Nightmares

I wake up with a start, my breath ragged, my body drenched in sweat. My heart pounds violently in my chest. My skin is clammy, my sheets twisted around me as if I'd been fighting something in my sleep. Maybe I had. The fear still clings to me, a suffocating weight pressing down on my lungs.

The nightmare lingers, vivid and raw.

My parents stand in front of me, their eyes nothing but empty voids, black pits that swallow everything. Their lips move in unison, whispering something to me, but no matter how hard I strain, I can never hear them. I try to step forward, to reach them, but the world twists violently, pulling me away.

Then I'm in the square again. Back where it all ended. Back where my world ended for the first time. 

The nooses hang heavy from the execution platform, the air thick with voices of anticipation. I recognize the place instantly, yet something is wrong. The faces of the people around me are nothing but blurs, shifting like smoke. And on the platform, my parents stand with ropes around their necks, but they aren't afraid. They aren't pleading.

They're staring straight at me, their eyes piercing through as if they see into my soul.

Their hollow, black eyes bore into mine, their lips curling into twisted, mocking smiles, it was wrong. My breath catches, my limbs freeze, and the executioner steps forward. The trapdoors swing open.

Their bodies drop.

And their smiles never fade. Their eyes never blinking, never moving off me. The same knowing look stayed on their faces the entire time. 

The disturbing images linger in my vision. Those eyes, those smiles stretched into perversion. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing air into my lungs, trying to remind myself that it wasn't real.

But deep down, I know it was. Maybe not in the way dreams are real, but in the way nightmares never truly leave you.

I force a slow breath through my nose, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. My heart is still racing, my skin still damp, but I focus on steadying my breathing. In. Hold. Out. Again. After a few minutes, the raw edge of fear dulls. My body is still wound tight, though. Sleep is out of the question now. 

With a sigh, I shove the blankets off and push myself up out of my bed. The wooden floor is cool against my bare feet as I cross the room to the window. The latch clicks softly as I open it, letting in the crisp night air. It helps, a little. The breeze brushes against my sweat-sticky skin, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and the faintest trace of salt from the distant sea. 

I lean against the sill, staring up at the moon. It hangs there, pale and beautiful, casting its silver light over the quiet streets below. The city is still asleep. I sigh again, but this time in annoyance, running a hand down my face. "Great. Another night of barely any sleep. Exactly what I need when Cain already works me like a packhorse nothing pleases that prick." I mutter to myself. My voice is a whisper, rough from restless sleep and building irritation. I do a few stretches trying to shake off the lingering tension.

I move away from the window with a grunt, rubbing the gunk from my eyes. If I'm not going back to bed, I might as well get ready for the day. "Fuck me." 

Stripping off my sweat-damp shirt from fighting my own subconscious mind, I stand naked in the middle of my room, the cold air seeping in from the open window, washing over me, calming and cooling. My gaze catches on the large mirror Cain had provided, positioned against the far wall. In the dim light, my reflection stares back at me: average stature, a sharp jaw, black hair messy from sleep. And my eyes. Those damn violet inhuman eyes, glowing faintly in the dark, filled with something resentful and angry. But it's not just them. The three brands, inky black against my skin, sear themselves into my mind like they always do, reminders of power I still can't grasp. My jaw tightens as I glare at them, wrath rising in my chest. Two and a half months of training. Two months of testing every possible trigger, exhausting every method Cain could think of. And still, nothing. 

My fingers clench into fists at my sides, and it takes all my self-control to not punch the mirror in front of me. How much longer? How much more until something finally works? Until these marks become more than just a mockery of what I should be? Why would the divine bless me with three marks of power if I couldn't use them? "What was the point of me being chosen to be an Elite?"

I take a slow breath, forcing the anger down. I won't get answers by standing here brooding. I pull on a fresh long-sleeved, tight-fitting black top that clings to my frame, practical and unrestrictive. Next come the black pants, worn but sturdy, the fabric molding to my movements as I fasten them in place. My fingers hesitate over the last piece, the black robe draped over the chair by my bedside. The same one Elites wear and similar to the hooded ones the Inquisitors wear. The robe marks them as Imperial agents. Cain gave it to me months ago, but I had yet to don it. 

For a long moment, I just stare at it. The heavy fabric is lined with silver thread. It represents everything I should hate. Everything I do hate. And yet for the first time I grab it, throwing it over my shoulders and fastening the clasp at my throat. It settles over me like a shadow, too familiar, too right in ways I refuse to acknowledge.

The manor was silent at this hour, the kind of deep, undisturbed quiet that only came in the dead of night. My footsteps barely make a sound as I move down the dimly lit hallway.

The faint scent of old wood and candle smoke lingered, but otherwise, the place felt... empty. Cain didn't have his servants live here, which meant at this hour, Marta and the others were still at their own homes, leaving the estate in a temporary stillness.

I made my way down the grand staircase, the polished wood cold beneath my fingers as I trailed a hand along the railing. The kitchen was my destination.

Pushing open the heavy door, I stepped inside, immediately greeted by the faint, lingering scent of past meals. The large hearth sat cold and unused; the room was void of the usual trays and dishes Marta and Harkin set out during the day. But my target was no elaborate meal.

Crossing to the pantry, I reached in without hesitation and grabbed a single apple. The green skin gleamed faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window, and I turned it over in my hand before taking a bite. The crisp snap echoed in the quiet room, followed by the burst of sweetness on my tongue.

Fresh fruit. It was such a small thing, something most people probably didn't think twice about. But in the outskirts, something like this had been a luxury beyond measure. Back then, I would've had to steal, barter, or fight for even the smallest taste of something like this. Now? I could just reach out and take it.

I leaned back against the counter, chewing slowly as my mind wandered. It was strange how easily I was adapting to the comforts of this place, despite everything.