Visions

I used to have this nightmare when I was little. The kind that crawls under your skin, seeps into your bones, and wraps itself around your heart like a snake constricting its prey. The kind that lingers even after you wake, an echo of dread whispering at the edge of your consciousness, waiting for the next moment of silence to creep back in. It was more than just a bad dream; it felt like a prophecy.

The visions haunted me, sharp and vivid even as a child, glimpses of a future I was too young to understand but instinctively feared. A mountain of corpses, piled high and grotesque, a tower of the fallen reaching toward a dark, churning sky. The bodies were faceless, nameless—enemies, perhaps. But in a world like ours, who isn't an enemy? And at the apex of the blood-soaked mound stood a lone figure, surveying the carnage as though it were a masterpiece.

Most times, that figure looked just like me.

Silver hair, dulled by grime and sweat, matted against my forehead. A jagged burn scar, an old wound stretching across the left side of my face. Eyes hollow and unblinking, reflecting the bloodied ground below, as if searching for meaning in the devastation.

But sometimes, it wasn't me at all.

She was different. Her hair, black as midnight, wild and untamed, fanned out behind her as though caught in a perpetual storm. Her eyes were empty voids, glistening white, unseeing yet seeing too much. Four wings sprouted from her back—two pristine, feathered and pure, while the other two were rotting, skeletal things, dripping with decay. An angel defiled, a deity fallen. If I had a name for her, it would be 'harbinger.' A creature born of both divine light and malignant darkness.

The nightmare always ended the same way. The figure—whether it was me or her—turning, fixing those hollow eyes on me. And then, silence. The kind of silence that presses against your ears like deep water, drowning out all sound, all thought, all hope.

A voice shattered the memory, yanking me back into the present.

"Lanni! Are you deaf, or just too lost in your own head?"

The rough, familiar sarcasm grounded me. Kvatz. His voice was an anchor in a sea of chaos, a lifeline keeping me from drowning in my own thoughts.

"Not deaf," I muttered, blinking away the remnants of the nightmare. "Just thinking."

"Thinking, huh? You might wanna try being mindless instead. You'd hear better."

I turned to glare at him, but he only grinned, unrepentant as always. Kvatz was like that—constantly talking, constantly teasing. It was his way of keeping us both sane.

"Alright, alright, don't kill me with that look." He held up his hands in mock surrender before tossing a rough sack at me. "Got your ration."

I caught it out of instinct, the weight grounding me in the now. Inside, the contents shifted with the telltale clink of metal. Dried meat, hardtack, a few strips of salt pork, and a flask of what I hoped was water. Meager, but it would keep me moving.

Cinching the bag closed, I slung it over my shoulder and glanced at Kvatz. "Any jobs on the board?"

His face split into that lopsided grin of his as he scratched the stubble on his chin. "Word is, there's a merchant caravan heading north through the pass in a few days. They're looking for escorts. Pay's decent, and the route's not too dangerous… for now."

He leaned against the rusted steel post of a servidäs notice board, his grin fading slightly. "But you know how it is. The Fräuggler Federation's been making noise about their border patrols, and the Empire's been…"

"Restless," I finished for him.

Kvatz nodded grimly. "Could be trouble."

A chill ran down my spine at the thought. The Fräuggler Federation was known for its expansionist greed, always pushing, always taking. The Empire, on the other hand, never needed an excuse to show its strength. The two were circling each other like starving wolves, waiting for one misstep to ignite the fire.

As Kvatz spoke, my fingers tightened around the strap of my pack. The unease gnawed at me, the same gnawing I felt in my nightmares. The feeling that something was coming, something I couldn't stop.

But what was the alternative? Stay here in these unforgiving mountains, waiting for hunger or boredom to claim me? No. At least with the caravan, there would be an illusion of safety in numbers. A purpose, however temporary.

I exhaled, nodding. "I'll take it."

Kvatz smirked. "Knew you would."

The conversation ended there, but the weight of the nightmare still clung to me. That other version of me—silver-haired or midnight-black, angel or monster—stood at the back of my mind, silent and waiting.

I knew, deep down, that I was walking toward her. Toward the mountain of corpses. Toward the prophecy I had yet to understand.

And when the time came, I would have to face her.