A chilly breeze drifted into Caspian's room, slipping through the crack in the window he'd left ajar. The air was sharp, stirring the curtains in a slow, restless sway. He lay on his bed, above the covers, arms folded behind his head, eyes tracing the empty white ceiling above him. The room—immaculate, sterile, cold—gave him nothing to look at, nothing to hold onto, as if the walls themselves were indifferent to his presence. The ceiling, a plain stretch of pale paint and shadow, seemed to mock him with its emptiness, a canvas waiting for thoughts he no longer wanted to entertain.
But they came anyway. They always did.
Lucille's voice, smooth as silk but laced with poison. Julius, shadowed and enigmatic, his words an echo in the dark. The city, blinding in its wealth, glittering towers rising like gods above the streets, while the slums rotted beneath. The Blackwoods—Andrew, Camael, Layla—an uneasy family stitched together by threads frayed from the start. It had all unfolded in the span of a week. A single week. Now, here he was, sprawled in a penthouse suite atop the Blackwood Tower, waiting for sleep to drag him under, for the dream Zach had warned him about to take hold.
He exhaled sharply, the air catching in his throat. A low sigh, half a groan, passed his lips as he rolled onto his side, facing the tall bookshelf across the room. The books sat in perfect, untouched rows, their spines rigid like soldiers standing at attention. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the city's hum—the distant drone of traffic, the faint rumble of a passing train, the muffled pulse of music from a club far below. It was no use. Sleep would not come.
Accepting defeat, Caspian pushed himself up, the sheets rustling beneath him, and shuffled into the kitchen. He turned the faucet on and let the water run until it cooled, then splashed his face, the shock of it jolting his senses. He stared at his reflection in the window above the sink—pale skin, eyes dark-rimmed with exhaustion, hair disheveled from tossing on the bed. The face of a man who was waiting. For what? A nightmare he didn't understand. A war he hadn't chosen.
He dried his face on a hand towel, the fabric rough against his skin, and wandered into the living room. His eyes settled on the violin case resting on the floor near the sofa. For a long, lingering moment, he just stood there, staring at it. The case was worn, its edges frayed from years of handling, the brass latches dulled with age. His fingertips brushed over the leather handle, tracing the indentations his grip had left over time.
Slowly, he unlatched the case, its hinges creaking softly in the silence. The interior gleamed—deep red velvet cradling the pristine white violin, its surface smooth as bone, almost glowing in the dim light. The bow rested beside it, its string taut, a ghost of music lingering in the air around it. Caspian didn't lift the instrument. He simply looked at it, the memories it carried pressing down on him like a weight.
Then, his gaze shifted to the small inner pocket of the case. His hand hovered over it before he unzipped it, revealing the familiar glint of glass vials—five in total, each filled with a thick, violet liquid that shimmered faintly in the light. Alongside them, the syringe lay nestled in its groove, gleaming and precise. Caspian stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
With a sharp breath, he reached down, slid one of the vials into the syringe, and twisted it into place. The plunger clicked softly. His fingers curled around it tightly, knuckles pale. He glanced once more at the mirror across the room, his reflection staring back at him, hollow-eyed and grim.
He crossed the floor, footsteps soundless against the polished wood, and stood before the glass. The city shimmered behind him—towering spires of light, threads of traffic winding through the streets like veins. He tapped the mirror once, twice, his reflection mimicking the motion in perfect sync. Then, closing his eyes, he pressed the needle to his skin, inhaled deeply, and pushed the plunger down.
The liquid burned as it entered his bloodstream—an icy fire blooming beneath his skin. For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then the world tilted, colors smearing, the edges of the room softening as if the walls were breathing in and out. His vision blurred, the floor beneath him swaying, and he stumbled back, nearly collapsing. He caught the arm of the sofa, fingers digging into the fabric, his breath ragged as he clenched his hair in one fist.
A sharp, searing ache lanced through his chest, then faded. He gasped, steadying himself, and slowly—too slowly—his vision cleared. The room swam into focus once more. Everything was as it had been.
Almost.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Caspian's head snapped toward the sofa.
There—seated on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, hands resting delicately on her knees—sat a girl no older than twelve. Her hair was the color of fresh-fallen snow, as pale and luminous as moonlight, cascading in waves down her shoulders. Her skin was porcelain, flawless, unearthly in its purity, and her eyes—those eyes—were a piercing, glassy blue that seemed to see straight through him. She tilted her head, a small, curious smile playing on her lips.
Caspian's breath hitched in his throat. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, a fragile thread of sound.
"Ava?"
The name slipped from his mouth, a sound fragile as glass, caught between memory and disbelief. His limbs grew heavy, a sudden leaden weight dragging him down as if the very air thickened around him. His knees buckled, his vision swam, and he crumpled to the cold floor, the last thing he saw those pale, watchful eyes fixed on him.
And then—nothing.
Click. Clack.Click. Clack.
The slow, deliberate rhythm of rubber soles against polished hardwood crept into Caspian's ears, prying him from the clutches of unconsciousness. His eyelids, heavy as lead, fluttered open—vision swimming in a haze of shadow and light. The scent of parchment and aged leather drifted around him, rich and heady, filling his senses like the smoke of a dying fire.
He blinked, forcing the blur to sharpen into form.
He was sprawled across an oak floor, cold and slick beneath his palms. Above him stretched a cavernous library, the air itself humming with an oppressive, expectant silence. Towering shelves stretched up three floors high, groaning under the weight of books that seemed older than time itself. Sliding ladders gleamed under the dim golden light, bolted to iron rails that ran along the shelves—tools to navigate this cathedral of knowledge. Shadows clung to the corners, alive with whispered threats, while the scent of old paper and ink thickened with each breath.
In the center of the room stood a massive, rectangular desk, books stacked in chaotic towers upon it, creating an imposing barricade of knowledge. The desk's silhouette was fractured, impossible to fully see, but Caspian could hear the faint scrape of a pen against paper, slow and deliberate. Someone was there, behind the desk, hidden by the fortress of tomes.
Groaning, Caspian pushed himself upright, the creak of his joints echoing through the empty space. His head pounded—dull, rhythmic throbs behind his eyes—and as he took a shaky step forward, Zach's voice echoed in his mind, cold and sharp as broken glass.
"Sometimes they're hostile. Sometimes not."
The words gnawed at his resolve, and he froze. His eyes darted toward the desk. Was it safer to confront whoever—or whatever—was there, or to retreat into the maze of bookshelves and risk the unknown? The dream offered no map, no guidance. Zach had warned him, but not told him how to escape.
His heart thrummed, a steady drumbeat in the hush.
Then, from behind the desk, a voice rose—low, sonorous, indifferent.
"There's no point in hiding, Caspian. Come to the front desk."
His breath hitched. The voice knew his name.
How?
His stomach twisted, the weight of the unknown coiling like a serpent in his gut. This could be a trap. Or a test. Or something far worse. He hesitated, every instinct screaming at him to run.
But the voice continued, smooth as silk, a lazy amusement lacing its words.
"Fine. If you won't come to me, I'll come to you."
A sharp rustle of cloth, the soft scrape of chair legs, and Caspian spun around.
There, lounging against the back of a leather chair as if he'd been there all along, was a man.
He looked to be in his late thirties, perhaps early forties, though time seemed to ripple oddly around him—like he'd stepped out of some forgotten photograph. His hair was a tangled silver-gray, curling in soft waves that fell onto his forehead. His skin was pale, his jaw lined with a faint stubble. The sharp planes of his face were striking, a chiseled geometry that seemed too perfect to be entirely human.
He wore grey linen trousers, a black shirt, and a matching grey denim jacket, unbuttoned and relaxed. His legs were crossed, and his head tilted back lazily over the chair's top, exposing the line of his throat. His eyes, though half-lidded, gleamed—a cold lavender that caught the dim light like polished glass.
Caspian's breath caught in his throat.
"H-How do you know my name?" he stammered, edging backward until the solid press of a bookshelf stopped him.
The man—no, the presence—chuckled softly, a sound like the rustling of old pages.
"I like to read," he replied, voice low and dismissive, as though the answer was obvious.
Caspian frowned, confusion knitting across his brow. "That doesn't explain anything."
The man gestured lazily to the books around them.
"Look around, Caspian. Have you even opened one of these?"
Caspian's gaze snapped to the shelves, eyes sweeping over the spines. Names etched in gold leaf glinted in the half-light. He hadn't thought to look.
"Go on," the man urged, his tone laced with amusement. "Pick one."
Reluctantly, Caspian reached for a nearby book. The leather was warm beneath his fingertips, as though it had been waiting for him. The title, etched in curling script, read Margaret Able. The name meant nothing to him.
He cracked the book open.
"No! Don't open it!"
The man's voice snapped like a whip, sharp and cutting. In a blink, he surged forward, snatching the book from Caspian's hands with a speed that blurred the air.
Caspian recoiled, heart racing.
"What the hell—?"
The man exhaled, rubbing his temples. "For someone so intelligent, you really are quite stupid, Caspian."
Caspian bristled, his confusion hardening into irritation. "Excuse me?"
The man gave him a sidelong glance, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Let me guess. Zach sent you, didn't he?"
Caspian hesitated. "He… warned me about this place. That's all."
The man muttered something under his breath, the words too soft to catch. He rose from the chair with an ease that belied his height—tall, towering over Caspian, a silhouette framed by shelves of ancient knowledge.
"Well then, Caspian." He extended a hand, his grin sharp and knowing. "My name is Nathaniel Constantine. But you can call me Nathan."
Caspian, wary, took the hand. It was cold, dry, and lingered just a beat too long.
Nathan's grin widened, the edges of it curling into something that wasn't quite human. His eyes gleamed, a flicker of something ancient in their depths.
"And welcome, Caspian, to the Library of Nightmares."