John woke with fire burning beneath his skin, a dull, stubborn ache pulsing through his arm. Every breath felt heavy, like he’d swallowed the weight of the night itself. The world seemed distant, thick with shadows that hadn’t yet released their grip.

  His eyes drifted to Alora, curled up on the floor nearby. She slept with arms tucked tightly, her face drawn, a silent testament to restless hours — but she was breathing. Still here.

  Relief washed over him slowly, warm and quiet, bleeding into frozen limbs. After everything that had happened — the nightmare things, the screaming, the blood — seeing her in one piece made it easier to draw air into his lungs.

  The pain reminded him he was still here. Still bleeding. But it wasn’t only the wound. Something deeper felt fractured, as if part of him had been left behind in the chaos of the screaming.

  Alora shifted, mumbling something unintelligible in her sleep. John looked away before it stirred anything too deep. Whatever this place was, whatever they were dealing with, he needed to stay focused. She had made it through. That mattered. That was enough. For now.

  He shifted upright slowly, every muscle tight with dull fire. His ribs screamed in protest, and the arm slashed by the creature throbbed with slow, deep pain. Breathing came easier now, but only just.

  The dream lingered like smoke — or maybe it hadn’t been a dream at all. Hard to say in a world where thoughts shaped monsters and allies appeared like memories.

  John’s hand instinctively reached into the space beside him, not for Alora, but for the weapon — the one that had burst to life in that fight, the one that had felt like it belonged to him.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated.

  He tried to remember the hasta. Not a javelin. Not elegant. This wasn’t a spear from a polished formation or a cavalry charge. No — this thing was heavier, crueler. Built for close quarters. For survival.

  The shaft was dark, almost black, scorched as if drawn from a battlefield still burning. The grip had once been leather, now stiff and worn, edges curling like dried bark. It absorbed light instead of reflecting it.

  And the head… that stayed with him. Not a clean spearpoint, but a thick, wicked triangle of metal with jagged barbs hooked backward. Each barb was sharpened like teeth. It wasn’t elegant — it was angry. Executioner’s work.

  It wasn’t made for throwing. It was made to be held, driven into something that shouldn’t live. And when he imagined it, he remembered doing exactly that.

  Form… nothing. No flicker of heat. No vibration in the air. No hum of purpose. Just an open, trembling hand.

  He tried again, harder, picturing the weapon from before — that strange, curved blade etched in light and shadow, born from desperation and rage. Clenching his teeth, he poured every ounce of will into the empty space in front of him.

  Still nothing.

  “Don’t take it personally,” a voice said behind him. “Maybe it’s just shy when it’s not being hunted by homicidal chess pieces.”

  John turned. Alora was awake, blanket tangled around her legs, hair wild, watching him with a crooked smile and sleepy eyes. Her voice was light, but guarded, as though she had seen more than she let on.

  “You saw that?”

  “Only the part where you stared at your hand like it owed you money.” She yawned and stretched. “Was hoping for a sword. Maybe a staff. Something dramatic. Instead, you gave me jazz hands.”

  Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped John. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “You’ve got that whole wounded warrior thing going for you. Very tragic. Very mysterious.”

  He tried not to show how much it stung — not just the failure, but the fact that she had seen him like this. Broken. Unarmed. Pretending to know what he was doing in a world that didn’t make sense.

  Her grin lingered a second longer before softening, like something cracked beneath the humor. Her eyes flicked down, then back up.

  “Hey… on a side note,” she said quietly, “I’m really glad you’re awake. You were out for a long time and I—”

  She stopped herself, chewing her bottom lip, as though finishing the sentence might cost her something.

  “I was worried,” she finished.

  She looked away afterward, perhaps regretting the honesty. John wanted to say something — reassuring, smooth — but his throat closed. All he could do was look at her, really look.

  Hair messy from sleep. A fading bruise beneath her jaw. Eyes still holding traces of unprocessed fear.

  He swallowed and glanced down, knowing she had no idea how much that meant to him. How the thought of losing her — someone he barely knew — felt like it would split him apart. Part of him was already missing, and the idea of her gone would unravel the rest.

  He didn’t understand it. Maybe he didn’t want to. But it was real.

  So he offered a tired smile instead. “Thanks.”

  Eventually, he sat up, body still aching — a deep, throbbing soreness like bruises on the soul. He needed to remember, to trace the panic, the forest, the creatures chasing them. His arm still stung where one had caught him. The smell of burned wood and blackened steel lingered. The ground had cracked like broken glass beneath Chad’s feet.

  Chad. The name slipped out without thought.

  “Chad?” Alora echoed, now fully sitting up. “He’s the one who brought us here, right? Said we’d be okay?”

  John nodded slowly.

  She tilted her head. “So… who is he? You called him like you knew him.”

  He rubbed his hands together, staring at the cracks between his fingers as if they might answer. “It’s hard to tell,” he admitted. “There’s something… familiar. Foggy. Like remembering a dream after waking. I think I knew him a long time ago. And my—” He hesitated. The word felt heavy.

  “My father. Xerathos.”

  Alora’s eyes widened. “You’ve never talked about your father before.” She narrowed her eyes. “Honestly, you never talk about your past at all. For all I know, you were raised by wolves. Or tax accountants. Which is worse, honestly.”

  A faint twitch of amusement brushed across John’s mouth, fleeting like a borrowed memory.

  “Probably wolves,” he said. “At least they don’t bury you in spreadsheets.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  She smirked, pleased with the response. Then her tone softened, drawing him down.

  “Seriously though… what was he like? Xerathos?”

  Flashes of memory stirred — firelight and sorrow, a towering figure cloaked in shadow, watching the stars like they had betrayed him. Power. Pain. Something harder to name beneath it.

  “I’m not sure,” John said quietly. “I think I loved him. I think I feared him. Maybe both.”

  Alora stayed silent, watching, the humor gone from her gaze, replaced with quiet understanding.

  Sometimes silence is the only way to say, I hear you.

  She pivoted the conversation. “Okay, serious question now — did you actually kill that thing back there? That mannequin… nightmare… whatever it was?”

  John blinked, drawn from thought. “I… think so,” he said slowly, measured. “I remember hitting it. I remember the sword going through its neck. I remember —” He paused, jaw tightening. “It falling.”

  She tilted her head. “But?”

  “But I don’t know how I was able to fight it like that,” he admitted. “It felt like something else took over. Not rage. Not instinct. Just… clarity. Like I knew it before it moved.”

  She studied him, then added lightly, “That’s… terrifying.” A breath, then a grin. “And kind of hot.”

  John offered only a faint smirk, eyes flickering with old wit beneath heavy thoughts.

  “But seriously,” she continued, softening, “that thing should’ve crushed us. You moved like someone who’d done this before. Like you knew how to kill it.”

  He looked down. “Maybe I did.”

  Alora’s eyes held his steady. “So… what made you fight like that? You weren’t even sure what you were doing.”

  He shrugged, muscles tight. “I don’t know. Something…” His voice trailed off. Clenching fists, the memory of her on the floor pressed hard, but he swallowed it.

  She leaned closer. “Scared, maybe?”

  He snorted, bitter. “Yeah, maybe.” But it wasn’t just fear. Something deeper, darker, like a storm beneath his skin, had pushed him when he thought he might lose her.

  She watched, waiting. He couldn’t give more. Not yet.

  He shifted, the ache pulsing through his ribs. “We need to get out of here. Back home. Somewhere solid.”

  Alora nodded, unease flickering behind her eyes. She traced a finger along a cracked tile. “I don’t like it here. This place… it’s not right. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something bad.”

  John glanced at her. “Yeah. Not sure it’s ever safe here.”

  She exhaled sharply, eyes toward the hallway. “Sometimes I think if we stay too long, this world… it’ll get inside us. Change us.”

  He wanted to tell her she was right. Part of him already felt twisted. Instead, he nodded. “Then let’s not give it the chance.”

  He rubbed his temple. “My father once said most of our fear isn’t about anything real. Just the unknown playing tricks.”

  Alora glanced at him, brow furrowed but curious.

  “Maybe,” John continued, “if we learn more about this world — how it works, what it wants — we won’t be so on edge all the time. Fear feeds on what we don’t understand.”

  She let that settle, then half-smiled, bitter. “Easier said than done when the unknown keeps trying to kill you.”

  John smirked. “Yeah. But it’s better than running scared.”

  Alora’s eyes flicked sharply. “Chad told us something different. This place doesn’t just respond to fear, or what we feel when scared.”

  John frowned, leaning closer despite the pain. “What do you mean?”

  She rushed her explanation, mind racing. “He said this world doesn’t create things from unconscious fear. It doesn’t make nightmares just because we’re afraid. It builds them. They come from command, from intention — someone wills them into being.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “So… it’s not us causing this?”

  Alora shook her head. “No. Those nightmares weren’t accidental. Chad said Asani made them. He didn’t just let them happen. He sent them.”

  John’s jaw tightened. The idea of Asani deliberately crafting those things twisted something deep inside him.

  “That bastard,” he muttered, quieter than intended. Grief mingled with anger.

  Alora lowered her voice. “It’s not us… It’s him. He made them.”

  She hesitated. “Chad said the world answers to willpower, not fear. But… maybe it’s more complicated than that.”

  John sank heavily to the floor, breathing uneven. Eyes closed, he reached again for the hasta. Nothing.

  He opened his eyes, staring at empty hands, tasting the sting of failure.

  Alora smirked softly. “Maybe it’s not just about willpower.” Thoughtful, she added, “You said something about those journals… Maybe they explain how this place works. Maybe they tell you how to make things happen here, instead of just hoping.”

  John laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Wing it without a map.”

  Alora smiled gently. “Maybe those journals are the map.”

  A flicker of resolve returned. “Maybe you’re right.”

  He kept staring at the floorboards, tracing the grain, but they offered no answers.

  Alora broke the silence. “Those journals… who wrote them?”

  “No idea,” John said softly. “Old. Really old. Pages brittle, ink fading.”

  “But you said they sounded personal,” she pressed. “You said the writer reminded you of someone?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Not like I know him, but… the way he talks. Feels like my dad.”

  Alora blinked. “Wait — your dad?”

  “Not literally. I mean the way he thinks. Calm, methodical, like someone who’s seen everything fall apart and still wants to fix it.”

  She tilted her head. “Maybe it was your dad’s. Not that he wrote it, but maybe he found them. Learned from them.”

  John frowned. “Yeah. Maybe that’s where his ideas came from — dreams, control, power… He never sounded like he came up with those thoughts. More like he inherited them.”

  Alora nodded. “Then figuring out who wrote the journals may be more important than we realized.”

  He leaned back against the wall with a soft thunk. “Better start reading.”

  The room settled strange, like a stage waiting for the next act. The fire pulsed low. Pain remained beneath the skin, constant, reminding.

  “Did Chad say where he was going?”

  Alora glanced up from the hearth, shadows flickering across her face. “Last I remember, he stepped out. Just outside. Didn’t say much.”

  Figures. Not chatty.

  “How’s your shoulder?” she asked, tilting her head.

  John breathed out, not quite a sigh. “Burns a little. Like it’s mad I’m still breathing.”

  She snorted. “That’s dramatic.”

  “A shrug,” he said. “So’s getting mauled by nightmares.”

  Alora bumped his leg. “Don’t die on me. I don’t want to drag your heavy ass again.”

  “Wow,” he said, giving a tired smile. “Encouragement noted.”

  Her smirk softened, gaze dipping to the fire. “Still sucks. All of this.”

  He didn’t reply. Silence answered.

  Alora leaned back, voice quieter. “But… if I have to be stuck in this mess, I’m glad it’s with you.”

  John’s chest flickered with a warmth like firelight. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Me too.”

  The creak of an old floorboard drew their eyes. Chad stepped inside, alert, wide awake despite the hour.

  “Good morning,” he said with a nod, voice low but steady.

  John rubbed his shoulder, wincing slightly. “Morning.”

  Chad’s gaze flicked to the fresh wounds, fleeting sorrow in his eyes before he masked it with his usual composure.

  “How’re you holding up? Can you walk?”

  “Yeah,” John said, testing his weight.

  “Good. Plan: get to Linda. She can patch you properly.”

  Alora stood, brushing dust from her pants. “What’s the plan after that?”

  Chad’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “First, get fixed. Then move. No time to waste.”

  John glanced at him. “I’ve got questions.”

  Chad’s expression softened, a brief smile flickering. “I’ve got answers. We’ll talk on the way. No matter what’s waiting, we face it together.”

  John hesitated. “Why did Asani let those nightmares get so close? Mistake—or something else?”

  Chad’s eyes darkened. “Not a mistake. Asani wants us hunted, scared. Part of a bigger game. But we’re not just pawns — we can fight back.”

  A steadying breath. “But no matter what’s waiting, we face it together.”

  Alora exchanged a glance with John, faint smile breaking through her fatigue. “Glad you’re with us, Chad.”

  John nodded, weight in his chest easing. “Feels like we might actually have a chance.”

  Chad moved to the door. “Linda’s been looking forward to seeing you. Busy prepping.”

  They stepped into the cool morning light.

  “Let’s get moving — there’s a lot to catch up on,” Chad said softly.