Jain woke to silence, not the gentle quiet of a village still caught in slumber, but something else—something unnatural. The kind of silence that presses against the skin, crawling into the lungs, making each breath feel like an intrusion.
His body was drenched in sweat, the echoes of last night's vision still clawing at the edges of his mind. The names, the battlefield, the darkness swallowing the gifted whole. He swallowed hard, sitting up. The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving only cold embers in its place. A shiver crept down his spine, but it wasn't from the cold.
Something was wrong.
Jain stood, muscles stiff as he moved towards the door. But before he could reach it, a soft knock sent a jolt through him.
He hesitated, fingers curling around the dagger at his waist. But then— "Jain"?
The voice was familiar, soft, warm. A voice he had heard a thousand times before, always carrying kindness in its tone. Now, in the stillness, it held something else, something careful.
He opened the door, and there she was.
Lyra, she stood in the I'm glow of drawn, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. A light breeze toyed with the loose strands of her dark hair, but she didn't seem to notice. Her deep brown eyes, always filled with a quiet gentleness, searched his. For a moment, the weight of everything—his visions, the watching shadows, the creeping sense of dread—faded beneath the softly intensity of her gaze.
"I had a feeling you wouldn't be sleeping," she murmured, a small smile toggling at her lips. There was no judgment in her voice, only understanding.
Jain exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding. "somethings happening, Lyra. something I don't understand."
She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body against the chill in the air. Her presence had always been steady, like the feeling of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Then don't face it alone," she said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to forget the fear, the hunt the looming darkness against the edges of his mind. He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers gazing her skin. she shivered—not from the cold, but from something else. But she didn't pull away.
"I'm leaving," he whispered, her breath hitched. "Then I'm coming with you."
His chest tightened. "it's not safe."
Lyra's lips curled into something between a smile and a challenge, but her voice was impossibly soft when she answered. "Neither are you." She paused, searching his face. "Where are you going, Jain? And why?" He hesitated, the weight of his visions pressing against his ribs. "I don't know exactly. But I need to find them. The gifted."
Lyra's brows drew together. "The ones from the old stories?"
"They are real," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "And I think... I think I'm one of them."
A gust of wind howled through the cracks in the wooden walls. The candle's flame flickering violently. Then, the silence returned.
Jain stood frozen, his hand still at her cheek. Lyra's expression shifted, her own instincts flaring to life. "We're not alone are we?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
The answer came in the form of a slow, deliberate creak of wood. Not from his home, but just outside. A weight shifting against the porch waiting.
Jain's heartbeat thundered in his ears. The air thickened, pressing down on them. The whispers returned, slithering into his mind, curling around his thoughts like fingers pressing too deep.
The voice was inside his head, inside his bones. Lyra must have sensed it too because her fingers tightened around his wrist, grounding him, then the shutters slammed open.
Wind exploded into the room, snuffing out the candle in an instant. The embers in the hearth floored, casting jagged shadow against the walls. Jain pulled Lyra behind him, dagger raided in shaking hands. Then, he saw it.
A shape stood just beyond the window, silhouetted against the darkness. its limbs were wrong, too long, joints bending in ways that weren't natural, just like what he had seen before. Jain couldn't see it's fac, but he felt its eyes.
Felt them inside him, peeling him apart piece by piece.
A deep, stretched laughed echoed from everywhere and nowhere. The shadows at the edges of the room slithered forward, reaching for them.
Lyra's hand slipped into his. "Jain"—her voice was steady, but he could hear the worry beneath it, could feel the quiet strength she always carried.
A heat, searing and blinding, burst through his spine. The mark on his neck burned white-hot. Power surged through his veins, a force he couldn't contain. The air cracked.
The thing outside recoiled, its form shuddering like smoke caught in a violent wind. The shadows shrieked, splintering against the walls. Jain didn't think—his body moved on instinct. He grabbed Lyra's hand.
"Run."
They tore through the door, feet pounding against the dirt. The laughter followed them, stretched and broken, as though it came from something that had never learned how to laugh properly.
Jain didn't stop running.
Not when the village disappeared behind them. Not when the wind screamed through the trees. Not when the weight of something unseen pressed at their backs.
He didn't stop until the last light of home was swallowed by the dark.
And even then, lyra never let go of his hand.