Freya stirred, her eyelids fluttering open like worn curtains letting in morning light. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air—sterile and sharp. A steady beeping matched the rhythm of her heart, slow but persistent. She blinked once, then again, her vision sharpening into sterile whites and muted greys.
A hospital room.
She was lying on a hospital bed.
Her body ached—not in sharp pangs, but in a deep, numbing exhaustion that made even breathing feel like effort. It was as if she had been dragged back from somewhere far, dark, and final. She felt like she had returned from the dead.
Freya tried to lift her head, but the weight of it was unbearable. Her thoughts fluttered weakly, trying to latch onto something solid—Where am I? What happened?—but her mind was fog. She let her head fall back onto the pillow, eyes half-lidded.
Darkness tried to pull her under again.
Then it hit her.
A memory, sharp and sudden, slapped across her mind like ice water.
Father.
Her eyes flew open, a ragged gasp tearing from her lips. Her heart pounded in her ears as she pushed herself upright, every nerve screaming in protest. She saw him—her father. Robert Sinclair. Standing before her, smiling.
And then he dropped.
The image burned into her mind: his body hitting the ground, lifeless. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and dark. Her throat clenched. Did she scream then? She couldn't remember.
Another vision burst forth—blurry, half-formed. A man. Masked. Shadowed. He was interrogating her, voice low and cold. The memory was sharp and cloudy all at once, like broken glass submerged in murky water.
But one thing pierced through the confusion—Father!.
Without hesitation, Freya ripped the IVs from her arms, pain flashing bright as monitors screeched in alarm. She staggered to her feet, knees trembling, bare toes hitting cold tile. Her body protested every step, but she kept moving.
The door swung open.
A tall woman stepped inside, unfazed by the sight before her. Her pale coat was spotless, her expression unreadable. The ID clipped to her front read: Dr. Reyna Carlton.
"And just where do you think you're going, in that condition?" she asked, voice flat, eyes cold—inhuman.
Freya froze. Her breath came fast and shallow. She stared at the woman, suspicion growing like frost across her thoughts.
"I… I need to see Father," she murmured, eyes wild with confusion. Her mind spun, trying to place what was real and what wasn't. Nothing fit. Why can't I remember where to go?
Did she take my memories?
Reyna's face softened—strangely, suddenly. A small, practiced smile touched her lips.
"I'm sorry," she said. "We couldn't save anyone."
Freya's breath caught.
The words landed like a blade. She didn't remember everything, but her father's name—Robert Sinclair—was rooted deep. Hearing he was gone cracked something open in her chest.
"…I see," she whispered. "So it wasn't a dream after all."
She staggered back a step, as if her legs had only just remembered how to stand.
She glanced around the room, eyes dull. "Where… am I?"
Reyna's expression shifted back to neutral, cool and composed. "Kingdom of Stovia's Medical Care Facility. It's where we treat soldiers, cadets, and refugees from the border zones."
Freya's brow furrowed. Main land? she thought to herself. It sounded familiar—achingly so—but the memory was veiled, like a name on the tip of her tongue.
"Rest up," Reyna added briskly. "Tomorrow, we'll move you to the cadet's dorm. You'll be with others."
Others?
Freya's thoughts twisted in place, questions swirling with no shape.
Then, softly—barely louder than a breath—she asked, "How am I the only one alive?"
Reyna stopped mid-step.
She didn't turn around.
For a heartbeat, silence settled heavy between them.
And then, with only a cold glance over her shoulder, Reyna said, "Rest up."
She walked out, the door closing behind her with a quiet but final click.
Freya stared at the space where the figure had stood, alone in the quiet hum of machines.
She backed into the wall, arms wrapping around herself like a self-made shield. Then she slid down, collapsing to the floor.
Tears streamed down her face. She pressed a hand over her mouth, but the scream still clawed its way out—a muffled, aching cry.
All the pain poured out.
Then—
Reyna's expression flashed in her mind.
Freya's grief twisted into something else: confusion. Anger. Fear.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.