The sky was the same. Always the same. A dull gray expanse marred by streaks of crimson and gold, as though some celestial artist had grown weary mid-stroke. It stretched endlessly above her—a canvas painted with indifference, mocking her exhaustion. She opened her eyes to it once again, groaning softly into the stillness of the room. Her body felt heavy, weighed down not just by fatigue but by something deeper, more insidious. Her mind churned like storm-tossed seas, waves crashing against jagged cliffs of fragmented memory.
She lay there for a moment longer than she should have, staring at the canopy draped over the bed. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light filtering through the porthole window—a luxurious touch that seemed out of place in this cramped little cabin. Everything about this space was paradoxical: opulent yet suffocating, ornate yet utilitarian. The bed itself was far too grand for such a narrow room, its carved wooden posts adorned with intricate patterns that hinted at another era entirely. Yet here it stood, incongruous amidst the clutter of papers strewn across the desk nearby.
Her gaze shifted to the mess on the table. Papers everywhere—some crumpled, others torn, most covered in frantic scribbles that made no sense even to her. One sheet had been discarded unceremoniously into the wastebasket beside the bed. She could see part of it peeking out, the words "Taboo Knowledge" scrawled in bold letters. That phrase alone was enough to send a shiver down her spine. She didn't need to read further; she already knew what it contained—or rather, what it represented. Memories she couldn't afford to remember fully, truths so dangerous they threatened to unravel her very sanity.
With a sigh, she pushed herself upright, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet touched the cold wooden floor, sending a jolt of awareness through her tired limbs. She glanced down at herself, noting the state of her attire—or lack thereof. A loose, rumpled dress hung off her shoulders, its fabric wrinkled from restless nights spent tossing and turning. It wasn't hers—not really. Nothing about this body felt truly hers anymore. But then again, how could it? This form was foreign, alien in ways that went beyond mere gender. Once, she had been someone else entirely—a man navigating a world defined by rules both rigid and malleable. Now… now she was this: a woman with long blonde hair tangled into knots, dull eyes reflecting a weariness that ran bone-deep, and irises tinged with an unnatural shade of bright purple.
She rose slowly, moving toward the small bathroom tucked away in the corner of the room. The mirror greeted her as she entered, its surface fogged slightly from humidity. Wiping it clean with the sleeve of her dress, she stared at her reflection. For a moment, she simply observed, taking stock of the face staring back at her. It was beautiful, yes—but hollow. There was a vacancy behind those violet eyes, a void where memories ought to reside. And yet, despite the emptiness, there was also clarity. Clarity born of necessity.
"You have to forget," she whispered to her reflection, her voice low and steady. "Forget everything."
It was a mantra she repeated daily, sometimes hourly. Forget the past. Forget the corruption gnawing at the edges of her consciousness. Forget the knowledge that clawed at her mind like a feral beast desperate to break free. Most importantly, forget the truth—the one thing she dared not dwell on, lest it consume her completely.
She leaned closer to the mirror, her breath misting the glass. "Seven Shadows," she murmured, testing the weight of the words. They rolled off her tongue easily enough, familiar yet distant. Seven Shadows weren't the problem—not entirely. No, the real danger lay beyond them, lurking in the shadows' shadow. Something vast, unknowable, incomprehensible. Something that defied definition, that resisted comprehension no matter how hard she tried to grasp it. Something… taboo.
Her fingers traced the outline of her jawline absentmindedly as she continued her silent dialogue. "You're lucky," she said finally, her tone tinged with bitterness. "Lucky your body knows better than you do. Lucky it has mechanisms to protect itself." She thought back to the first day she'd woken up in this new reality. The shock of it all—the disorientation, the panic, the sheer terror of realizing she was no longer who she used to be. If not for the self-hypnosis embedded deep within her psyche, she might have succumbed entirely. Might have become a monster.
But instead, she survived. Barely. Corruption lingered, yes, but it was manageable. Not gone, never gone, but subdued enough to allow her to function. Functionality—that was key. Without it, she would be nothing more than a husk, a shell devoid of purpose or direction. And purpose, she realized, was crucial. Even if she didn't fully understand why.
Her thoughts drifted briefly to the talent she possessed—the one tied to dreams. Dream Goddess, they called it. Or rather, she called it. Because she hadn't explored it fully, hadn't delved into the depths of what it meant to wield such power. Too busy dealing with corruption, too preoccupied with survival. Besides, exploring new abilities felt trivial compared to the weight of everything else pressing down on her. Who cared about dreams when nightmares loomed so much larger?
A sharp exhale broke the silence as she turned away from the mirror. Enough introspection. Enough dwelling. She needed to move, to act, to focus on the present rather than the swirling abyss of her past. Grabbing a towel from the rack, she splashed water onto her face, letting the coolness anchor her momentarily. Then, drying off, she stepped back into the main room and approached the closet.
Inside hung a modest selection of clothing, each piece tailored to fit the aesthetic of this strange, hybrid world. Medieval meets steampunk, wood meets steel, elegance meets grit. She rifled through the garments briefly before settling on a simple outfit: trousers, boots, a fitted shirt, and a waistcoat embroidered with subtle nautical motifs. Practical, comfortable, and mercifully lacking any skirts. "Thank whatever gods are left for small mercies," she muttered under her breath as she pulled the clothes on.
Fully dressed, she took one last look around the cabin. It was messy, chaotic, a reflection of the turmoil within her own mind. Yet somehow, it felt right. Fitting, even. Gathering her composure, she opened the door and stepped out into the corridor beyond.
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The ship creaked and groaned around her as she walked, its timbers straining against the relentless pull of the sea. It was an antique vessel, patched together from scraps of history and imagination. Wood and steel intertwined seamlessly, creating a structure that defied logic yet somehow worked. Cannons lined the lower decks, their barrels gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight streaming through portholes. Steam vents hissed intermittently, releasing plumes of vapor that mingled with the salty air. It was a pirate ship, though not the kind depicted in fanciful tales of swashbuckling adventure. This was something older, darker, more weathered. Something that had seen too much and carried the scars to prove it.
As she descended the narrow staircase leading to the main deck, snippets of conversation reached her ears. Crew members bustled about, their movements efficient if not particularly coordinated. Some glanced her way, their expressions wary. They knew something was off about her—they always did—but none dared question it outright. After all, she was their captain. Or at least, that's what they believed.
Captain. The title sat awkwardly on her shoulders, like a coat borrowed from someone else's wardrobe. When she'd first awoken aboard this ship, she'd assumed it was some sort of mistake. Surely, these people had confused her for someone else. But as days passed, she came to realize the truth: this role was hers now, whether she wanted it or not. These pirates weren't rookies either. Far from it. According to rumors whispered among the crew, they'd been sailing these treacherous waters for nearly five years, evading capture by marine forces and amassing a reputation as cunning adversaries. All under her supposed leadership.
How? Why? Questions without answers plagued her constantly. But perhaps that was fitting. In a world built on fragments of forgotten lore and fractured realities, uncertainty was the only constant.
Reaching the end of the corridor, she paused briefly, hand resting on the railing overlooking the bustling activity below. Her lips curled into a faint smile—not out of amusement, but resignation. Whatever awaited her today, tomorrow, or the day after that, she would face it head-on. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no other choice.
And so, with quiet determination, she descended the final steps onto the main deck, ready—or as ready as she could ever be—to navigate the uncertain waters ahead.
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*(End of Prologue)*