When I opened my eyes, I was not in my bed.
I was floating.
There was no floor under me, no ceiling above me. My body drifted in the air as if invisible hands were holding me up.
The air was cold and heavy. It pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe. I looked down, and my blood ran cold.
Beneath me stretched a city, but it was not alive. It was dead.
Every roof, every street, every tower was drowned under thick white mist. The fog moved like water, curling and twisting, hiding the shapes of buildings inside it. The world below me was silent, as if no people had ever lived there.
I wanted to shout, but my voice caught in my throat. Fear burned through me.
Where am I? Why am I here?
I kicked and flailed, trying to move, but I had no control. My body floated helplessly.
Then, without warning, a force slammed into my back.
It felt like a giant hand had pushed me. My body shot forward through the air, spinning, twisting. The mist rushed up to meet me, swallowing the city below.
"Stop!" I screamed, but the mist devoured my voice.
Just before I hit the ground, I froze.
Not gently. My body jerked to a stop so hard that pain stabbed through my ribs. My lungs felt crushed, and I coughed for air. I was suspended again, hanging in the middle of nowhere.
Then I saw them.
Symbols.
They floated all around me like glowing letters. But they were not any language I knew. Their shapes twisted every time I tried to focus. Some looked like broken circles. Others like sharp lines that curved into claws.
And with them came flashes in my mind.
The world around me flickered, and suddenly I wasn't myself.
I was… him.
A boy with dark hair stood in a courtyard. The sun shone brightly above, but he was alone. His small hands gripped a wooden sword, too heavy for his thin arms. He swung it again and again, his breaths short, his palms raw with blisters.
"Adrian!" A woman's voice called. A warm, gentle voice. His mother.
He looked toward the window of a tall stone manor. For just a second, his lips curved in a smile. A boy's smile. Pure, hopeful.
The scene shifted.
The same boy sat in a large hall. Nobles feasted and laughed around him, but his plate was untouched. His eyes stared only at his father at the head of the table. The man's gaze was stern, sharp, and cold.
Adrian's shoulders tightened. He picked up his fork, pretending to eat, though every bite tasted like ash.
The scene twisted again.
Rain poured down. A coffin rested under a black cloth. The boy knelt in front of it, his clothes soaked, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. His lips moved, whispering words no one could hear.
Tears fell, but his eyes burned with more than grief. They burned with anger.
"Why… why must everything be taken from me?" he cried into the storm.
The image shattered like glass.
I was back in my own body, gasping, heart racing.
But his pain… it still lingered in me.
"What is happening to me?" I whispered.
The symbols around me pulsed with light, faster and brighter.
Then three of them broke away from the rest.
They circled me. First slow, then faster, glowing brighter each second. One shone red, another gold, and the last burned white with a faint blue edge.
I panicked. "No—!"
The three symbols slammed into my chest.
Pain exploded inside me.
It was not fire, not lightning, but something deeper. My bones felt like they were breaking. My blood boiled in my veins. My heart hammered until I thought it would rip apart.
I screamed, but no sound left my throat. My body shook and twisted as if I were being torn apart from the inside.
The symbols melted into me. I felt them sinking deeper, carving themselves into my soul.
Then—darkness.
I woke with a gasp.
The bed was gone. I was sitting in the chair at my desk, my shirt wet with sweat, my chest heaving like I had run for miles.
I looked around. The heavy curtains, the carved ceiling, the faint lavender scent. My room.
I pressed my hands against my chest. No wounds. No marks. Only trembling muscles and the ghost of burning pain.
It had not thrown me into another world. Not like the first time.
It was a nightmare.
My third nightmare.
And each one was sharper, heavier, more real than the last.
I dragged in long breaths, trying to steady myself. The silence of the room only made the sound of my heartbeat louder.
Then I heard it.
Flip.
I froze.
The book.
It was turning its own pages. One after another, the sound of paper filled the room. Flip, flip, flip, like wings in the air.
Then it stopped.
The pages settled on their own, and a faint glow rose from the parchment.
The letters burned softly with white light, brighter and brighter, until they lit the whole desk.
I stared, unable to move, my breath caught in my throat.
The book was alive. It was calling to me.
And deep inside, I knew—this was not the end of the nightmare.
It was only the beginning.