Andreas woke to the faint aroma of lavender oil and antiseptic.
Light pooled through tall, mullioned windows, striking the polished brass railings of the bedframe and glinting off the etched metal fixtures along the walls. The ceiling arched high overhead, supported by ribbed beams of dark wood carved with protective runes that pulsed a soft, reassuring blue.
He was lying in a narrow bed set neatly between two others, each made up with crisp white linens folded with military precision. A wide strip of canvas ran the length of the ward floor, stamped every few paces with a circular sigil—layered glyphs that hummed quietly with restorative energy. Whenever a nurse passed over them, the designs flared gently, like embers breathing back to life.
Along one wall, a long wooden counter held neatly organized rows of polished glass vials, each labeled in looping script: Laudanum, Ember Salts, Aurum Tincture. Above them hung a brass rack of surgical implements, their edges gleaming in the afternoon light.
Andreas shifted, and the movement sent a dull ache through his chest and shoulder. His body felt heavier than he remembered, wrapped in tight bandages beneath a pale cotton tunic.
He tried to sit up but stopped as a young nurse approached, her skirts whispering over the sigil-marked floor. She wore the standard uniform of a field medic—a high-collared navy dress with gleaming brass buttons and a sash woven with delicate runic thread. As she set a hand gently on his sternum, a golden circle of symbols flickered to life beneath her palm, sinking warmth into his skin.
"Easy," she murmured, her voice calm and practiced. "You've been unconscious for nearly a day. The medica's trying to mend the internal bruising."
Andreas swallowed, eyes darting to the far end of the ward. Several more soldiers lay in similar beds, their injuries tended by healers who moved between them with quiet efficiency. Now and then, a medic would pause, bow her head, and whisper a short incantation that made the sigils flare brighter and the smell of iron and ozone tingle in the air.
Beyond the last row of beds, a set of tall double doors stood open to a hallway tiled in black and white marble. The occasional officer passed by, their boots sharp against the stone, their cloaks trimmed with sigils denoting rank and division.
Overhead, a brass chandelier flickered with steady witchlight—engineered to burn for years without fuel. The air was cool, tinged with old wood and the faint metallic tang of enchanted wards.
It was a place of order, discipline, and quiet power—somewhere between a hospital and a sanctum.
For a moment, Andreas simply lay still, feeling the measured rhythm of the runes beneath him. He was alive. He wasn't sure yet if that was good or bad.
Andreas shifted again, testing the limits of his battered body. The instant he tried rolling onto his side, a jagged bolt of pain shot through his ribs where someone—he couldn't quite remember who—had driven a fist into him hard enough to crack bone.
He let out a strangled groan, immediately flopping back onto his spine.
"Gods above," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "I feel like I got trampled by a battalion."
He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to sink back into unconsciousness. It didn't work. The light kept needling through his eyelids, too bright and insistent.
With a muttered curse, he tried rolling to his other side. The movement made every bruise flare to life—his cheek throbbed from where someone had smashed it into the ground, and the side of his jaw ached like he'd gone three rounds with a hammer.
A low, almost childish groan rattled out of him as he twisted again, flinging an arm across his face in protest. The heavy bandages around his shoulder tugged against torn muscle, and he winced, biting back another curse.
He huffed out a breath that was equal parts frustration and resignation.
"I should've ran away," he mumbled, voice muffled under his arm. "At least then I wouldn't have to…deal with all this."
Another pained groan escaped as he attempted to drag the sheet higher over his head, like a child hiding from morning chores. The simple act of pulling the fabric sent a dull ache rippling through his chest where he'd been punched hard enough to leave a crater in his memory.
He shifted one more time, determined to find some position that didn't feel like being beaten with iron rods. But every angle, every breath, only reminded him that he was alive and made of flesh—flesh that currently felt about one bad decision away from falling apart.
With a final, pitiful grumble, he went still again.
"…waking up is the worst," he muttered into the crook of his arm, sounding for all the world like an overgrown child who'd been dragged from bed before dawn.
And for the moment, that was all the fight he had left in him.
***
Usually, when someone was lost or kidnapped and a bird arrived carrying a scrap of bark marked with their name, it meant you could stop worrying. Everyone knew that.
Because that message meant they were enduring the Trials of Ruthwood—a merciless ordeal of the cursed woods, but at least it wasn't death. Most returned alive, changed but breathing.
That was exactly what happened to the only daughter of the Leicester family. And yet, here I was, standing in the shadow of a rotting trees, because of the sinister machinations of the Everest Church. I'd come looking for that same girl.
When they sent me, I quietly complained bitterly. My sister was missing. All I could do was hope she, too, had vanished into the Ruthwood Trails. That would have been a fate I could almost accept.
But now that luxury was lost to me.
Because she was standing right in front of me.
She looked as sweet as ever. Her long, clean brown hair framed the same gentle eyes that mirrored my own, even though my hair was always a wild mess. For a moment, relief washed through me so powerfully my knees nearly buckled.
Then I saw her black robe. The necklace—twisted iron, bearing the sign of the Everest Church—hung at her throat. The stench of the church's followers, their corpses already decaying, seeped into my lungs. And looming over her was that towering, pillar-like creature, shrouded head to foot in a black cloth.
And she was crying.
Seeing my little sister in tears, something inside me broke. I drew my blade and leveled it at the creature. This thing had killed a thousand people when it arrived. I didn't know how it did it, or why it had left me alive. But if it had made her weep, then it deserved to die.
I lunged.
Somehow, I was on the ground without landing a single blow.
The creature's head— or what might have been a head—tilted slowly toward me. Its voice was a glacial whisper that pressed against my skull.
"Miss Clara. You have proven to me your loyalty. You may leave. Your mother must miss you dearly."
Rage welled up in my chest. I clenched my fist and swung it at the thing's face—if it had a face. My knuckles struck something as soft as rotting cloth. It didn't deserve to speak to her.
Somewhere beyond my reach, I heard hurried footsteps fading into the dark. I wanted desperately to believe it was my sister escaping, but I knew better. This creature would never make it that simple. It probably wanted to hollow out my hope before it killed me.
A wet, squelching sound rose near my ear—like something dead turning itself inside out. I tried to lift my head but couldn't.
The creature loomed above me, silent as a gravestone. Finally, it spoke.
"Any last words, Andreas?"
***
At first, I thought I heard a low, rasping laugh. Then I realized it was coming from my own cracked lips. My body burned, my nerves melting into white-hot agony. My laughter grew louder in my skull, even though no sound escaped.
I was on fire.
And for one delirious moment, I was glad. Maybe I wouldn't have to take my physics exam after all. Despite loving science myself, I see clearly that whoever wrote those tests had a gift for crushing teenage dreams and serving them to stray dogs.
Seriously—why did every question have to be at Einstein's level? I wasn't a genius. I was just a kid who liked learning how the world worked. Science should be reserved for scientists, not me. Even though I wasn't gonna fail, it was still depressing to write that exam.
It was almost a relief to imagine my exam paper curling into ash.
But even as the fire devoured me and the beautiful woman laying next to me, stared at me with blood red eyes similar to that of a tiger, some small, rational part of me wondered:
How the hell am I still alive?
It had to have been hours. My brain should have melted by now. So why wasn't I dead?
A soft touch pressed against my burning forehead.
Then the world collapsed inward, and I was back in that dreadful place.
My sister still stood there, tears streaking her cheeks. Beside her was the woman with blood-red eyes. She was impossibly beautiful—her presence as unsettling as it was entrancing. She wore a black gown, the fabric clinging to her curves as if alive. The strapless bodice rose in a sculpted sweep, the sweetheart neckline framing the delicate line of her throat. Boning traced elegant paths over her torso, giving the dress the rigid poise of a corset. From her hip, the skirt fell in sinuous folds, split high along her thigh to reveal pale, perfect skin.
As I was still entranced by her, I realized that she wasn't supposed to be here. This memory had never included her.
She gazed at me with eyes like fresh wounds. Slowly, deliberately, she touched her bodice, drawing the fabric lower in a motion that made my stomach twist.
I couldn't believe such a woman stood so near my sister.
Then she froze—utterly motionless, like a painted figure. Not a breath stirred her chest. Not a flicker of life crossed her face.
Some instinct I didn't understand seized me. I reached out and took my sister's trembling hand. As we stepped away from the frozen woman, the world shuddered.
And then I woke.