His legs were stone.
All around him, the world was ending in fire and screams. People sprinted past, their faces masks of a terror so profound it had shattered their sanity. Some fled an unseen enemy; others turned on their neighbors, their eyes vacant and wild. The air, thick with the black-tongued smoke of burning homes, was a physical weight in his lungs. Cries of agony tore through the roar of the flames, each one a fresh stab of fear in his heart.
He needed to run. He had to run. But his body was a traitor, rooted in place as if pinned by a phantom hand.
Then, through the swirling chaos, his gaze was drawn upward.
A colossal tree dominated the village center, its branches so vast they seemed to hold the sky at bay, a dying guardian sheltering its people. For a single, fleeting moment, it was a symbol of peace in a world of madness.
And then it spoke.
Help… us…
It wasn't a sound he heard with his ears, but a splinter of pure agony that drove itself directly into his mind. The plea was a raw, ancient sorrow, a psychic wound that scraped at the inside of his skull. It was the voice of something immense, and it was breaking.
He tried to scream, to find a familiar face, but his voice was swallowed by the bedlam. Everywhere he looked, there was only the dance of flames and the sprawled shapes of the fallen. The great stone walls that encircled the village, once a promise of safety, now felt like the bars of a cage. He felt a crushing pressure, a weight that threatened to splinter his very bones.
Through the shimmering heat and smoke, figures began to resolve themselves. They were silhouettes, indistinct and wavering like desert mirages. His vision blurred at the edges, the sounds of the massacre dulling to a distant roar.
One of the figures lifted a hand, its finger pointing directly at him. Another drew a sword, the firelight catching on the blade in a wicked orange gleam.
And in that instant—
—his eyes snapped open.
The screams died. The heat vanished. Soft morning sunlight spilled across the walls of his small room, painting them a warm, familiar yellow. From the kitchen, he could hear the gentle clatter of utensils and smell the comforting aroma of spices.
"Wake up, Sumit! You'll be late for school!"
His mother's voice sliced through the lingering shadows of the nightmare. He sat up, the dream clinging to him like a cold sweat. It wasn't new. He'd seen this burning village his whole life, a nightly visitor he had learned to endure. But never like this. Never so real.
He pushed it down. He always did.
He washed his face, ate the breakfast his mother placed before him, and packed his bag. The rhythm of the morning was a comfort, a shield against the horrors of the night. The school day passed in a predictable blur of lessons and laughter with friends. By evening, he was home again, the nightmare a distant memory.
For a while, the dream left him. For weeks, his nights were blessedly silent and empty. It was strange. After being a constant companion for as long as he could remember, its absence was an unnerving quiet. A part of him, a foolish part, began to believe it was over for good.
Until that night.
The same fire. The same screams. The same great tree, its branches spread like the arms of a martyr over the walled village. And the same suffocating helplessness that left him rooted to the spot.
But this time, one thing had changed.
This time, he knew he was dreaming.
A spark of defiance ignited within him. If this was his dream, then he was not a prisoner. He could move. He could explore. He could find answers.
Ignoring the chaos, he turned toward a part of the village his dream-self had never dared to look at before. The moment he tried to take a step, a searing pain lanced through his body, as if invisible claws were tearing at his very essence. He gasped, but forced himself onward, one agonizing step at a time.
And then he saw it.
It wasn't just a wall; it was a gate. A massive, arching structure of seamless stone with no visible door or opening. And perched atop it, a silent sentinel carved from granite, sat the figure of a lion. From his vantage point, Sumit could only see its powerful back, its form facing inward as if standing guard over the village.
Something about the stone creature made his chest ache, not with fear, but with a fragile, unfamiliar flicker of hope. In the landscape of his terror, it was the first thing that felt like salvation. Without thinking, his mind formed a desperate, silent plea. Help… please help me…
The tree's voice screamed in his mind again, a final, desperate crescendo—but it was drowned out by another sound. A real voice, calling his name from far away.
The dream shattered like glass.
He woke with a gasp to find his parents leaning over him, their faces etched with fear. His mother immediately wrapped him in a trembling hug.
"What is it, beta? What happened?" she whispered, her voice shaking.
"Tell us what you saw," his father said, his expression grim.
His voice was a raw, shaking whisper. "A tree… a village… inside high walls… a stone lion… and… people in the smoke."
His father went rigid. A strange, unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes—not just confusion, but a flash of chilling recognition.
The air in the small room grew thick and heavy.
Without another word, his father stood up, his gaze locking with Sumit's mother. A silent, frantic conversation passed between them in an instant. Her face tightened, her attempt to seem calm failing completely.
Sumit didn't understand the look they shared, but he felt the shift in the room. He felt their fear.
The dream had meant something to them.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.