Echoes of Failure

Darkness.

It wasn't just the absence of light—it was a suffocating void, an abyss that clung to his skin like tar, thick and inescapable. A bitter, metallic scent filled his nostrils, something like rusted iron mixed with the rot of decaying flesh.

A soft drip… drip… drip echoed in the distance, but Denwen couldn't tell where it came from. It was everywhere. Seeping into his bones, sinking into his mind. His body felt… wrong. Heavy. Like something had wrapped around his limbs, dragging him deeper into the abyss.

Then—

A voice.

"You were never meant to succeed."

The whisper slithered against his ear, cold and slick, like a snake brushing against his skin. He turned, but there was nothing. Just endless black. Then the darkness shifted, shapes forming within its depths.

And suddenly the world began to swirl— then he was there.

A cold wind howled through the ruins of his childhood home. The walls were shattered, scorched black by flames that had long since died out. The air reeked of smoke and charred flesh, a putrid mix that made his stomach churn.

Rachel lay in the rubble.

"Mom!" Denwen sprinted forward, his legs trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood pooled beneath her, thick and dark, spreading like an inkblot. Her body—twisted, broken, her once warm brown eyes now glassy and empty.

"Denwen..."

Her lips moved, but the voice didn't match. It was distorted, inhuman—like a chorus of whispers layered over one another.

Her fingers twitched. A slow, jerking motion. Then—her body twisted, bones snapping into unnatural angles as she crawled toward him, eyes hollow, mouth stretching wider, wider, until it wasn't a mouth anymore—just an endless, gaping void.

"Why didn't you save me?"

A cold hand gripped his wrist.

Denwen screamed.

The world turned crimson red as a vortex appeared, sucking him into an entirely new environment. His surroundings melted away like burning wax. He was on a battlefield now—a vast, open wasteland littered with corpses. Broken weapons. Shattered armor. The sky was blood-red, the wind thick with the stench of decay.

And there—standing in the distance, a sword dripping with fresh blood—was Roy.

"Roy?" Denwen's voice cracked. He took a shaky step forward, his boots squelching in the blood-soaked mud.

Roy turned to him.

Denwen's heart stopped.

His best friend's once bright blue eyes were cold. Empty. The warmth that had always been there—gone.

Then he smiled. A slow, cruel thing.

"You were never meant to be one of us."

A sharp whistle through the air—

And Roy's blade pierced through Denwen's chest.

Denwen gasped, his body jerking as hot pain exploded from his core. Blood bubbled up his throat, his vision swimming in red.

Roy twisted the blade.

"You were always too weak."

He heard a familiar whimper behind him turning around the battlefield shifted with his vision.

Now—he stood in the school courtyard. The sky overhead was a sickly shade of gray, the sun nothing but a dim, lifeless orb.

A scream.

Denwen turned sharply—his breath catching in his throat.

Nicole was there, but she wasn't alone.

A shadow loomed behind her, its form shifting, writhing—eyes, so many eyes, staring at him with twisted amusement.

Denwen lunged forward—

Too late.

The thing plunged a clawed hand straight through Nicole's chest.

She choked, her body convulsing as blood sprayed from her lips. Denwen reached out, his fingers brushing hers—

"Den...wen..."

Her voice was weak.

And then—she was yanked away, her body disappearing into the darkness.

Denwen's hands clenched into fists. His arms shook.

He had failed.

Again.

The world collapsed in on itself, dragging him into a new nightmare.

He was alone now. Floating in an infinite void, his body weightless, his mind fracturing.

He tried to speak—his voice didn't come.

He tried to move—his limbs didn't respond.

The darkness around him tightened, like a living thing, wrapping around his throat, squeezing.

"You were never meant to be strong."

The voice returned, echoing in the abyss.

"You will never be strong."

His body contorted, his bones snapping one by one, his skin splitting open as the darkness ate into him, tearing him apart from the inside.

Denwen tried to scream—

And then—

He stood before a long row of graves.

The wind was cold. Silent. The sky above a dull, lifeless gray.

Names were carved into the stone markers.

Racheal Hale.

Nicole Hale.

Varek Hale

Roy Clifford.

Denwen's breath hitched. His chest tightened, pain swelling inside him like an unbearable weight. His hands shook as he traced the names, his fingers cold, numb.

Then—his own grave appeared.

Denwen Varkein.

The ground beneath his feet split open.

A skeletal hand burst forth—grabbing his ankle, pulling him down into the cold, damp earth.

He struggled, he fought, but the grave would not let him go.

"You will never escape your failure."

—

Denwen gasped.

His body jerked violently, his lungs burning as he sucked in air like a drowning man breaking the surface.

Light—too bright. Sounds—too sharp. The smell of antiseptic stung his nose.

His hands clawed at the sheets. He was drenched in cold sweat, his body trembling uncontrollably. His heartbeat—wild, erratic, hammering against his ribs.

"Denwen!"

A voice—soft, warm, familiar.

His mother.

Racheal was at his side in an instant, pulling him into her embrace. Her arms tightened around him, solid and real. He could hear her heartbeat, feel the warmth of her body, smell the faint traces of jasmine in her hair.

She was alive.

Denwen shook. His breath came out in ragged sobs, his entire body trembling as he clung to her.

From the corner of the room, Roy and Varek stood frozen.

Roy was the first to move. He turned quickly. "I'll get the doctor." His voice was strained, his usual confidence replaced by something else—something he rarely showed. Guilt.

Denwen barely registered it.

Because before he could even process what was happening—Nicole was suddenly there, gripping his hand so tight it almost hurt.

Her face was pale, her eyes swollen from crying.

"Denwen—" Her voice broke.

And then—she was sobbing, burying her face against his chest, her whole body shaking.

Denwen's throat tightened.

He didn't know what to say.

He didn't know what to do.

All he could do was sit there, soaked in sweat, the echoes of his nightmares still whispering in his ears, as the weight of everything came crashing down on him.

And for the second time in his life—

He felt true fear.