Nightmare

This night differed from all the rest.

It began normally enough: a young boy playing a game with his older brother, though the elder played begrudgingly.

“Come Syrus, you need to get to bed,” his mother called. The child groaned, wanting to keep playing.

“But I’m not-.” He yawns. “Tired.”

“Your yawn says otherwise. Come now. Say goodnight to your father and brother,” she insists.

Syrus gets to his feet, stumbling a little, then hurls himself at his older brother. The older sibling catches him before pushing him away with a half-hearted grunt.

“Good night, Porcius.”

“Good night,” he groans.

“Sweet dreams, little one,” his father says, sweeping in to pick up and embrace Syrus. After a gentle smile, his father passes him into his mother’s arms. She begins a lullaby, her soft voice mingling with the floral scent Syrus knows so well. He cuddles into her, eyelids already growing heavy.

They barely reach the corridor outside Syrus’ room when screams tear through the night. His mother’s arms tighten around him as the door crashes open.

“By order of the emperor! Hand the boy over!”

Without speaking, Syrus’s mother bolts. From over her shoulder, Syrus watches his father charge at the guards, helpless against the sheer number flooding into their home. More soldiers climb in through windows, demanding that his mother stop.

Fear claws at Syrus’s chest as he clings to her tunic, tears stinging his eyes. He tries to blink them away, wanting to be brave for her. But when she trips, they stumble onto the cold stone ground. His ribs ache, and he gasps, struggling to breathe.

“Run!” his mother screams, looking back at the approaching guards. “Syrus, run!”

The tears he’s been holding back finally spill over. Obeying her command, he scrambles to his feet. As he looks over his shoulder, he sees her fighting off the soldiers, hears her agonised cries ringing in the darkness.

He runs and keeps running. The streets become a blur of stone walls, spilled blood, and distant flames. There is nowhere safe, no corner to hide in the chaos.

Suddenly, he trips and crashes to his hands and knees. He lifts his head and sees a man’s feet before him. Dread lodges in his throat.

Alexandros stares down at him with a look of pure hatred burning in his eyes. Before Syrus can speak, the sword pierces his chest. He feels Alexandros drive the blade deeper, and everything goes dark.