Ayla awoke with a jolt, her heart pounding in her chest, the taste of salt on her lips as if she'd been crying in her sleep. The faint, persistent hum of the arena's ambient noise filled her ears, but the distant noise didn't ease the terror still gripping her heart. Her breaths came in sharp gasps, her body slick with sweat despite the chill in the air.
Her hand flew to her face, brushing away the wetness on her cheeks. The dream. It had been so vivid, so real. It was like she had been there—like she had lived it, not just dreamt it.
The scene unfolded in her mind once more: a blood-soaked battlefield, as far as the eye could see. Dark clouds swirled above, and the ground beneath her boots trembled with the weight of countless forces. The cries of the wounded and dying filled the air, a cacophony of despair. But despite the chaos, there was a strange calm around her, a certainty, as though she was the calm eye of the storm.
In the midst of this madness, she stood on a hill, looking out over a sprawling battlefield. Blood splattered her clothes, the red stains stark against the white of her gown—a gown that glowed with an ethereal light, a stark contrast to the destruction surrounding her.
Then, she saw it—him.
A figure appeared through the smoke and haze, tall and strong, wearing armor that shimmered in the dying light of the battlefield. His face was obscured by a helmet, but Ayla knew it was him, even though she had never seen him before. The sense of recognition was overpowering, as though she had always known him, as though their destinies had been intertwined long before this moment.
He moved toward her, effortlessly cutting through the chaos of battle. His eyes—blue, piercing—found hers. There was something so familiar about those eyes, something that sent a jolt of electricity through her veins, as if they were both connected by some invisible thread that stretched across time and space.
The moment they locked eyes, everything seemed to freeze. The sounds of battle faded into a deafening silence, leaving only the beating of her own heart in her ears. And then, a voice, his voice—her voice too, she realized—whispered softly through the stillness.
"You promised."
The words echoed in her mind, but their meaning eluded her. What promise? Who had made it? The sensation of it was so familiar, so intimate, like a secret shared between them. But it was also a promise made in another life, another world, long before this one.
Ayla reached out instinctively, her hand trembling. She didn't know why, but she knew that this was the moment, the moment that had been fated to happen. He reached out to her as well, his gloved hand extending toward hers. His fingers brushed against hers, sending a shock of warmth through her chest. The connection was electric, undeniable. She could feel the pull, the gravity between them.
But then—just as their fingers were about to touch—there was a violent bang, a sharp crack of lightning that split the sky open. Ayla flinched, her hand snapping back as the world around her disintegrated, the battlefield shattering into nothingness, consumed by a searing white light.
And in that final moment, as the light swallowed her whole, she heard one last thing. A whisper, as if from deep within her own soul:
"Remember."
Then she awoke.
Ayla gasped, her body jerking upright, her eyes wide with terror. The dream still clung to her mind, the images of the blood-soaked battlefield, the armored figure, the golden crown. She could feel the heat of his touch on her fingers, the weight of his promise hanging in the air like a promise she couldn't fulfill.
But why? Why had she dreamed that? And why did it feel so real?
Tears were still streaming down her face, hot and fast. She wiped at her eyes, confused and disoriented. What was that? What did it mean?
Her heart raced, her breath coming in uneven gasps as she tried to shake off the vivid sensation of the dream. The room around her was too quiet, too still, in stark contrast to the chaos of the dream that had flooded her senses.
Ayla's mind raced, trying to piece together fragments of the dream. The battlefield. The crown. The promise. The man.
Her pulse quickened as she remembered the words he had said to her in the dream: "You promised." Who had she promised? And why had the words felt so familiar, like something she had said herself, something she was meant to do?
Was it him? Was the man from my dream the Game Master?
The thought hit her like a ton of bricks. Could it be possible? Could the man she had dreamed about—the man with the piercing blue eyes—be the same masked figure who had watched her in the arena?
But no. That couldn't be right. The Game Master was a faceless, emotionless being—someone who was above the game, a ruler with no personal connection to any of the players. At least, that was what Ayla had believed, or had been told.
But now… now, everything felt different.
She closed her eyes, trying to clear her thoughts. But the images of the dream wouldn't fade. The man's hand, the promise, the battlefield—they haunted her, clung to her, as if she was meant to remember something important.
Her fingers absently traced the silver ring on her finger. This ring—had it been hers in the dream too? She couldn't remember. But the way it felt now, cool and solid on her skin, made her stomach tighten with unease.
"Ayla."
Her name, spoken softly, made her jump. She whipped around to find another player standing by her side, a concerned expression on their face. Ayla didn't recognize them at first. She had seen so many people come and go, their faces blurred in the chaos of the arena. But the woman standing before her looked… familiar. Like someone she should know.
"I saw you wake up," the woman said softly, her voice full of concern. "Are you okay?"
Ayla nodded quickly, trying to compose herself. "I'm fine. I just… had a bad dream."
The woman's expression softened, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes. Curiosity? Caution? Ayla couldn't tell. "You sure? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Ayla nodded again, her throat tightening as she forced herself to stand. The dream, the feelings, the confusion—it was all too much to bear. She needed to focus, to push through the fear that was slowly curling in her chest.
"I'm fine," she repeated, though she knew she was lying. She wasn't fine. Not at all.
The woman didn't seem convinced, but she didn't press the matter further. Instead, she gestured toward the others, who were starting to gather around. The Game Master's reset had thrown everything into disarray, but they all knew it was time to get moving again. The next trial would come soon.
Ayla took a deep breath and nodded again, her eyes scanning the horizon of the arena. She couldn't let herself fall apart. Not now.
Not when I need to figure out what's happening. What these dreams mean. And why I'm tied to all of this.
With one last glance at the woman who had spoken to her, Ayla began walking toward the others, the silver ring on her finger a constant reminder of the mystery surrounding her.
The dream had been a warning—or maybe a memory—but she wasn't sure what it was trying to tell her. All she knew for certain was that something was coming. Something important. And she couldn't afford to ignore it.
Not when her very life—and maybe even her soul—was on the line.