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Death has a peculiar way of lingering. They say you can't remember dying. 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... oh god..." 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, 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. Valerie. Her blue eyes 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, 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 bloody dream."

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 forcefully awaken my magic. I barked out another harsh laugh, remembering my arrogance. Such a simple thing, I'd thought. Just reach in and grab that 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 fog, but crystal clear scenes that cut deeper than any blade. And always, always, they ended with her.

"Valerie." Her name slipped unbidden from my lips. I clamped my mouth shut, but 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, deep in my soul, as if her name had been carved into my heart. She was a stranger, but I knew things. Gods, I knew things. The exact shade of blue her eyes turned when she smiled – like clear skies after rain. The way she bit her lip when concentrating on her magic, leaving little crescents of white. The sound of her laugh on quiet mornings, musical and free. The fierce light in her eyes before battle, burning brighter than any torch.

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's real."

My reflection caught my eye as I stalked past the small mirror: wild-eyed, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat, looking more 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, lost too much.

Someone who had died with regret on his lips and love in his heart.

Her name 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.

"Seven hells," I muttered, forcing my muscles to relax. Just Mother. Only Mother.

"Einar?" Her voice drifted through the wood, warm and familiar, yet something in its gentle firmness made my chest tighten. Like her voice, before the end. Before the darkness. "Are you awake? Breakfast is ready."

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 Mother 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, too broken. 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, still reaching for ghosts. "Just give me a minute."

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.

My reflection caught my eye again as I dressed – that damned mirror, always showing me truths I didn't want to see. A seventeen-year-old boy stared back, but those crimson eyes... those belonged to someone else. Someone older. Someone who had lost too much.

I jerked 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. "Just bloody dreams."

But in the silence of my room, even the shadows seemed to mock my lie. Because dreams fade with the morning light.

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These memories only grew stronger.

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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 too, 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 just using their body, almost like breathing, no spells, no runes. Just pure magic.

“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. Not the most powerful magic, but in our village of Mistwood, 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, 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. Valerie."

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. It was barely noticeable, but I caught it, 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, 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.

“Valerie,” 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 Valerie... Mother, I feel like I know her. I’m... drawn to her, but 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. A way out of the truth I could feel 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… they aren’t just fragments, they are interconnected. It’s like they’re memories of some sort…”

"Honey, you need rest. You're not..." Fear flickered across her face, for 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 from, 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 northern forests. The old folk said red hair marked those touched by the old magic, 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 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 seconds.

“Yeah,” 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 just 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 seven 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 old words, just like Mother showed 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 great sorceress."

"You'd better not be late!" Her smirk returned, bright as morning frost. "This is the day, I feel it in my bones." She used the old phrase naturally, like most village folk did. The elders always said bone-knowledge was the truest kind.

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, or the changing me.

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 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 silver-root, while the right pouches held a few copper 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 ruffed her hair, as a grin appeared on my face.

“I am your only sister,” she replied with a smirk.

“Exactly.”

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 forest old spirits. The rush of morning air carried the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke, mixed with the sharp tang of approaching rain. Petrichor, Mother called it, the breath of the earth before the storm.

But that would have to wait. Alira was waiting for me now. And for now, that was enough.

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