Death has a peculiar way of lingering. They say you can't remember dying and that the mind shields itself from that final moment like eyes closing against the harsh light. They're wrong. Death remembers you. It clutches you in its cold embrace long after you've escaped its grasp. It whispers in your ear during quiet moments, paints itself behind your eyelids when you dare to sleep, and makes your body remember wounds it never bore.
I knew this truth intimately now, though I'd never died. Not in this life, at least. I never had the privilege to meet it face to face, but it lingers with me daily as night embraces me in my bed. It creeps into my dreams like a poison spreading slowly through my body.
Just as it envelops me now in its chilling embrace.
The scream tore from my throat before consciousness fully claimed me, my body convulsing as cold black metal ripped through my flesh. The mattress creaked in protest as I thrashed against the sheets that had become my battle's chains, sweat-soaked fabric twisting around my limbs like a burial shroud. My heart thundered against my ribs with such violence I feared it might shatter bone, each beat echoing the frenzied rhythm of retreat horns and clashing steel.
"Gods... gods..." The words scraped past my lips, thick with the iron taste of blood that wasn't there.
For several moments, the battlefield refused to release its grip. The stench of death filled my lungs—that distinctive mixture of blood, gore, and voided bowels that no man forgets once he's known it. Soldiers' screams pierced the air, not as mere echoes of a dream but with the sharp clarity of men dying beside me. The suffocating weight of despair pressed down like a stone upon my chest, and that damned wound in my side burned with such intensity that bile rose in my throat.
These weren't just dreams anymore. Dreams fade with the morning light and become hazy and distant, like fog burning off a lake. But these... these memories, if that's what they were, only grew sharper. Each night for months now, they'd been cutting deeper, becoming more real than the life I was supposed to be living. Each death was more vivid than the last.
And always, always, there was her face. Valeria. Her crystal blue eyes were wide with terror as she screamed my name, golden hair matted with blood and mud, reaching for me as the darkness dragged me down. I died with her name on my lips, tasting regret and unspoken love instead of blood.
I jolted upright, my trembling hand flying to my side. Part of me expected to find torn flesh and hot blood, but there was nothing, just smooth, unmarked skin beneath the soaked fabric of my nightshirt. I yanked the cloth up anyway, fingers probing desperately at unblemished flesh where moments ago I'd felt steel tear through me.
"Heh." A broken laugh escaped my lips. "Still whole. Still... here."
But where was here? For a heartbeat, the room felt foreign and wrong, like wearing another man's clothes. The rough wooden walls of my home seemed to waver, threatening to transform into blood-spattered battlefield tents. I blinked hard, forcing my vision to clear. Slowly, reality seeped back in. The distant rustle of leaves. The familiar creak of old wood. Morning air whispered through the window, carrying the scent of pine and wet soil.
I inhaled deeply, letting the forest scents wash over me. Different from the battlefield's stench of death. Real. This was real.
"Just a dream," I muttered, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until colors burst behind my eyelids. "Just another of those bloody dreams."
But even as I said it, my body betrayed the lie. My muscles still remembered the weight of armor I'd never worn. My hands still felt the grip of a sword I'd never held. And my heart... my treacherous heart still ached for a woman I'd never met.
The visions had begun three months ago, when I'd tried to awaken my magic forcefully. I barked out another harsh laugh, remembering my arrogance and foolishness. Such a simple thing, I'd thought. Just reach in and grab that rare power, like plucking an apple from a tree. Instead, I'd nearly killed myself. The scorch marks still stained the floor where I'd collapsed, blood trickling from my nose and ears.
Now these... memories, visions, whatever cursed things they were, invaded my sleep like poison. Each night, they grew sharper, more vivid. No longer fragments seen through the fog, but crystal clear scenes that cut deeper than any blade. And always, always, they ended with her.
"Valeria." Her name slipped unbidden from my lips. I clamped my mouth shut, but it was too late. The name hung in the air like smoke, heavy with longing, regret, and something more... something dangerous.
My fist slammed against the mattress. I didn't know her. I couldn't know her. And yet...
I felt her presence deep in my soul, as if her name had been carved into the very core of my heart. She was a stranger, yet I knew her intimately. Gods, the things I knew. The exact shade of blue her eyes became when she smiled, like clear skies breaking through after a storm. The way she would bite her lower lip whenever frustration crept in, or when deep concentration claimed her thoughts, leaving tiny crescents of white against the pink. The melody of her laugh on quiet mornings, pure and unguarded. The fierce radiance that blazed in her eyes before battle, a light that could outshine the sun itself.
I lurched to my feet, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "Stop it," I growled at myself. "She's not real. None of it is real."
My reflection caught my eye as I stalked past the small mirror: wild-eyed, with hair stuck to my forehead with sweat, looking more like a madman than a boy. I spun away, but not before catching a glimpse of those damned crimson eyes. Same as someone else's eyes. Someone who had seen too much and lost too much.
Someone who had died with regret on his lips and love in his heart.
Her name was on his lips.
I slammed my fist into the wall, welcoming the sharp burst of pain. At least that was real. At least, that was mine. But when I looked down at my trembling hands, they weren't reaching for the wall I'd just struck. They were reaching for a sword they'd never held, aching for a woman they'd never touched.
A soft knock shattered my thoughts like a hammer through glass. I spun toward the door, my body instinctively dropping into a fighting stance I'd never learned. My heart lurched painfully against my ribs.
"Shit" I muttered, forcing my muscles to relax. Just Mother. Only Mother.
"Einar?" Her warm and familiar voice drifted through the wood, yet something in its gentle firmness made my chest tighten. Like her voice, before the end, before the darkness, "Are you alright?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but my tongue felt like lead. The silence stretched, broken only by my ragged breathing and the soft creak of floorboards as she shifted her weight outside my door.
"Einar?" A note of concern now, sharp as a blade. "Are you awake?"
Awake. Gods, what a question. I wanted to laugh, but it would have come out too bitter. Instead, I swallowed hard, tasting iron and wondering if it was real or just another ghost from the battlefield.
"Yes, mother," I finally croaked out, my voice rough as gravel. "I'm coming. Just..." I glanced down at my trembling hands. "Just give me a minute."
"Alright, dear. Take your time." Her footsteps retreated down the hallway, each soft thud growing fainter until silence returned.
I pushed myself away from the wall, every movement feeling like I was dragging chains. My muscles screamed in protest, remembering wounds that had never existed, battles I'd never fought. The tunic lying across my chair might as well have been plate armor for how heavy it felt as I pulled it on.
As I dressed, my reflection captured my attention once more—that damned mirror, always revealing truths I wished to ignore. A young man of seventeen winters looked back, but those crimson eyes belonged to another person. Someone older.
I turned my gaze away, but not before noticing how my hands still trembled. Not with fear, no. That would have been simpler. They trembled with the memory of a blade they'd never gripped, reaching for a love they'd never known.
"Just dreams," I whispered to myself, straightening my tunic with shaking fingers.
In the silence of my room, even the shadows seemed to mock my lie because dreams fade with the morning light. But these memories only grew stronger.
***
The creaking of the wooden floor greeted me as the morning light streamed through the narrow window on the right side of the hall. Long shadows stretched across the weathered floorboards. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with dried herbs hanging from the rafters, mother's collection of sage, thyme, and something sweeter I could never name. Steam rose from the kettle, curling in the cool morning air.
But these familiar comforts felt distant, overshadowed by the remnants of my dream clinging like cobwebs to my thoughts. Corpses of creatures with human features, ears like elves, with wings and scales of dragons that were only in books that I used to read in bedtime stories.
The blood had been different, thick and dark as pitch, almost alive in how it moved. And mainly that magic, that strange magic, different from what I have seen my mother do. It's like they were using their body, almost like breathing. There were no spells with those bound by words of power. No. It was pure magic itself.
"Can that even be possible? Am I finally getting crazy?" I shook my head as I focused on the day ahead.
When I stepped into the kitchen, I found Mother at the table, quietly setting out breakfast. The morning light caught her ember-red hair, giving it an ethereal glow that reminded me of autumn leaves catching fire. Her emerald eyes held that quiet strength I'd always admired, though lately, shadows lurked in their depths. Her dress, though simple, carried a warmth that only a mother can have.
The Firewood wand at her hip bore three rune patterns. Lux, Sol, and one unknown, she'd once told me about it. It is not the most powerful magic, but in our village, even simple spells carried weight. Well, even being a sorceress in this region is very rare.
"Slept well, dear?" Her voice had that light cheerfulness, the kind that tightened my throat. She had no idea what I'd just crawled out of the nightmare, filled with shadow devouring the little light that was there.
"Fine, mother," I muttered, voice rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat, forcing the words to sound less ragged. "I slept fine."
Her gaze softened when it met mine, but I caught the subtle tell—the way her fingers brushed against her throat, a gesture so quick most would miss it. She'd always been good at hiding things, at protecting us from truths she deemed too heavy.
"Another dream, huh?" she asked, her voice calm, but there was a tension beneath it, subtle but there. It had been getting harder for her to hide the emotions that were eating her from inside. Harder for either of us to pretend she was fine.
I nodded, wordlessly sinking into the chair at the table, the wood cold under my palms. I could feel her eyes on me, studying my face like she was trying to read what I wasn't ready to share. Her amulet, with a red crystal in it, hung from her neck just above the dark rune symbol on her chest, catching the morning light as she moved. It pulsed faintly, the magic in it subtle, but today, something about it felt off. I'd seen it every day of my life, but today, something about it called to me, like a voice just beyond hearing.
"What was it about this time?" Her tone was neutral and careful, but the weight behind her words pressed down on the room.
My fingers found the table's scarred surface, tracing patterns worn smooth by generations. "I was standing in the middle of the battlefield... more like hell," I began, voice barely above a whisper. The memory tasted like copper on my tongue. "Surrounded by corpses of the creatures…no, people with unique features that I have never seen or heard before," I swallowed hard. "And there was a woman next to me. Valeria."
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. It was barely noticeable, but I caught the flicker in her eyes before she turned away. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the shutters—unseasonable for this time of year. The villagers would call it a fell wind and make the sign of the three figures across their hearts to ward off ill fortune, just like they did whenever they caught sight of my eyes.
"Valeria," I repeated, softer now, feeling the name linger in the air like a curse. The bread in my hand had gone cold, forgotten.
"Honey," she began, her voice gentle but firm, each word chosen carefully, "you've been having these dreams for a while now. They're just that... dreams."
My jaw clenched, fists tightening under the table. "Dreams don't feel this, Mother," I shot back, frustration seeping into my voice. "I could feel the pain of open wounds, the blood dripping on my skin. The magic... that strange magic," The words tumbled out, each one sharper than the last. "It moved through me like, like it was part of me. And Valeria... mother, I feel like I know her. I'm... drawn to her voice, her name... hell, even her scent, mother. Bloody scent, in a dream. I've never seen her in my life."
Her hand moved to the amulet, fingers curling protectively around it. For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes drifting toward the window. She was looking for an escape, for a way out of the truth. I could feel it hanging between us, heavy and unspoken.
"It's... not unusual," she managed, her voice lacking any conviction. "Sometimes, when your mind's troubled, dreams feel real. They reflect—"
"I'm not troubled," I cut in, voice tight. "At least, not in the way you mean. These dreams... aren't just fragments; they are interconnected. It's like they're memories of some sort..."
"Honey, you need to rest. You're not..." Fear flickered across her face at the sudden change in my nature, a sudden outburst. "You're not yourself lately."
"Sorry, mother." The anger drained away, leaving exhaustion and guilt in its wake. "I didn't mean to... It's just... these dreams are eating me from inside."
"It's alright, dear." Her smile was warm but fragile as spring ice, filled with mother's love. Her grip on the wooden spoon tightened as she looked at me, her gaze weighing whether to keep talking or let the silence lift the weight from our conversation.
Before either of us could speak again, the sound of footsteps thundered from the corridor that I just walked in, it shattered the tension at the table.
"Brother!" Alira burst in, her energy filling the room like sunlight after a storm. Her fiery hair—so like Mother's—caught the dim light, dancing like living flame. Few in the village could boast such coloring; most bore the darker shades of the north. The old folk said red hair marked those blessed by the spirits of flame.
She bounced on her feet, barely able to contain herself, her smile infectious despite the weight that hung between me and my mother. "Are we still going to train today? You promised we'd go to Iris Lake!"
The weight in my chest eased just slightly, her energy forcing a smile to tug at the corner of my mouth. Even if only for a second, it lifted that imaginary weight that was getting heavier and heavier by the second.
"Yes," I replied, though my voice still carried the edge of exhaustion. "We're still going. But I need to pick up my sword from Loth first. Won't take long."
Her face scrunched into a pout, arms folding in that way she always did when things weren't going her way. "That's what you said last time," she huffed. "Don't make me wait all day, Brother. I'll go without you."
"You? Go alone? You'd lose your way before reaching Thunder Oak." The ancient tree marked the path's beginning, its twisted branches reaching toward the sky like gnarled fingers. Some said it was struck by lightning many times.
"Would not!" Her voice rose with mock indignation, emerald eyes flashing. Mother's eyes. "And this time, I'm going to awaken my magic, just you wait. Been practicing the texts, just like ma taught me."
A chuckle escaped me, heavy but genuine. "Alright, alright. I'll be quick. Wouldn't want to miss my little sister becoming the next grand sorceress."
"You'd better not come up with excuses again!" Her smirk returned, bright as morning frost. "This is the day."
Across the table, mother watched us, a strained smile on her face. Her eyes, though, carried something else. A weight she bore in silence, hidden beneath the surface. There was a sadness there, one I wasn't sure she'd ever share with us.
She cleared her throat, her voice soft but steady. "Don't keep my sweet waiting for too long, Einar," she said, her gaze lingering on me. "You know how impatient she can be."
"I'll be back before the sun reaches the steps," I nodded, moving to fetch my father's old waist bag from its peg by the window. The leather was worn smooth by years of use, the brass buckles dulled with age. The potion slots on the left still smelled faintly of herbs and roots, while the right pouches held a few coins, that clinked softly as I secured them.
Alira bounced on her feet, practically vibrating with excitement. "Don't be late," she warned again, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips.
"I'll be quick; you know I won't miss spending time with my favorite sister," I ruffled her hair as a grin appeared on my face.
"I am your only sister," she replied with a smirk.
"Exactly, little vixen."
The room was filled with a melodic laugh, a sweet, musical sound radiating warmth only a mother can provide. It was my mother's laugh coming from the corner of the table.
"This is going to be the day," Alira declared, drawing herself up with all the dignity a fourteen-year-old could muster. "The day magic answers my call!"
"Just don't set the lake on fire when you do, little vixen. The water spirits might take offense."
Her laughter filled the hall, light and full of life. Standing beside the table where my mother was giving glare to me, her hand was wrapped around the amulet she was wearing, her mind may have been tensed but that does not show on her face. Not now after all this.
"You should hurry, dear," Mother said softly, her smile tight but warm. "Storm's brewing outside."
I nodded once, heart heavy with unspoken words. The shadows seemed deeper now, the air thick with potential—like the moment before lightning strikes. Too many questions hung between us, too many dreams that felt more like memories.
Moving to the door, I gripped the iron handle, its chill biting into my palm. The old hinges groaned—a sound that always reminded me of Father's stories about old spirits. The rush of morning air carried the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke, mixed with the sharp tang of approaching rain.
But that would have to wait. Alira was waiting for me. And for now, that was enough.