The Sleep That Wouldn't Come
Selene couldn't sleep.
She tried.
God, she tried.
But each time her eyes slipped closed, darkness welcomed her like a noose. She saw flames licking up nursery walls. Blood bubbling from bathtubs. The twins—silent, still, lifeless—with red crescents burned into their throats.
She jolted upright, gasping, the sheets damp with sweat and the room thick with shadows. Outside, the wind howled like something feral trying to claw its way in.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring across the dim room where Xena and Xavier (the only lights in her night) lay sleeping—softly breathing, chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Safe. Innocent.
And yet—
"I don't know what you did little ones," she whispered to no one and everyone. "But you were born marked."
She didn't say it cruelly. Just brokenly. Truthfully.
Her husband—James—hadn't been a warlock or mage or anything remotely magical. Just a kind man with calloused hands and laughter like wind chimes. He loved her fiercely, even when he didn't understand her world. She should have listened. She never should have loved him.
The bloodline of witches had rules.
And the old ones warned her: "The veil does not forgive when magic meets the mundane."
She ignored them.
And now, the children paid the price.
Moon-borns.
Not a blessing, not in this age.
A curse—carved in bone and blood, bound to prophecy.
She clutched her arms tightly around herself. The sleepless nights were making her thin—skin stretched too tight over her bones, thoughts moving like smoke, unclear and slippery.
The madness hadn't come loud or violent. It came gently.
Like a lullaby off-key.
Like something in the corner watching.
Waiting.
---
The Forgotten Photo
The next morning, or maybe afternoon—Selene couldn't tell anymore—she wandered through the small apothecary library beneath the bakery. It smelled of cloves and dust, old paper and something deeper: forgotten magic.
She didn't remember what drew her to the back shelf, but suddenly, she was there—behind the grimoires and forbidden tomes, behind the shelves Gen always told her were "unsteady."
She saw it.
A photograph.
Tucked crookedly behind a heavy spellbook on blood-binding rituals.
It was faded and soft-edged, the kind of photo time itself forgot.
Five women stood in a sunlit glade, wildflowers tangled around their ankles.
Gen was there, younger, glowing, laughing. Another woman stood beside her—smiling wide, arms around Gen's shoulders.
Selene's breath caught.
That smile. That hair. That moon-shaped scar near her brow.
Her mother.
Alive. Here. Laughing with Gen like they'd known each other for lifetimes.
She rushed upstairs.
"Gen!" she cried, photo shaking in her hand. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Gen looked up from her herb chopping, then stilled. Her expression shifted, not into guilt—but memory.
"She's not?—" Gen asked, as Selene nodded in agreement to her question.
"I didn't know," Gen said slowly, eyes softening. "You never told me your mother's name."
Selene's voice cracked. "Thalora. Her name was Thalora Evermore."
At the name, something shifted in the air. Even the flames in the hearth bowed.
Gen exhaled. "Thalora was the one who found me. The one who saved me. She brought me here. Built this town with others like her. Called it a sanctuary."
Selene sank into the chair across from her, hands trembling.
"She was my mother. And she left me when I was ten."
"She never mentioned a daughter," Gen said quietly. "But maybe she didn't want this place—this life—for you. She always said the veil takes what it wants. Maybe she thought keeping you away was protection."
Selene stared down at the photo again. "She never came back. Not when I came of age, not when married or even when James died. Not even when the twins were born."
"She died two winters ago," Gen whispered. "She was trying to close a portal near the gorge. It consumed her."
Silence settled like ash between them.
"She was powerful, Selene. And kind. But she said that the world call out to her. Like she had a purpose she couldn't run from. But she always looked at a certain picture with a lot of love in her eyes. I know she loves you. And I know if she were here now, she would tell you the same"
"But she didn't love me enough to come back" Selene told Gen.
She just stared at the flickering candle beside her.
And wondered how long a soul could hold itself together before it started to fray.
---
The Devil's Dream
That night, sleep came faster.
Too fast.
She woke up somewhere between worlds.
The room was dim—lit only by moonlight. She was in her home, or something that looked like it. But the silence felt wrong. Too thick. Too heavy. Like the air itself was waiting to exhale.
Then she saw him.
Standing beside the twins' crib.
Tall. Shadow-wrapped. Elegant as hunger.
Adrian.
The Devil.
His presence was a cold ripple through her spine. He stood still for a moment, head bowed. Then slowly, he turned—
Except it wasn't Adrian's face anymore.
It was James.
Her husband.
His eyes were hollow. His skin, dead-pale. Three deep claw marks carved through his neck like a grim necklace. His chest was open, ribs peeled back like petals.
In his hand—
His heart.
Still beating.
"Selene..." he said softly.
Her knees buckled.
"Selene," louder now. The heart pulsed in his hand, black veins twisting up his arm.
"SELENE!" A scream. Desperate. Wild. Agonized.
She sobbed. "Please—don't—please—"
And then—
Adrian appeared behind her. His mouth, near her ear.
His breath like frost.
> "I know where you are."<
She screamed.
Woke up thrashing, drenched in sweat.
Her scream echoed through the house.
The twins woke up crying.
Gen came running.
But nothing she said—no comfort, no spell, no warmth—could erase the voice.
Or the truth it carried.
The Devil was coming.
And madness... had already arrived.