Nightmare

A sharp clang slices through the silence of the night.

My eyes snap open. My heart beats sluggishly in my chest, my mind still fogged with sleep. For a moment, I stare at the dark ceiling, wondering if I imagined it.

Then, I hear it again. Clashing metal. Followed by shouts.

I push myself up, blinking against the dim light filtering through my window. My limbs feel heavy, my mind sluggish. What the hell is going on?

The noise is coming from downstairs. I slide out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor, and move toward the door. My fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about this feels wrong.

I crack the door open and peer down the hallway. Nothing but empty silence. But the moment I step into the corridor, I hear it clearly.

Shouts. Grunts of pain. A crash.

My stomach twists, and before I can stop myself, I run.

My small legs carry me down the hall, past the tall windows where moonlight spills onto the polished floor. The moment I reach the grand staircase, my breath catches.

Lucian. Lina. Mara.

They're fighting.

Dark figures in black cloaks and skull masks move like shadows, their daggers flashing in the dim candlelight. Assassins.

Lina’s hands blaze with fire, her usual playful demeanor replaced with deadly focus. Mara wields a halberd, spinning it with precision, keeping enemies at bay. And Lucian—his sword cuts through the air with terrifying accuracy, his face a mask of cold fury.

The sight sends a cold shiver down my spine.

This isn’t a burglary. They’re here to kill us.

My grip tightens at my sides. I have to help. Maybe if I—

"Castiel!"

Lucian's voice snaps like a whip, his gaze locking onto mine. "Go protect your mother! Now!"

A dagger slashes toward him. He blocks it just in time, parrying the attack with a sharp, metallic clang.

I hesitate, my breath catching in my throat. I want to stay. I want to help.

But then it hits me—Grilda is alone.

I turn and run.

I dash through the corridors, my mind racing. Who are those men? Mercenaries? Why are they attacking us?

I don’t have answers. I don’t care.

All I care about is getting to Grilda.

I burst into my room and grab Velmora’s staff. The twisted wood is cool against my palms, the purple gemstone catching the faint glow of moonlight. I hold it tightly and sprint toward my parents' room.

I reach the door. My fingers tremble as I push it open—

And my world collapses.

Grilda sits on the bed, still. Silent.

Moonlight washes over her pale skin, her long white hair cascading over her shoulders. Her violet eyes—once so full of warmth—are open but lifeless.

And buried in her chest is a dagger.

My breath stops.

I drop Velmora’s staff. It clatters against the floor, but I don’t hear it. I can’t hear anything.

My body moves on its own, my legs stumbling forward. My shaking hands reach out, pressing against her shoulders.

"Mom?"

She doesn’t move.

I press harder. “Mom, wake up.”

Nothing.

My fingers trail up to her cheek. Her skin is cold.

A broken noise escapes my throat, something raw and unbearable. My knees hit the floor beside the bed, my chest heaving.

No. No, no, no.

She was fine yesterday. She was laughing, smiling—

I squeeze my eyes shut. This isn’t real.

But when I open them, she’s still there.

Still dead.

Tears blur my vision, hot streaks rolling down my face and dripping onto the bloodied fabric of her nightgown. Why? Why does it feel like my entire world is shattering?

She wasn’t even my real mother.

So why does it hurt so much?

My breath comes in ragged gasps, my throat tightening.

I want to see her open her eyes.

I need to see her open her eyes.

Then—footsteps.

I freeze.

Slowly, I turn my head.

Two figures stand in the doorway, black skull masks obscuring their faces.

One of them tilts his head. His voice is eerily calm.

"The heir of Lachius crying like a baby... What a shame."

Something inside me snaps.

"I’ll kill you!"

The words rip from my throat, raw and filled with venom. I lunge for the staff on the floor and grip it with both hands. My breath is ragged, my small frame trembling, but I don’t care.

The assassins raise their daggers.

I don’t care.

I’ll burn them alive.

I channel my mana, forcing it to ignite. No words. Just pure intent.

Incendium.

A spark flickers at the tip of Velmora’s staff, but it’s too slow.

The assassin moves.

His dagger glints in the moonlight, already slashing toward my throat.

Too fast.

And then—

A violent, unnatural force erupts from within me.

A wave of purple fire explodes outward, swallowing the room in an eerie glow. The assassin closest to me is blasted backward, crashing into the wall with a sickening crunch.

I collapse.

A sharp pain ignites in my chest, burning. My stomach twists violently, my head spinning. It feels like something else is inside me.

Something cold. Powerful. Ancient.

I choke, gagging on the sheer weight of it. My hands dig into the floor, my vision swimming.

Did I do that?

The assassins—they’re shaking.

But not at me.

Their terrified eyes are fixed behind me.

I turn, my body trembling—

And freeze.

Something sits where Grilda’s body should be.

A creature.

Long raven-black hair, streaked with silver. Eyes as white as freshly fallen snow—empty, yet piercing. Skin like polished porcelain, but etched with golden runes.

Loose chains hang from her wrists and ankles, rattling softly as she moves.

I feel my stomach churn.

The assassins stumble backward.

Then—the creature strikes.

Chains lash out, wrapping around one of the assassin’s throats. He doesn’t even have time to scream. His head is ripped clean off.

The second assassin turns to flee.

He doesn’t make it.

The creature moves in a blur, her fingers slicing into his flesh like a blade. Blood splatters across the walls—

And across my face.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

My entire body is frozen.

I stare at the thing before me, my mind unable to comprehend what just happened.

The chains rattle softly. The creature’s pure-white eyes meet mine.

And I finally understand.

That thing...

That monster...

Is my mother.

***

The house is silent.

No voices. No clashing steel. No screams.

Just silence.

It’s wrong.

A suffocating stillness clings to the air, so heavy it feels like I’m drowning in it. My grip on Velmora’s staff tightens as I force myself forward. Every step is agony. My vision blurs at the edges, the burning inside me still raging, twisting my insides like molten iron.

The staircase looms before me. My legs feel like lead, my breath shallow, my chest tight. My head pounds, my body sways, and for a moment, I almost collapse. I clutch the wooden railing, fingers digging into the smooth surface.

Just keep moving.

One step. Then another.

I descend.

And then I see it.

I freeze.

My lungs forget how to breathe.

The entrance hall stretches before me, bathed in the dim glow of the lanterns. And lying motionless in the center of it all—

Lucian.

Lina.

Mara.

No.

A cold dread claws its way up my spine, squeezing my heart in an unrelenting grip. I take a step forward, my hands trembling.

They’re dead.

Lucian’s sword lies discarded beside him, his dark robes soaked in red. The proud, untouchable man—reduced to nothing more than a corpse.

Lina, the maid who always teased me, who always had a bright smile—her golden curls are matted with blood. Her blue eyes, once full of mischief, now stare blankly at the ceiling.

Mara, always composed, always meticulous. Her glasses are missing, shattered somewhere across the hall. A dagger is buried deep in her chest.

A choked sound escapes me.

I take another step—

My foot slips.

A wet, sticky squelch.

I stagger, glancing down.

Blood.

Pooling beneath them. Dark. Thick. Endless.

My stomach twists violently.

I barely make it two steps before I drop to my knees and retch. Vomit spills onto the cold marble floor, bile burning my throat, my body convulsing with dry heaves long after there’s nothing left inside me.

The air reeks of iron, of death, of something so horribly wrong that my mind refuses to process it.

This—this can’t be real.

It has to be a nightmare. Any second now, I’ll wake up in my bed. I’ll hear Lina’s teasing voice, Mara’s sighs, Lucian’s stern orders—

I’ll see Grilda’s smile.

I’ll wake up.

I’ll wake up.

I’ll—

A sob wracks through me before I can stop it. My nails dig into my palms, the sharp sting grounding me in reality.

No.

This isn’t a dream.

They’re gone.

All of them.

And then—

A sound.

A low, trembling whimper.

I snap my head up.

Three figures remain.

Three assassins.

They stand near the entrance, cloaked in black, their daggers still dripping red. Their masks—black skulls—hide their faces.

But they aren’t attacking.

They aren’t moving at all.

They’re kneeling.

One of them drops his dagger with a clatter. His shoulders tremble. "P-Please," he stammers, voice weak, desperate.

Another assassin presses his forehead to the bloodstained floor. "We… we didn’t know—"

Their bodies shake.

Not with anger. Not with resolve.

With fear.

I don’t understand.

What are they so afraid of?

And then—

Chains rattle behind me.

A presence looms. Cold. Silent. Wrong.

I don’t turn around.

I don’t have to.

The assassins do, though.

Their masked faces tilt upward, their bodies stiff with terror.

One assassin lets out a strangled scream.

He turns to run.

It doesn’t matter.

She moves.

A blur of black and white.

The rattle of chains.

A sickening crack.

The assassin’s body jerks unnaturally. His head—severed clean from his shoulders—rolls across the bloodied floor.

The other two assassins barely have time to react before she’s on them.

Screams. Blood. Wet, tearing flesh.

A massacre.

And then—silence.

The air is thick with the scent of death.

I stand there, gripping my staff so tightly my fingers go numb. My breathing is ragged, shallow, my body still trembling from the nausea, the horror.

I force myself to look.

And there she is.

The thing that was once my mother.

Her porcelain-white skin is splattered with red. The golden runes carved into her body pulse faintly in the dim light. Chains coil loosely around her wrists, rattling softly. Her empty, white eyes meet mine.

No warmth. No recognition.

Just void.

My breath hitches.

This… this isn’t Grilda.

This thing is not my mother.

Trying to escape of this madness I open the front door of the mansion.

The night air is cold against my skin as I stagger out of the mansion, my breath ragged, my legs barely carrying me forward. The wind howls across the empty plains, but it’s nothing compared to the chaos I just left behind. Blood. Corpses. That thing. My hands are trembling as I clutch Velmora’s staff, my knuckles white from the force of my grip. My mind is a storm, thoughts crashing into one another, screaming over each other, demanding answers I don’t have.

I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel.

I just want this nightmare to end.

Slowly, I turn back toward the mansion. The once-grand estate of the Lachius family stands in eerie silence, its walls soaked in the horrors that took place inside. The light of the moon casts long shadows over the entrance. Everything looks the same, yet nothing is. This place isn’t a home anymore—it’s a tomb. A graveyard for the people I once knew.

A graveyard for my family.

I swallow, my throat dry and aching. My hands move on their own, magic flowing instinctively from within me as I raise my staff. There’s nothing left here but death, so I’ll let fire claim it all.

I cast the spell Incendium.

Flames bloom to life at the tip of my staff, bright and hungry, crackling as they stretch toward the mansion. The fire latches onto the wooden beams, the curtains, the walls, devouring everything in its path. It spreads like a living beast, climbing higher and higher, painting the dark sky in a sickening glow of orange and red. Smoke billows into the air, thick and suffocating, carrying the stench of burning flesh.

And yet, through the dancing flames, I see it.

Standing motionless amidst the inferno, watching me from the doorway.

The thing that was once my mother.

Its blank, white eyes remain locked onto mine, unreadable, emotionless. Chains rattle softly around its wrists and ankles, swaying as if whispering secrets only the dead can hear. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t try to escape the flames. It just stands there, a silent witness to the destruction.

I should feel relief.

Instead, all I feel is a sickness twisting deep inside me.

I tear my gaze away and run.

The grass beneath my feet is damp with dew, soft compared to the harsh marble floors of the mansion. My bare feet pound against the earth, each step carrying me farther from the flames, farther from the blood, farther from everything I’ve lost. The wind roars past me, chilling my sweat-soaked skin, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

I don’t know where I’m going.

I just know I need to get away.

The plains stretch endlessly before me, the vast expanse of darkness swallowing the last remnants of civilization. Above, the stars shine cold and distant, indifferent to my suffering. My body screams for rest, my lungs burn with every breath, but I push forward, blinded by grief, by rage, by the sheer refusal to accept what has happened.

Then, suddenly, my strength gives out.

My legs buckle, and the world tilts. I hit the ground, my fingers digging into the dirt, but I barely feel it. My vision swims, darkness creeping at the edges, swallowing the sky, the stars, everything. My breathing slows, my body heavy, my consciousness slipping.