The first crack in Amber's mood appeared before she ever realized something was wrong.
At first, it was only a faint irritability, like a splinter under the skin.
The others spoke and laughed. The forest air was cool. The sky was clear.
But everything felt a little…off.
Their footsteps sounded too loud on the forest floor. The rustle of leaves seemed sharper than usual, like whispering voices just out of earshot. Even Valen's calm presence at her side felt distant, as if he was walking a few steps further away than he truly was.
She told herself it was simply fatigue.
The battle. The screams. The smell of blood and burning Blight.
She had expected some unease in the aftermath.
Yet as the hours passed, the sensation did not fade. It grew.
Little things began to strike at her nerves—Raylan's easy smile, Elara's bright questions, Marcus's watchful gaze. Their voices blurred together, words losing meaning. The cadence remained, but the content slipped through her fingers like water.
When monsters lunged from the undergrowth, she watched Valen cut them down almost absently. The motions were familiar. Efficient. Controlled.
Her own saber felt heavy at her hip.
She did not want to draw it.
She did not want to see more blood.
By the time they crossed the Stinky River, a faint pressure had settled at the back of her skull. Not quite pain—more like a hand resting there, pressing lightly, demanding attention without yet squeezing.
It will pass.
It did not.
The world's colours seemed too bright. The green of the leaves, the brown of the trunks, the silver glints of mana along Valen's barriers—everything was slightly oversaturated, as if the world had drunk too much light.
Her patience thinned.
When Valen asked if she had slept well, irritation burned through her like a spark falling on dry grass. She snapped her gaze at him, glare sharp and unreasoning, and the moment the reaction left her, she could not even recall why she had felt angry.
His voice faded.
Her own heartbeat sounded louder.
The first hallucinations came quietly.
A shape, at the edge of her vision.
A shadow between trees that vanished when she turned to look.
The faint impression of a hand resting on her shoulder—but when she turned, no one was there. Valen walked slightly ahead, the trio behind, all at their usual distances. No one had touched her.
She told herself it was nerves.
She had seen too much death. Too much of that eye in the sky. Too much Chaos.
The explanation was reasonable.
Reality did not agree.
As the morning fog thickened around them, her thoughts began to slide in strange directions. Voices overlapped—all blurring into one continuous stream, like a river of sound that no longer separated into clear words.
Her hand went to the hilt of her saber more often.
Not to draw it.
To reassure herself it was still there.
When the Rank 2 ghost appeared, drifting in the fog like a tattered scrap of mist, something in her snapped.
The world narrowed.
Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out all other sound. The ghost's hollow eyes became every Blight she had ever cut down, every corpse in Dawn Forest, every lifeless student she had watched the healers carry away.
Mana exploded out of her without thought.
Her saber cleared its sheath in a single motion, and she rushed the ghost with a wordless sound—half snarl, half scream. Her blade sliced through the ephemeral form again and again, steel passing through mist.
She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that physical attacks were useless.
She did not care.
She needed to cut it.
To erase it.
To make it stop looking at her.
The ghost's silent gaze never changed.
Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. Mana roared through her channels, too much, too fast, burning without direction. Her skin prickled. Her vision blurred at the edges. The fog seemed to close in, pressing against her lungs.
Nothing felt secure.
Not the ground beneath her feet. Not the blade in her hand. Not even her own body, which felt too tight, like armor one size too small.
Hands caught her. A voice—Valen's, low and calm—said something she could not distinguish.
The world tilted.
Heat rushed through her veins like molten metal.
Her thoughts, already frayed, finally tore.
Darkness closed in at the edges of her vision, folding inward like a closing flower.
She fell.
When she opened her eyes, she was small again.
Her legs dangled from the edge of a stone bench, not yet long enough to touch the tiled floor. The air smelled of polish and sun-warmed stone. Sunlight spilled through high arched windows, catching dust motes that drifted lazily in golden shafts.
The palace garden lay beyond the open colonnade, familiar and bright.
She knew this place.
The inner courtyard of the Lumis estate. The one closest to her father's office. She had played here often as a child, weaving between columns, pretending they were ancient pillars of some lost temple.
She swung her legs back and forth.
A blue ribbon was tied in her hair. Her hands clutched a wooden practice sword, its surface worn smooth by use.
Somewhere in the garden, her mother's soft laughter drifted through the air like wind chimes.
For a moment, tranquillity settled over everything.
Warmth. Safety.
She breathed in.
White lilies lined the garden path, their scent delicate and sweet. The breeze stirred the leaves of the ornamental trees, making them whisper softly.
Everything was exactly as she remembered.
Almost.
When she looked at the servants moving in the distance, their faces blurred.
Features slid out of place when she tried to focus. Eyes wandered too far apart, mouths stretched a fraction too wide.
She blinked.
The distortion vanished.
The servants looked normal again.
Footsteps approached from behind.
She turned.
Her mother stood there, dressed in formal robes—deep crimson embroidered with silver. Her hair was arranged in the intricate style she wore for court. Her smile was gentle, the way it had always been when she found Amber playing alone.
"Amber," she said. "Come. It is time."
"Time for what?" Amber asked.
Her smile did not change.
"To join us, of course."
Something was wrong with her voice.
Too flat.
Too empty.
Amber slid off the bench, wooden sword still in hand.
"Mother?" she asked.
Her mother held out her hand.
Her fingers were too long.
The joints bent at wrong angles, knuckles protruding like knots in a twisted branch. Her nails lengthened as Amber watched, curving into black claws.
The garden's colours shifted.
The white lilies at the path's edge wilted, petals browning, stalks bending. The sky dimmed. The air thickened, heavy and damp, the scent of flowers souring into rot.
Her mother's smile widened.
Too wide.
Her teeth sharpened behind suddenly-too-thin lips.
"Amber," she said again.
Amber ran.
The scene broke like glass.
She stumbled forward—
—and the garden fell away beneath her feet.
She hit soft earth in the outer training grounds now. Older. Not quite a child, not yet the youth who had entered the Academy.
Students in Lumis colours sparred nearby.
She could not see their faces clearly.
When she looked again, their faces were smeared, like wet paint dragged across canvas.
Voices rose and fell in the distance—cheers, corrections, the crack of wood against wood.
Her hands were empty.
She did not remember dropping the wooden sword.
The students stopped sparring.
One by one, their heads turned toward her, movements jerky and too precise. Their bodies did not follow—only their heads, rotating, necks twisting further than they should have been able to.
Their blurred faces had no eyes.
No mouths.
Just a smear of skin where features should have been.
They lifted their practice swords.
The wooden blades stretched and warped, grain darkening, edges thinning into something far too sharp.
Amber stepped back.
Her heel hit something soft.
Black water lapped at the edge of the training ground, silent and still. Reflections shifted within it—faces she knew, places she had visited, all contorted and wrong.
The faceless students stepped toward her.
Every footfall made the ground decay beneath their boots.
"Stop," she said.
Her voice came out as a whisper.
No one stopped.
A hand grabbed her wrist.
She jerked around—
Her mother stood there.
Her face was perfect now, exactly as Amber remembered—high cheekbones, kind eyes, the faint smile lines at the corners of her mouth.
"Amber," she said. "You must run."
Relief flooded through Amber.
Then her skin cracked.
Thin lines split across her cheekbones, her forehead, her jaw—hairline fractures that glowed faintly with sickly light. Her pupils elongated, stretching into vertical slits.
"Amber," she repeated.
The voice was the same.
The face was no longer hers.
Amber tore her arm free and ran.
The landscape shifted with every step.
Training ground.
Hallway.
Garden.
The scenes blurred together—familiar corridors stretching too long, doors melting into walls, sky tilting at unnatural angles.
Everywhere, the same pattern repeated.
Faces she knew.
Bodies she recognized.
Smiles that were a little too wide.
Eyes that glowed with sickly gold light.
Her lungs burned.
Her legs ached.
She did not stop.
At last, she burst through tall doors carved with the Lumis crest and stumbled into a great hall.
The ceiling disappeared into shadow. The walls were lined with tapestries that writhed when she tried to focus on them.
A long table stretched down the centre, laden with covered dishes.
The smell of food filled the air.
Meat.
Rich. Savoury.
Too metallic.
Her stomach twisted.
The seats were filled with family—uncles, aunts, cousins, retainers. They all sat perfectly still, backs straight, hands folded.
Every head turned toward her at once.
Their eyes glowed.
Gold, like hers.
Their smiles spread in unison.
"Amber," they said together.
A hundred voices layered atop one another, overlapping, echoing.
Amber took a step back.
The doors slammed shut behind her.
She spun.
A young girl stood in front of them.
Amber was looking at herself.
Small, frail, dressed in a plain white gown.
The girl-Amber smiled.
"You are late," she said.
Amber's throat felt too tight to answer.
She tilted her head.
"Do you not recognize them? They are yours. Your people. Your blood."
Something moved beneath the tablecloth.
Hands.
Too many pale hands slid out from under the table, fingers flexing. Nails lengthened into claws.
The girl laughed quietly.
"You wanted to be strong," she said. "Strong enough to protect them."
One of the nobles leaned forward.
His jaw unhinged.
Rows of fangs unfolded from his mouth.
Amber stumbled back, hitting the closed doors.
The girl-Amber stepped closer.
"Why are you running?" she asked. "Is this not what you wanted?"
The hands crept nearer, claws clicking softly.
Amber shook her head.
"They are monsters," she whispered.
The girl's smile widened.
"And you are not?"
Her skin rippled.
Scales shimmered along her arms. Her claws lengthened. Golden flame flickered along her fingertips.
"You are one of us," she said.
The nobles stood in unison and began moving toward her.
Amber grasped for her saber.
Her hand closed on nothing.
From somewhere above, a quiet voice spoke.
"Amber."
She knew that voice.
Firm. Calm. Always slightly detached.
She looked up.
Valen stood at the far end of the hall.
He looked exactly as she remembered—cloak, expression, sharp analytical focus. Only his eyes glowed faintly now, traced with molten gold.
Relief surged through her.
"Valen," she breathed.
He walked toward her with unhurried steps. The nobles parted to let him pass, bowing their twisted heads.
He stopped a few paces away.
His expression did not change.
Calm.
Detached.
"You should not run," he said. "You chose this path."
Amber stared at him.
"I did not—"
"You did," the girl interrupted, slipping her hand into his. "You wanted power. You wanted to stand at the top. Do you not remember?"
Images flashed across Amber's mind.
Training.
Sparring.
Standing at the front lines in Dawn Forest, saber blazing, laughing in wild exhilaration because she could.
Valen crouched in front of her.
His face was close now.
Too close.
She could see the faint cracks at the edges of his eyes, light bleeding through in thin lines.
"Amber," he said.
He reached out and touched her cheek.
His hand was warm.
Then too warm.
Heat poured into her skin from his palm, burning, searing.
"You cannot protect anyone if you are weak," he said.
His tone never changed.
Even.
Matter-of-fact.
His shadow stretched behind him, rising, unfolding like wings made of smoke and broken glass.
"You cannot protect yourself. You cannot protect me."
His smile did not change.
"You failed," he said.
The nobles surged forward.
Claws dug into her arms, her shoulders, her hair. Teeth closed on her sleeves. The girl-Amber laughed.
Amber screamed.
Not a warrior's shout.
A raw, frightened sound that tore from somewhere deep in her chest.
"Valen—!"
The world shattered.
Amber jerked in the bed, breath ripping in and out of her lungs.
Heat roared through her veins. Golden light flared behind her eyelids.
Hands—real ones this time—held her down gently but firmly.
A cool touch pressed against her arm.
Something sharp pricked her skin.
The nightmare began to dissolve—the great hall, the monsters, the girl, even Valen's cracked face fading into formless shadow.
Only the echo of her own scream remained.
Then even that was gone.