Chapter Eight

I dream.

But it is not the wasteland.

It is a forest.

Alive. Verdant.

Trees tower overhead, limbs whispering in the wind. The sun, golden and warm, spills through green leaves.

Birdsong.

The rush of a nearby stream.

I walk barefoot on moss, my steps light. My hands brush leaves and bark as I pass.

And everywhere I touch—

They die.

Leaves crumble.

Branches turn brittle.

Trunks collapse inward, hollowed and grey.

Ash falls from my fingertips.

And I laugh.

Not in horror.

Not in grief.

But in glee.

I whirl through the trees, spinning, dancing. Each motion a death knell.

A leaf drifts down before me—vivid, crimson, perfect.

I catch it in my palm. It sizzles. Blackens.

I smile. I grin. I laugh in a world drowning madness, falling to the forest floor as I watch the trees crumble to dust and ash.

Everything I touch becomes mine.

I awaken choking on dust.

Not choking—breathing.

My mouth is open. My chest rises and falls.

Ash pours down like rain, coating me in a slow cascade.

I am outside. I don't remember leaving.

The scarlet sky pulses above, a womb of endless fire.

I am kneeling.

My body glistens with a sheen of fine ash, as if I've been bathed in it.

My limbs are longer now.

My fingers tipped with dull, dark claws.

My ribs press against tight, dark skin that gleams like coal in firelight.

My clothes have disappeared.

I do not mourn them.

And I feel it.

The laughter still echoes inside me.

Not mad. Not cruel.

Joyous.

I am becoming.

I rise to my feet slowly, joints fluid. My spine flexes like a whip.

The ash bends around me—swirls.

Drawn in. Drawn close.

I breathe deep.

The ache in my stomach is gone.

Replaced by something new. Something pure.

I remember the forest.

I remember the way it all crumbled.

And how right it felt.

I do not fear it anymore.

I am not that man who begged the door to open.

I am not a man at all.

Not anymore.

And yet—

Some part of me still whispers in the back of my mind.

Was it joy… or surrender?