He didn't know how much time had passed.
There was no time here.
No sky. No sound. No self.
Only darkness.
Not the kind that comes with closed eyes—this was deeper. Hungrier.
It bled through the air, thick and rotting. It clung to his skin like oil. Crawled under his nails. Whispered in his ears with voices that weren't words.
Something breathed behind him.
Slow. Wet. Close.
Auren tried to move—his body wouldn't respond. His limbs were there, but distant. Like they belonged to someone else.
He tried to speak. No sound. Only pressure in his throat, like invisible hands wrapping around it, squeezing gently. Almost lovingly.
Footsteps echoed—but not on wood, not on stone. They echoed in the wrong way. Muffled, shifting, as if the floor was made of flesh.
Wet. Pulsing. Breathing.
A light appeared in the distance.
But it wasn't right.
It flickered like a dying heartbeat.
It moved. It watched.
And he felt it—the same as before.
The cold stare.
Like something ancient and hollow was staring through him. Measuring. Smiling.
Then—
A whisper in his ear.
No words. Just the sensation of teeth. Of lips. Of wet breath curling into his mind like smoke.
And the smell—blood, rotting flowers, and something else… burnt feathers?
Auren turned.
But he didn't turn.
His body twisted, bones bending the wrong way. His vision stretched sideways.
The world cracked, and from the cracks poured voices. Dozens. Hundreds. All speaking his name. But not kindly.
"Auren. Auren. Auren."
Each one sounded more broken than the last.
Then—screaming.
It came from him. From them. From nowhere.
A boy's voice, a man's, a woman's, a child, a beast. All of them crying, laughing, begging, worshiping.
He saw hands—dozens of hands—white, thin, clawed, groping at his skin. Pulling at his face.
Tearing pieces of him off and whispering secrets into the wounds.
"You don't belong," one said.
"You're not real," said another.
"You were supposed to die," said the third, as it placed a flower in his chest where his heart should be.
And he felt it bloom—inside him.
Pain.
Beautiful, burning pain.
He looked down.
The flower was made of eyes.
All of them stared up at him.
Bleeding.
Then came the laughter. Soft at first.
Then louder. And louder.
Until it shattered something behind his eyes. Until the dark became white. So blinding, it felt like knives in his skull.
He screamed. But no sound came. Only light poured from his mouth.
And just before everything broke—
He felt it.
That presence. Watching. Waiting. Loving him in the way a god might love a mistake.
"...It's happening again, isn't it?"
---
His eyes flew open.
He was drenched in cold sweat, chest rising and falling in short, ragged breaths.
His hands trembled against the sheets.
A dream, maybe.
But it hadn't felt like one.
He sat up slowly, reaching for the glass of water left by his bedside. It trembled in his grip as he brought it to his lips.
The water was cool. Steady. But the unease inside him didn't fade.
He turned toward the window.
It was morning.
Gray light filtered through the curtains, muted and uncertain. The sky was heavy, swollen with the weight of coming rain.
He stood, legs stiff, and walked to the wash basin.
The splash of cold water on his face made him shiver — but it helped. A little.
The sound. The sensation.
It was grounding.
His reflection in the mirror looked pale. More than usual.
The flush in his cheeks was gone, replaced by a ghostly stillness.
Even his golden hair, so bright under sunlight, looked muted.
He dried his face and dressed himself in silence.
A simple tunic. Earth-toned. Familiar now.
Still not his.
Then he stepped quietly into the hallway, his bare feet creaking softly on the wooden floor as he made his way toward the kitchen.
---
Callan was already there, as always.
Seated at the small table, a cup of tea in hand.
He looked up the moment Auren entered, and concern flickered behind his warm eyes.
— "Auren, my boy... Are you alright? You look pale this morning. Did you have a nightmare? Or... is your body hurting again?"
Auren paused.
Just stood there for a moment, not answering.
As if the question needed to echo in his own mind first.
Eventually, he spoke — softly.
— "I'm fine. Just… a dream. You know how they are. They fade when you try to remember them, but the feeling stays behind."
Callan watched him, but didn't press.
Instead, he offered a small smile and motioned toward the table.
Breakfast was already set — a warm bowl of porridge, faintly sweet with honey and berries.
They ate in silence.
The taste was comforting. The kind of warmth that lingered more in memory than on the tongue.
But it did little to ease the unease still curling in Auren's chest.
When the meal was finished, Callan stood and went to the counter. He began sorting herbs — carefully laying them out on clean cloth, hands practiced and gentle.
Auren didn't move at first. Just sat there, watching.
There was something calming about the way Callan worked — every motion slow and certain.
Eventually, Callan turned, catching Auren's gaze.
— "Would you like to help?"
The question caught him off guard.
But he nodded.
He stood and walked over, settling beside the older man. His eyes drifted to the herbs. Neatly arranged. Each one labeled in Callan's delicate handwriting.
— "This one," Callan said, pointing to a pale green leaf, "is Ilke. It helps stop bleeding."
He picked up a darker root, thick and knotted.
— "This is Gharm. It numbs pain. Especially good for deep wounds."
Then he reached for a small jar filled with golden liquid.
— "And this — this is Sunbee nectar. Just a little of it, combined with the two I showed you, creates Valius. A poultice strong enough to seal and soothe even a blade wound."
Auren listened.
Really listened.
He repeated the names silently in his mind.
Ilke. Gharm. Sunbee. Valius.
Callan handed him a small pestle and a stone bowl.
— "Try crushing the Gharm. You'll need to twist — not just press."
Auren took it, hesitated, then began.
It was harder than it looked. The root was stubborn, resisting the pressure. But eventually it began to crack, crumble. The bitter scent rose into the air — sharp and earthy.
Callan watched him patiently, offering quiet corrections.
How to roll instead of grind.
How to avoid bruising the Ilke leaves.
How to measure the ratio of Sunbee nectar with a careful hand.
They worked together for nearly an hour.
By the end, Auren had learned the basics of three poultices and how to prepare them.
He didn't say it out loud… but something about it felt good.
Useful.
When they finished, Callan set the tools aside and looked at him with a thoughtful smile.
— "You learn quickly."
Auren gave a small nod.
He didn't answer. But his mind was still turning.
This knowledge... it had weight. Substance. A kind of quiet truth.
Maybe… it was something worth keeping.
---
Later that day, as clouds rolled heavier across the sky, Auren sat alone in his room.
The herbal book Callan had given him lay open across his lap.
The pages were yellowed, stained with age.
Some corners were bent, others scribbled with notes in faded ink.
He traced one of the drawings — a flower with jagged petals and a twisted stem.
Beside it, written in delicate script:
"Eshane root — highly toxic. Burns through blood. Do not mix with mint."
Auren stared at the words, his fingers resting lightly on the ink.
His mind drifted.
To the dream.
To the cold stare.
To the blood.