Nightmare

A few other villagers saw Nightmare with the child and sent runners. Everyone felt joy and cheered for successfully finding the child. However, they wouldn’t credit the doll for finding the lost little girl. Still, the cheers brought a smile to the scion’s face, and she smiled even larger when the girl clutched her tighter. Being a safe space for the little girl was the only reward Nightmare needed.

As Nightmare, the doll scion, emerged from the depths of the swamp with Emily in tow, her porcelain features were etched with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. The moon hung low in the sky, casting its pale light upon the scene as Nightmare approached Emily's family. They were standing, waiting anxiously, at the edge of the swamp.

But as Nightmare came closer, she sensed a shift in the atmosphere—a heavy tension in the air like a storm cloud on the horizon. The faces of Emily's family are drawn tight with worry, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and anger that sends a chill down Nightmare's porcelain spine.

With a heavy heart, Nightmare stepped forward, her movements hesitant as she presented Emily to her family.

Nightmare began to sign with her fingers, “I found her at the farthest edges of Violet’s domain.”

The parents ignored the doll's attempts to communicate, but Emily didn’t. The little girl looked up at her saviour and signed back. “Thank you.” Jack had been teaching them sign language because of all the visits and gifts that Nightmare had given the children over the past months.

However, Nightmare was hoping for a word of thanks. A simple gesture of gratitude. Some kind words for her efforts in bringing the lost child back home safely. But to her dismay, however, what she received instead was cold silence, broken only by the accusing glares of Emily's family.

But the little girl knew that the doll had saved her, and that was enough for Nightmare. She turned to leave when something worse than silence came. Words of blame and accusation spill forth from their lips like venom, each accusation a dagger aimed squarely at Nightmare's heart.

They accuse her of leading Emily astray and luring her into the depths of the swamp with promises of adventure and excitement. They refuse to listen to Nightmare's protests, their anger blinding them to the truth of the situation.

Nightmare watched in stunned silence. Emily's family turned their backs on her, their footsteps echoing in the silence as they walked away without so much as a word of thanks but instead words of hate. Left alone in the moonlit clearing, Nightmare can only watch helplessly as the echoes of their accusations fade into the darkness, leaving her feeling more lost and alone than ever before.

If the doll could cry, she would have.

She turned back into her swamp. Alone. Cold. Looking.

Sadness filled her heart, and she forgot to warn Violet.

Violet

I entered the Grand Council Chamber. I could feel a sense of gravitas permeating the air. As my footsteps echoed against the walls of the massive room, I could feel the weight of centuries of decisions taking place within. Those choices shaped the fate of humanity; they shaped the last bastion of hope. I looked around the chamber, my eyes wide. It was a majestic space, adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of valorous battles, bustling marketplaces, and bountiful harvests. I reflected on each tapestry. My gut told me they were a testament to the symbiotic relationship among the three main classes.

Still looking around, I took in the architecture. It wasn’t as grand and imposing as Venari’s hall, but it still had its own sensation of authority. The counsel room had towering marble columns supporting a vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate carvings depicting mythical creatures, symbols of power, and symbolic representations of unity and prosperity. Stained glass windows line the walls, casting a kaleidoscope of colours as sunlight filters through, illuminating the chamber with a warm, ethereal glow.

I finally reached the centre of the council chamber. In the centre of the room lies a large, half-moon-shaped table crafted from polished wood, surrounded by ornate chairs upholstered in velvet and adorned with intricate patterns of gold embroidery. Each chair is positioned strategically, with three large seats flanked by a pair of smaller chairs. The prominence of the larger chairs was reserved for the heads of the warrior caste, the merchant class, and the farming class.

My dad, Walker, the captain of the city guards, told me the bullshit reason why the heads had such big, fancy chairs. He said, “It symbolizes equality and mutual respect among the classes.”

I know better. These men had egos the same size as the chairs, I would wager, and I haven’t even met them yet.

But then I noticed the three doors in the back of the room. Above the three doors, each adorned with a unique symbol representing one of the three main classes.

“There lies a silent testament," I said to myself. The others were staying quiet behind me. Their eyes as well were darting around the room. “Wealth is wealth. I know they play an integral role in running things, but come on.” I rolled my eyes and continued my whispered rant to myself. “Yes. Each class does their job in governance, but come on, look at all this wealth. I am sure resources could have been put to better use.

My father, hearing my words, answered my question. “These symbols serve as iconic markers, guiding members of the council toward the respective entrances designated for their class.”

“I am sure they could have found their way to their rooms without golden symbols.”

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My father laughed. “I am sure you are right, but take a closer look at them.”

The first symbol was for the warrior caste. It was the first door to my left. a symbol of strength and resilience that captures the essence of the warrior caste. It was an emblem of crossed swords.

I was having flashbacks to my last year in high school. My one English teacher was such a self-righteous jerk. Everything, and I mean everything, was about finding deeper meaning, but if the deeper meaning you found wasn’t what she wanted, surprise, you were wrong. I hated sitting at those basic desks, rows upon rows, listening to her voice. She never had to struggle for a moment in her life. She turned one of my favourite subjects into a struggle to breathe.

That aside, thank you, Journal, for listening. I wager the crest of the warriors signified martial prowess and valour in battle. The swords are embellished with intricate designs and encased within a shield, symbolizing the dual role of defence and protection undertaken by the warriors.

“Suck on that, Mrs. Lizzy. Who struggles with symbolism now?”

I flexed my fingers. “Breathe, Vi; you are just acting out because you are nervous as well. Just breathe and count.”

To distract myself, I looked over to the second door and tried to figure out the meaning behind their symbol. The Merchant Class’s crest was a stylized coin resting on a merchant's scale. It was a little on the nose, aka straightforward to me, but simple is sometimes better. It must have represented wealth, trade, and equitable exchange. If I were writing an essay for a final exam, I would say something like, “The symbol radiates an air of ambition, resourcefulness, and boundless growth potential.”

However, if I am honest with you, Journal, it was a simple coin for trade.

The last door was for the farming class. Their crest was a bit different. It wasn’t above the door; it was carved into the centre of it. It depicts a sheaf of wheat, ripe and golden. My father caught me looking at the door and said, “It symbolizes the bountiful harvests that sustain the realm.”

Hades behind me said, “Thanks Walker, I couldn’t figure that one out on my own.”

I couldn’t blame the fiery little monster; I was thinking the same thing.

Then, everything seemed to happen at once. A moment of reverent stillness falls over the council chamber. Suddenly, a deep resonance fills the air, emanating a powerful and dominating presence. It's the sound of a loud bell tolling or a solemn gong resounding through the chamber, its vibrations bouncing against the walls and rousing the very essence of those present.

The sound begins as a low, sonorous rumble, like the distant thunder rolling across the horizon, gradually crescendoing into a resounding peal that commands attention and respect. Each reverberation carries with it a weighty significance, imbued with the gravity of centuries of tradition and the solemnity of the council's purpose.

As the echo of the bell fades into the stillness of the chamber, its lingering resonance lingers, a tangible presence that seems to permeate the very atmosphere. In the wake of the sound, a palpable sense of anticipation fills the chamber the doors in the back of the room open.

A voice echos out, “The council session commences.” I tried to look around the massive room to find the voice but my eyes quickly darted back towards the doors.

The leaders of the city enter the central chamber through their respective doors.

The leader of the Warrior Caste walked into the room with measured steps and a demeanour befitting his martial stature. He was clad in resplendent armour adorned with emblems of valour. He carried himself with an air of authority and command. As he approached the moon table at the center of the chamber, he took his seat with a deliberate motion. As if he was a cat waiting to spring forward. His posture was erect and vigilant. I made a mental note to not get in a fight with that guy.

My father told me that he was a sword saint and was in his 50s. I had to say my father under-sold the man. He was a man who seemed to embody a striking blend of maturity, vitality, and timeless charm. His features are chiselled, weathered by the passage of time yet marked with a rugged handsomeness that only enhances his allure. With a strong jawline and piercing eyes that betray a depth of experience and wisdom, he exudes an air of quiet confidence and authority.

His hair, once jet black, now bears streaks of distinguished gray, adding elegance to his appearance. It falls in tousled waves, framing his face with a hint of unruly rebellion, a testament to his spirited nature and refusal to be confined by convention. Despite the silver strands, his mane retains a lustrous sheen, hinting at the vitality and strength that lie beneath the surface.

His physique is powerful and well-built, a story of a lifetime focused on discipline and dedication to physical fitness. Broad shoulders taper into a trim waist, conveying a sense of athleticism and grace. Every movement was purposeful and controlled, exuding an effortless strength and poise that commands attention and respect.

The next leader was of the merchant class: I shifted my focus away from the warrior. Dressed in opulent attire befitting her status as captain of industry, she exuded an aura of confidence and sophistication. Carrying with her the subtle scent of exotic spices and fine silks, she navigated the chamber with grace and poise. Taking her designated seat at the centre of the council table, she settled in with a poised elegance, her eyes sparkling with ambition and entrepreneurial zeal.

She looked like she was in her thirties if I had to guess. She exudes a fierce independence and mysterious attraction. She stands out from the ordinary due to the steampunk fantasy flair that permeates her presence.

Her long, flowing hair is ornamented with exquisite gears, cogs, and brass decorations that shimmer in the light, giving the impression that her hair is a well-built machine. Her hair falls in deep, chocolate-brown waves. Her hair, a marvel of engineering and artistry, frames a face of striking beauty and determination.

Her ancient brass-coloured, almond-shaped eyes sparkle with a wit and intelligence that belies her years. Her stare captivates everyone she comes into contact with, drawing curiosity and attraction from everyone around her. Her thick, dark lashes are framed by a dash of kohl.

The shine of polished bronze highlights on her cheekbones and temples softens her strong yet delicate features. Her skin has a faint iridescence due to a light dusting of metallic colouring, suggesting a link to the otherworldly world of steam-powered wonders and clockwork marvels.

Her clothes, which combine modern design with Victorian elegance, make her a striking figure against the busy cityscape. She has an hourglass figure thanks to a corseted bodice of soft leather that cinches her waist. Layers of billowing skirts and petticoats sway with every deliberate step, giving glimpses of beautifully embroidered gears and mechanical patterns.

An assortment of clever devices and tools, each painstakingly made and cared for, dangle from her belt. A sleek, brass-plated pistol with elegant lines and detailed engravings that combine form and function is housed in a leather holster. Glancing gears and whirling mechanisms on her back, a pair of mechanical wings unfurl in a stunning show of clockwork precision, sending her skyward with graceful grace.

The last to enter was the leader of the farming class. She was different than the others. The young woman was clad in simple yet sturdy attire, with hands weathered from toil and soil. She seemed to carry herself with a quiet dignity born of a deep connection to the land. Her presence was marked by the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and the rustle of grain in the breeze. Taking her place at the council table, she sat with an air of humility and reverence. I felt her gaze, and it gave me a feeling of reflecting the cycles of nature and the rhythms of agrarian life. It was as if my friends and I were just other farmers and she was ready to speak for the needs and aspirations of the farming communities.

Her hair, the colour of ripe wheat fields in summer, dances in the gentle breeze, adorned with wildflowers plucked from the meadows that surround her family's homestead. A few strands are tucked behind her ear, revealing a smattering of freckles that dot her sun-kissed cheeks, a testament to long days spent working under the open sky.

Her features are soft and delicate, with rosy cheeks flushed from the exertion of her labour in the fields. Almond-shaped eyes, the colour of cornflower blue, sparkle with a playful innocence and curiosity, reflecting the simple joys and wonders of country life. Framed by long lashes and accentuated by a dusting of golden eyeshadow, her gaze holds a purity and warmth that draws others to her like bees to honey

As the leaders from the three classes settle into their seats, the council chamber hums with anticipation, each individual poised to contribute their insights, perspectives, and concerns.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I said.