Black.
Dark.
Empty.
Quiet.
Silence.
Nothing.
That was all there was. A terrible, suffocating nothingness that wrapped around Caspian like a shroud—thick, formless, endless. It wasn't just darkness. It was the absence of all things: sound, sensation, thought. No warmth. No cold. No weight. No ground beneath him, no sky above. It was as if he floated in the hollow space between worlds—adrift, swallowed whole by a vast, indifferent void.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't even feel the beat of his own heart, as if the darkness had devoured that too. Time itself seemed to stretch, uncoiling into infinity, each second an eternity, each eternity a whisper that gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Then—
A crack.
A faint, jagged line of pale light, like the first splinter of dawn breaking across an endless night, glimmered just at the corner of his vision. He strained to turn toward it, but his body wouldn't obey. It was as if he had no body at all. The light flickered, distant and elusive, as if it would vanish the moment he tried to grasp it.
More cracks followed—thin, delicate fractures spreading across the oppressive blackness like veins of silver in obsidian. They spiderwebbed outward, splitting the void apart, until the darkness above him ruptured—an explosion of blinding, cold light tearing it open.
The void fell away like shattered glass, and Caspian dropped—
Falling, tumbling through space, breathless and weightless—
Until he landed, hard, on the damp, loamy earth.
He gasped. Air rushed into his lungs, sharp and metallic. His fingers dug into the dirt, and he realized it was real—tangible, textured, solid. He pushed himself up, his body slick with a viscous, black substance. It clung to him like oil, thick and glistening, dripping in slow rivulets down his skin, pooling at his feet in dark puddles that shimmered like liquid shadows.
He wiped it away, though it seemed to resist, the oily slime smearing across his hands, sticky and cold. It smelled faintly of ash and something sour—rotted, ancient.
The world around him slowly took shape—an overgrown path of packed dirt, the ground worn smooth by countless footsteps. Towering pine trees loomed on either side, their branches twisted and gnarled, clawing at the darkening sky. A damp fog clung low to the earth, swirling between the trunks like breath on cold glass. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and earth and the faint tang of decay.
Caspian glanced in both directions. The path stretched ahead, disappearing into the dense tree line. Behind him, it wound back into the fog. Either way, the silence pressed in—too quiet, the kind of quiet that settles when even the birds refuse to sing.
He hesitated.
Then—
Laughter.
Light, giddy, and far too bright for this shadowed place.
It echoed off the trees, high and sweet, the sound of children playing.
"You're so slow! You can't even catch your little brother!"
A boy, maybe seven years old, burst from the forest, sprinting down the path with wild energy. His cheeks were flushed, his small boots kicking up flecks of dirt. A second boy, older—nine, perhaps—followed close behind, grinning, his arms pumping.
Caspian stepped forward, his voice raw in the cold air. "Hey! Wait! Can you tell me where the nearest city is?"
But the boys didn't even glance at him. They raced closer, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons of sound—
And then the younger boy ran straight through Caspian.
Not around. Through.
Caspian's body rippled like water, a distortion in the air where the boy passed through. A chill raced through him, a hollow emptiness that prickled beneath his skin, like a gust of wind blowing through an open grave.
He spun, disoriented, as the second boy did the same—his footsteps light, his laughter bright and untouched by the shadow clinging to Caspian's skin.
"What the hell—?"
The boys skidded to a stop near a small, bubbling spring a few meters away. The younger one bent down, cupping water in his hands, while the older leaned on his knees, catching his breath.
Caspian approached them cautiously, heart hammering, each step sinking slightly into the damp earth. He reached out, hesitating—then tried to tap the older boy on the shoulder. His fingers slipped through, cold and weightless, as if the boy were nothing but mist.
"No," Caspian muttered. "No, no, no." He tried again—his hand passed straight through. Again. The same. His palm hovered in front of the boy's face, but there was no reaction—no flicker of awareness, no sign he was even there.
"Hey! Can you hear me?" Caspian shouted, waving his arms, desperate. "Can you see me?!"
Nothing.
The boys continued as if he didn't exist—drinking from the spring, wiping their faces, laughing, chasing each other down the dirt path once more.
Caspian stood there, breath shallow, skin clammy. The fog seemed thicker now, creeping closer, winding around the trees like smoke. The air had grown colder, the silence deeper—punctuated only by the faint sound of children's laughter, fading into the distance.
He swallowed hard.
And then, grimly, he began to walk.
He followed the boys, his footsteps soundless on the dirt, though every movement felt slow, heavy, as if the darkness clung to him still, dragging him down.
The path twisted deeper into the trees, vanishing into the fog ahead, and Caspian pressed forward, each step a hollow echo in the eerie, waiting quiet.
"Hey… wait up!"
But the boys were already gone.
Then Caspian walked.
And walked.
And walked.
The path stretched on, winding deeper into an unknown eternity, as the sun bled away behind the horizon and the moon—cold and unblinking—rose like a pale eye in the ink-black sky. A million stars shivered into existence, distant pinpricks of cold light, watching him from the cosmic void above. The air grew colder with each step, the wind slicing against his skin like invisible blades, whispering in a language older than time.
Eventually, Caspian stopped. He didn't sit. He didn't speak. He just stood there, staring down the endless, empty road, as if trying to will it into revealing its secrets. The trees loomed higher now, their gnarled branches clawing at the night, skeletal fingers silhouetted against the starlit heavens.
Then—
A shift.
The air turned colder, sharper. The wind whispered through his snow-white hair, a breath of frost against the back of his neck. Caspian turned slowly, dread tightening in his chest.
The green forest was gone.
In its place—an endless expanse of dead trees, stripped bare and coated in ice, their bark blackened and split. Snow drifted down in silent, oppressive sheets, covering the earth in a white that was too bright, too empty.
Caspian turned again. The same. Endless, frigid death in all directions.
Then—
A voice.
Low, slick, venomous—like a whisper curling out from the cracks in the earth.
"This place… isn't meant for your kind."
It slithered behind him, but when he whirled around—nothing. No figure. No shadow. Just the suffocating, snow-laden trees, their skeletal forms standing like silent witnesses.
"Go back to where you came from."
The voice this time—closer, but now it seemed to seep from the very ground beneath his feet, curling up through the roots and into the marrow of his bones.
Caspian clenched his fists, his breath misting in the frozen air. "I'm not going anywhere. What did you do to this place?"
Silence.
Then a grotesque chuckle—wet, ragged, as though the voice's mouth was too full of rotted flesh.
"Oh, little Devourer…" the voice sighed, almost wistful. "You're interrupting my fun."
Caspian's voice rose, sharp and cutting. "Fun? What could you possibly find fun in this?"
"Everything," the voice answered, giddy with perverse delight. It shifted closer, just at the edge of Caspian's hearing—just out of reach, like a spider circling its prey.
"This place isn't real," Caspian said, his voice wavering. "It's just a book."
"Oh… no, no, no," the voice cooed, almost mockingly, its breath hot and fetid on the back of Caspian's neck. "This is very real. And I adore every moment of it."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Caspian demanded, his stomach twisting.
A sharp, jagged laugh—high and shrill, like the screech of a blade dragged across bone.
"I am a Nightmare," the voice hissed, its tone thick with glee. "You… and I… we are opposites. You, the little Devourer of Dreams, with your silly notions of justice… and I, the destroyer, the poison, the rot that seeps into the marrow of souls. You exist to purge. I exist to taint."
"Try me," Caspian spat, defiance igniting in his chest.
The voice howled with laughter—maniacal, fractured, a sound that splintered the air itself.
"Oh, you are naïve. How deliciously tragic!"
Then the voice grew quiet, a breathless whisper that curled into Caspian's ear.
"I revel in death. I drink suffering like the finest wine."
A pause. Then the voice spoke—dreamy, almost tender.
"These boys you saw? Samuel… and Christian. Sweet little brothers. So close, so trusting. They grow up. They love. They fight. And then… Samuel's wife betrays him. Sleeps with his own brother. Their son, Michael, is born from the filth of that betrayal. And Samuel… oh, Samuel snaps. He butchers them both. Slits his brother's throat. Stabs his wife as she screams. And then… he hangs himself in the rafters of their home."
The voice shivered with pleasure, gasping.
"Isn't it glorious? The blood. The tears. The sound of their last breaths rattling in their lungs. And the best part? I can replay it. Over and over and over. Each time more brutal, more depraved, more perfect than the last."
Caspian's breath hitched, his blood turning to ice. His fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms.
"You're sick," he breathed, voice trembling. "You're a monster."
The voice roared with laughter—jagged, raw, and gleeful.
"Of course I'm a monster! I'm a Nightmare! That's what we were made to do. To unravel, corrupt, destroy. To feast on the soft, fragile little lives of mortals… to tear apart their dreams and make them bleed."
And then he emerged.
A figure cloaked in robes blacker than shadow itself—fabric that seemed to absorb all light, bleeding darkness into the air around him. His face was hidden, save for a mouth—that mouth—stretched into an impossible grin, lips peeled back to reveal yellowed, jagged teeth stained dark with blood. The grin was wrong—too wide, too sharp, splitting his face like a grotesque wound.
He stepped forward, his movements fluid, inhumanly graceful, as though he floated just above the ground.
"Hm… I have an idea," the man crooned, his voice honeyed poison. "You, little Devourer, would make such a fascinating addition to my theater. A star player in my beautiful, eternal plays."
He tilted his head, the grin widening further, impossibly so.
"What do you say… oh, I never got your name, did I? What is it?"
Caspian's voice was cold, steady despite the pounding in his chest. "Caspian Sinclair. And I reject your offer."
The man's grin split—his mouth tearing wider as he burst into laughter, a shrill, jagged sound that echoed through the frozen woods like the cackling of crows over carrion. He laughed and laughed, until it twisted into a wheezing, choking hiss.
Then, abruptly, he stopped—his gaze locking onto Caspian, a bottomless void behind the yellowed teeth, a stare that felt like it could consume him.
"Caspian Sinclair," the man whispered, tasting the name like a drop of blood on his tongue. His grin sharpened, teeth glinting in the moonlight. "I haven't heard that name in decades. If you're anything like your father… oh, the fun we'll have."
He leaned in close, breath rotting and cold.
"Let's make this interesting," he purred, withdrawing two black knives from the folds of his cloak—blades that seemed to shimmer with something deeper than shadow, something alive.
He pointed one blade at Caspian, the grin stretching—too wide, too hungry.
"Let's have some fun."