Elias woke up to the sound of whispering.
He sat bolt upright in bed, heart thudding, hand already on the under-pillow dagger he absolutely never remembered to sharpen. Moonlight poured through the cracked window. Wind rustled the curtains. The little apartment above the alchemist's shop was dead quiet—except for the sound of one very small person talking to herself.
Again.
Elias got up, crossed the room barefoot, and gently pushed open the door to Rhea's room.
She was sitting upright in bed, staring blankly at the far wall. Her eyes were open, but unfocused—glowing faintly red.
That was never a good sign.
"…not fire. Not again…" she murmured. "I won't burn it this time…"
Elias crossed the room quickly. "Rhea?"
She didn't respond.
He crouched beside her, gently touched her shoulder. "Hey. You're dreaming again."
Rhea blinked.
Then her head snapped toward him, eyes still glowing—and for a moment, they weren't the eyes of a six-year-old girl.
They were ancient.
Burning.
Haunted.
"Don't let me out," she whispered.
Then she blinked again—and her expression shifted back. Confusion washed over her face like a wave.
"Uncle Elias?" she whispered. "I… I was talking to her again."
Elias exhaled, slowly. "Her?"
Rhea nodded and curled her knees to her chest.
"She comes when I'm almost asleep. Or when the dream-things start. She says she's me. But… older."
Elias frowned. "Older how?"
"She looks like me. But taller. And scary. She has long hair. And horns that go all twisty. And she's in chains. All the time. Even in the dreams."
Elias rubbed his face. He really didn't want to deal with a second Rhea, especially not a tall, chained, terrifying demon version haunting dreamspace.
"Okay," he said finally. "Let's start with the important part. You're not possessed, right?"
Rhea tilted her head. "What's 'possessed' mean?"
"Like… someone else steering your soul-car."
"…What's a soul-car?"
"Never mind. Just… did she try to take over your body?"
"No! She's nice. Kind of… scary nice. Like when you yell at the shopkeepers who raise their prices when they see my horns."
Elias grunted. "They deserve yelling."
"She calls herself 'the Real Me.' And she says she's waiting for the chains to break."
Elias stiffened. "Did she say why she's in chains?"
Rhea shook her head. "Only that she put herself there. To sleep. So she wouldn't burn everything again."
That part sent a chill down his spine.
Elias sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"You sure she's… you?"
Rhea shrugged. "She has my eyes. And my voice. But older. And deeper. Like you after tea."
"Hm."
"She said the world won't be ready. That when she wakes up, 'even the stars will scream.'"
Elias stared. "Okay, new rule. No more horror bedtime poetry, please."
Rhea giggled, burying her face in his arm. "Sorry."
Despite the seriousness, Elias felt the usual warmth bubble up in his chest.
Gods, how had he gotten so attached?
She was a little hellspawn, technically. But she was his hellspawn.
He tugged the blanket up around her. "Try to sleep. Dream of frogs. Dancing frogs. With hats."
Rhea yawned. "The imaginary me doesn't like frogs."
"Well, that's how you know she's not completely real. You love frogs."
She closed her eyes. "You're staying, right?"
Elias nodded. "All night."
He pulled a chair up beside her bed and stayed there until her breathing softened and the glow behind her eyes faded.
Then he whispered to the dark:
"If you're listening, tall chained demon Rhea… don't hurt her. I'll deal with you if you do."
From somewhere deep within the room—a space that wasn't quite there—something rumbled.
Like laughter.
But not cruel.
Resigned.
"Protect her well."
Then silence.
The next morning, Elias opened his eyes to the sound of eggs sizzling and a small child singing a demonic nursery rhyme in perfect ancient Infernal.
He rushed into the kitchen to find Rhea standing on a stool, flipping eggs with questionable success.
"Hey!" Elias said. "You're not allowed near the stove unless I'm in the room!"
"I'm using non-flammable fire this time!"
"There's no such thing!"
"There is now!" she declared cheerfully, holding up a wooden spoon wreathed in pink-tinted flame that crackled harmlessly.
He blinked. "Is that a soul-woven flame conduit?"
"…Maybe?"
Elias rubbed his eyes. "Okay, we're gonna need new kitchen rules. Like, so many new rules."
Rhea beamed. "But I made eggs!"
He couldn't even be mad.
They were a little burnt.
Okay, completely burnt.
But they were hers.
And when she looked up at him with those hopeful crimson eyes, he felt that familiar, terrifying tug in his chest again.
Love.
"Thanks, firebug," he said softly, and sat down to eat.
She munched beside him happily, crunching her toast like a tiny gremlin.
"So," Elias said casually, "any dreams last night?"
She chewed, thoughtful. "No big chains this time. Just… a mirror. She was in it."
Elias frowned. "What did she say?"
"She said the chains are part of me. And I'll have to decide when to let them break."
Elias paled. "And what did you say?"
"I said I don't want to break anything."
Elias leaned in, serious now. "You tell her that every time. No matter what."
Rhea nodded solemnly. "I will."
Then she added, "But I kind of liked her dress. It had fire patterns and was made of shadow silk. I want one."
Elias groaned and muttered, "We're doomed."
Later that day, Elias visited the old library in Ashvale's southern district—a crumbling three-story structure guarded by a grumpy spirit owl named Marnie who insisted on shushing people even when they weren't speaking.
He dug through tomes, scrolls, and fragments of magical theory, hunting for any reference to dream manifestations of sealed personalities or reincarnated demon queens with memory bleed.
He found three useful notes:
1. "Bound selves may reflect through dreams in times of spiritual flux."
2. "Never touch a dream chain unless you're fond of screams."
3. "Do not trust mirror beings. Especially if they smile."
Terrific.
By the time he returned, Rhea had finished her homework, which she'd completed using glowing runes made entirely of enchanted jam.
"See?" she beamed. "Math tastes better now!"
Elias stared at the sticky mess and decided he was absolutely not going to argue with that.
That night, as he tucked her in again, Rhea looked up with a question in her eyes.
"Uncle Elias?"
"Hm?"
"What if the me in the dream isn't bad? What if she's just sad? And lonely?"
Elias paused.
That wasn't the answer he'd expected.
He crouched beside her bed and took her small hand in his.
"Then we help her. Like you helped me. Even if she's scary."
She looked relieved.
"You're not scared of her?"
"I'm scared of everything," Elias admitted. "I'm scared of soup when it's too hot. But being scared doesn't mean we give up."
Rhea smiled, tired but warm.
And as she drifted off, Elias sat in the chair again, hand resting on his glowing mark.
It pulsed faintly—like something stirring.
In a dark space far away—or maybe deep inside—an older Rhea sat chained to a throne of obsidian, hair wild, eyes full of fire.
She closed her eyes and whispered to the void:
"Don't break, little me. Not yet."
To be continued…