It always started the same way.
A battlefield, soaked in blood. The wind carried the scent of steel and smoke. Bodies lay scattered like broken dolls, and in the middle of it all—
A woman. Fierce, wild, and bruised.
Her breath came in short, pained bursts. Blue hair matted with sweat and blood cascaded down her back like silk, and her sword trembled in her grip. But her stance never faltered.
She looked like Kyra.
Older. Stronger. But definitely her.
Across the field, another woman emerged—regal, calm, terrifying. Silver-white hair flowed around her like a halo of ice.
"Just hand over the seal," the silver-haired woman said, her voice smooth with malice. "And I'll spare you."
The blue-haired warrior scoffed. "You'll have to kill me first."
The smirk on the other woman's face shattered like glass.
"You're already worn out, and you still want to keep going?" Her voice sharpened. "You really are pathetic, aren't you? All this for a kingdom that was meant to be mine."
She raised her blade. "Very well. Die."
She lunged—
Kyra jolted awake, gasping.
The morning sun cut through the tattered curtain above her bed, casting fractured light across the small, cramped room. Her heart thundered in her chest.
Just a dream.
But it had felt so… real.
She rubbed her arms and climbed out of bed. Her legs were shaky, her thoughts cloudy, but she had work to do.
The scent of lemon cleaner soon filled the living room, and soft jazz hummed from the small radio on the windowsill. Kyra moved like clockwork—sweeping, dusting, wiping—every motion rehearsed.
Within the hour, the apartment was spotless. The kitchen smelled of pancakes and bacon. She hummed softly as she set the table, forcing a smile.
He liked this. Maybe today would be different.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Her father entered—grumbling, shirt half-buttoned, rubbing his temples like the weight of the world was his alone to bear.
Kyra flashed the warmest smile she could muster.
"Good morning," she said softly, voice as warm as the pancakes. "I made your favorite… pancakes and bacon."
He stood over the table, blinking down at the plate like it offended him.
A long pause.
Then—
CRASH.
The plate shattered against the front door. Pancakes and bacon splattered like a crime scene on the floor. Syrup dripped slowly down the wood.
Kyra flinched but didn't move.
His voice was a slurred growl.
"Stop pretending, girl. You're not her. You'll never be her."
He staggered back to his seat, groaning as he rubbed his temple.
Kyra stood still for a beat longer. Her smile had slipped, but she didn't cry.
She just quietly knelt down and began picking up the pieces.
One by one.
Like always.
---
Later that night, her room was her only escape.
The soft scratch of pencil against paper filled the silence. Kyra sat cross-legged on her bed, sketchpad in her lap, fingers smudged with graphite.
She always sketched to forget.
To disappear.
When the world outside became too loud, her drawings became her only safe place.
And lately, her sketches had all started to look the same.
The woman from her dreams.
She had drawn her a dozen different ways—wielding a sword, standing in flames, cloaked in shadows—but always with the same piercing eyes and that wild blue hair.
Tonight's sketch was the most detailed yet. The woman stood in the center of a battlefield, just like in the dream. Armor dented, eyes fierce, blood dripping from her blade.
Kyra stared down at the page, her chest tight.
She lifted the sketch slowly, holding it at eye level.
The woman stared back at her, unblinking.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
A beat.
"And why do I keep dreaming about you?"
The page didn't answer.
But something inside her stirred.
Like embers in a sleeping fire.
And for the first time, Kyra was afraid of the answers.