roared in my ears as we plummeted. I reached for the boy, but my hands passed through him like mist. A massive falcon swooped in from the sky, its talons gripping the boy, carrying him to safety.
I kept falling. The last thing I saw before the darkness consumed me was Liora standing amidst the flames, her body alight as she set herself ablaze, consuming the cloaked figures with her. Their screams blended with the roar of the fire, an unholy chorus of pain.
Then, nothing but the abyss.
I gasped awake, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering in my chest. The mirror across the room reflected my pale face, wide eyes filled with terror. As I struggled to calm my breathing, I noticed it—the faint sigil glowing on my arm.