Klen was no longer pretending this was a dream.
The space around him had shape now. Depth. Weight. The air pressed faintly against his skin, carrying a cold that seeped into his bones rather than his lungs. The ground beneath his feet reflected nothing, not even his shadow, as if the world had chosen to erase him from itself.
She stood before him fully. No more half-formed silhouettes or crawling darkness. No distortion.
Her long black hair fell down her back in uneven strands, rough and neglected, moving slightly as if stirred by a wind he couldn't feel. The white dress clung to her body in a way that spoke of age and wear, dirt ground into the fabric, torn at the hem and shoulders. It hugged her frame without exaggeration — an ordinary body made unbearable by what had been done to it.
Scars marked her everywhere.
Some thin. Some jagged. Bruises layered over old wounds that never truly healed. Shackles bound her wrists and ankles, the metal dark, pitted, and cruelly tight, as if meant less to restrain and more to remind.
Black wings unfolded slowly from her back. They were not graceful. They were heavy. Real. Feathers bent and shifted with quiet, uncomfortable sounds. One of her eyes burned red while the other watched him in a deep, unblinking violet.
He studied her the way a man looks at something he knows he should recognize but cannot place, the tension settling behind his eyes.
"…Who are you?" he asked, voice steady, low.
The chains shifted as she took a step forward.
"You ask that," she said softly, "as if it hasn't already hurt me enough."
Her voice carried no anger. No mockery. Only something worn thin by time.
"You really don't remember," she continued. "Not even fragments. Not even the pain."
Klen exhaled slowly through his nose. "If I did," he said, "I wouldn't be standing here asking."
Although he was asking with confidence, the sweat coming down from his face said things otherwise.
She walked closer. Each step made the space around them feel tighter, heavier, as if the world itself was leaning in to listen.
"Then listen carefully," she said. "Because I won't have long."
The world fractured. Not with sound — with absence.
Light cracked through the sky in jagged seams, like glass splitting under invisible pressure. The horizon broke apart into floating shards, each reflecting a memory that vanished the moment he tried to focus on it.
The ground vanished beneath him. Klen fell.
Wind roared past him, tearing at his clothes, his thoughts, his balance. He twisted instinctively, arms spreading as if that might help, and slammed down hard onto something that caught him without yielding.
He rolled once, breath driven from his lungs, then forced himself upright.
The "ground" beneath his feet felt wrong — firm but hollow, like standing on a thought rather than matter. She descended from above.
Her wings beat slowly, deliberately, feathers shedding faint motes of darkness as she lowered herself until her feet touched the surface before him. The chains clinked softly as she straightened.
"I can help you," she said.
Klen stared at her.
"…With what?" he asked.
Her gaze softened.
"You don't need worry about it…" she replied. "It will all end soon anyway."
A pressure bloomed behind him. Light. Not warmth — authority.
The space trembled as brilliance poured into existence, bright enough to burn the edges of reality itself. The shadow recoiled sharply, wings flaring wide, chains rattling violently as she staggered back.
"No—" Her voice cracked. "Why is it here? It wasn't supposed to find you yet."
The light intensified and her eyes locked onto Klen's, fear naked and raw.
"Listen to me," she said urgently. "Whatever it tells you—"
She vanished. Not dissolved. Not destroyed. Removed.
The light turned.
It dimmed just enough to take shape — a tall male figure, its form defined by softened radiance rather than flesh. Its presence pressed against Klen's chest, not violently, but insistently.
"You are safe," it said, voice calm and absolute.
"Wait—!" Klen said but his voice cut off as the world folded inward.
Klen woke with a sharp intake of breath, body slick with sweat.
His heart thundered as he sat upright, eyes scanning the room instantly. Something was wrong. The air felt stale, unmoving, as if the space itself was holding its breath.
He was already on his feet, kodachi in hand, sword still secured at his waist.
He stepped through the doorway—
And stopped.
The corridor stretched impossibly far, doors lining both sides in perfect symmetry. When he turned back, the room behind him was gone. No wall. No doorway. Just more corridor.
"Lyra," he called, voice carrying sharp urgency now. "Marna!"
No answer.
Then steel rang against something wet and wrong.
A cry — strained, pained.
Klen ran.
Marna's footing slipped as another shadow lashed toward her. She twisted, barely avoiding a direct hit, but the impact still sent her skidding across the floor. Blood streaked from a gash along her arm, her breathing ragged and uneven.
Lyra stood behind her — pale, shaking, one hand braced against the wall.
She wasn't fighting.
She couldn't.
"Marna—don't let it surround you," Lyra said, voice tight, strained from holding back nausea and pain. "Keep moving. Don't stop."
Tendrils poured from the darkness ahead, thickening, multiplying, slamming into the corridor walls like living whips.
Marna struck one aside, then another, movements slowing as exhaustion dragged at her limbs.
"Klen!" Lyra called, voice breaking despite herself. "Answer me!"
A tendril struck Marna squarely, lifting her off her feet and hurling her backward.
She collided with Lyra.
Both hit the floor hard.
Before they could rise, shadow coiled around them — wrists, ankles, arms, legs — tightening with brutal intent. The pressure built, stretching them apart, pain flaring white-hot through muscle and bone.
Marna screamed.
Lyra bit down hard, the sound tearing out of her anyway.
Steel flashed.
The tendrils severed cleanly, collapsing into smoke as Klen slid into view, blade already moving, stance low and grounded.
"I've got you," he said firmly, kneeling beside them as he cut away the last of the shadow. "Both of you, are you alright?"
They gasped, limbs shaking.
"We're… alive," Marna managed, teeth clenched.
Lyra nodded weakly, swallowing hard. "Barely."
The shadow shifted.
Every tendril turned toward Klen.
They struck together.
He moved forward, not back.
Kodachi blurred, carving precise paths through the darkness. He stepped inside the reach of one tendril, cut upward, pivoted, sliced another at its base. Shadow tried to wrap around him; he twisted through it, boots sliding, breath controlled.
A shield formed — tendrils weaving tightly together.
Klen struck once. Twice.
Adjusted.
The third cut pierced through.
He surged forward and crossed his blade.
The shadow split apart, unraveling into smoke.
He landed cleanly, blade snapping back into its sheath.
Then the corridor trembled.
The shadow reformed.
Then divided.
One blocked the path ahead.
The other sealed the rear.
Klen pulled Marna and Lyra to their feet, positioning himself between them and the darkness.
"…We're not running," he said quietly, eyes fixed forward. "Not like this."
He drew his kodachi again.
"Stay behind me. I'll make them regret getting this close."
The shadows surged.
And the corridor screamed.