CH120
The dream feels too vivid to be a dream. I stand in the middle of a grand hall, its ceiling soaring above me, adorned with intricate mosaics of swirling blues and greens that seem to move like the ocean itself.
Massive columns encircle the chamber, each one carved with lifelike depictions of Enkian figures. Their faces are regal, their forms both human and otherworldly. Some have long, flowing fins trailing from their arms, others have scales that glisten like liquid gold.
I see one figure whose lower body is entirely octopus-like, their tentacles wrapping elegantly around the column's base.
I know these creatures.
At the center of the hall is a raised platform, and atop it rests a massive throne carved from a single piece of glowing crystal. It’s jagged yet elegant, its back rising high and tapering into sharp points that resemble lightning bolts. The throne seems alive with energy, faint arcs of electricity sparking along its surface.
It radiates power, a stark reminder that this is a place of kings, queens, and gods.
The same creatures from the museum fill the space, standing silently in clusters as if waiting for something—watching me with knowing, unblinking eyes. Their forms shimmer, half-solid, half-light, like reflections dancing on water. My breath catches in my throat. I can feel the weight of their gazes, like they’re expecting something from me. Something I’m not ready to give.
“Pathetic.”
I whirl around to find Electra standing at the top of a grand staircase that seems to be carved from glass. She’s radiant, her figure wrapped in what looks like living lightning, her eyes blazing with intensity. She descends slowly, her steps making no sound, yet her presence feels like a storm rolling in—inevitable, unstoppable.
“I thought I told you to start trusting yourself,” she says, her voice a sharp crack that reverberates through the hall. “You’re wasting time.”
I cross my arms, suddenly feeling very small under her piercing gaze. “Trust myself? I’ve been lied to my whole life. By everyone. My parents, my grandmother—hell, even my own DNA.” My voice shakes, but I refuse to let it break. “How am I supposed to trust myself when I don’t even know who I am?”
Electra reaches the bottom of the stairs and approaches me, her expression sharp, almost cruel. “You’re the Heiress of Twilight. Chosen by the Storm Mother herself. Or have you forgotten?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t forgotten. But that doesn’t mean I believe it. I don’t feel like any of those things. I just feel… lost.”
She stops a few feet from me, her presence overwhelming. “You can’t become who you’re meant to be if you don’t have faith in who you are,” she says, her tone like a whip crack. “Doubt is a poison, and you’re letting it rot you from the inside out.”
I swallow hard, feeling a spark of something beneath my skin—heat, electricity. It flickers, a faint glow that vanishes as quickly as it came. I gasp, clutching at my arms as if trying to hold onto it.
Electra’s expression twists with disappointment, even disgust. “Pathetic,” she says again. “You’re afraid of your own power. You’ll never survive if you keep running from what you are.”
“I’m not afraid,” I argue, but the words feel hollow, even to me.
She steps closer, towering over me, her eyes narrowing. “And now you lie. You are afraid. You’re afraid of what it will cost. Afraid of what you might lose. But let me make something clear, child of mine.” Her voice drops, low and menacing. “Time is running out. You don’t get the luxury of hesitation anymore.”
My chest tightens, and I take a shaky step back. “What do you mean? What’s running out?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” she says, her tone sharp. Then, without warning, she raises a hand, and a bolt of lightning arcs from her palm, striking me square in the chest.
Pain explodes through me, searing and blinding, as though every nerve in my body is on fire. I scream, the sound echoing through the grand hall, and—
I bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, my chest heaving. My skin tingles with leftover electricity, the sensation fading like a receding tide. The room is dark, but something feels wrong—off. A sound reaches my ears, faint but distinct. Footsteps, careful and deliberate, on the deck outside.
I freeze, every muscle in my body locking up. Wake.
I scramble out of bed, shaking Wake awake as quietly as I can. His eyes snap open instantly, alert and sharp. Before I can say a word, his head tilts slightly, his hearing far better than mine. He catches the same sound, and his eyes narrow.
Masked figures move in the shadows beyond the windows, their shapes faintly illuminated by the moonlight. There are at least three of them, maybe more, and they’re moving with a precision that makes my stomach turn. These aren’t burglars. They’re here for us.
Wake springs out of bed, silent and deadly, his movements fluid as he signals for me to stay put. But staying put isn’t exactly my style. I grab the nearest thing that resembles a weapon—an antique lamp—and hold it tight, my heart hammering in my chest.
The door creaks open slowly, and the first masked figure steps inside, their weapon raised. My breath catches, and adrenaline surges through me. This is it. No time for hesitation. No time for doubt. Electra’s words echo in my head: Time is running out.
I grip the lamp tighter, my fingers itching with a faint, familiar spark of electricity.
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