Pyrehold, Night of Day Twenty-Two
The mountain slept.
But Toy did not.
Not truly.
He closed his eyes that night, lying near the far wall as he often did—blade sheathed, cursed hand resting across his chest.
But peace never came.
Only the sound of drums.
And then, the battlefield returned.
Mud.
Smoke.
Fire eating the sky in orange streaks.
Toy stood again on the Black Ridge — the place he'd lost his unit, his brothers, his future. He knew this dream. It always came back, like blood leaking through old stitches.
He stepped forward, boots squelching in familiar mud. Bodies littered the ground — some still screaming. Some begging.
The roar echoed again.
Not man.
Not beast.
Not god.
Just fury.
And from the burning hill ahead came a figure.
No armor.
No army.
Just flowing silver hair and frost trailing in her wake.
Lara.
But not the Lara of Pyrehold. This was the Witch as legend told — eyes like a storm, hands outstretched, wind shrieking around her. Every breath she took froze a man solid.
And Toy… was still alive.
Still standing.
She looked at him.
Not past him. Not through him.
At him.
Then she said, "Why didn't you run?"
He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
Behind her, another shadow stirred.
Massive.
Crawling.
Serpentine.
Kaelith.
Its horned head loomed, white coils slick with blood and ice. And yet… its gaze was calm. Not hostile. Just watchful.
Lara stepped closer.
But as she did, Toy felt it—his hand burning.
He looked down.
The curse mark — the blackened veins from the Primordial's blessing — was glowing again.
"Toy," she said in the dream. "You stood here before."
"I did," he managed to say.
"You were meant to die."
"I didn't."
She smiled, but not kindly.
"Because you were cursed. Because the Dark One wanted you alive."
"Yes."
Lara reached out and touched his scarred chest.
Images flooded him.
Flames. Betrayal. His commander bleeding out, whispering, "They'll never forgive you."
The people calling him traitor for sparing the Witch. For walking away. For surviving when so many had not.
And then—
A cold wind slammed through the dream, and everything shattered.
Toy gasped awake.
Breathing hard. Sweat slicked his skin despite the frost.
Across the cell, Lara sat up.
"You saw it again," she said. Not asked. Knew.
"I did."
He wiped his face. The scar on his chest ached. His cursed hand still glowed faintly, refusing to calm.
"You were there," he said. "In the dream."
"I often am," she replied quietly. "Not by choice."
She stood, walking to him.
"You died that day," she said.
"I lived."
"Not the same thing."
She knelt beside him. Her eyes softer now. Less cold. Less distant.
"I saw the man they left behind. In that mud. In that fire."
Toy met her gaze.
"You are not just a survivor, Toy Crimson. You are what's left when survival is no longer enough."
He didn't respond.
Couldn't.
Lara reached out.
Took his cursed hand.
The mark pulsed once.
Then, stilled.
"The Primordial didn't curse you," she whispered. "It chose you. Because even in death… you refused to become a monster."
He laughed. A bitter, breathless thing.
"And now?"
"Now," she said, brushing hair from his face, "you've become a reason I haven't shattered."
Toy closed his eyes.
Not in pain.
Not in fear.
But in the kind of peace that follows a storm that's almost passed.
And for once — just once — the nightmare didn't return.