He awoke with heavy breathing.
Pant. Pant.
His tunic clung to his damp skin as he gasped for air. Sweat rolled down his temples.
Get yourself together, he thought. Inhale. Exhale.
He repeated the words in his head.
This reflex—so simple, so natural—now felt like an oasis in the vast desert of his despair.
He turned toward the window.
The protective sigils had melted into black stains across the glass. Light filtered through in fractured colors, scattering across the floor like a kaleidoscope—beautiful, yet unsettling.
First things first…
The sigils didn't work.
Secondly, I stayed lucid.
Third… If I can think clearly inside the nightmare... does that mean it's mine to explore....or mine to suffer?
He held his breath, narrowed his eyes.
The grimoire I saw—maybe it's tied to my mind… my memories.
If I reach it again, maybe… just maybe, I'll remember everything.
But then came the mental backlash—
The statues… the fog… the altar… the chains…
None of it made sense. Nothing could explain what he saw.
Still—
If I can remain lucid… if this really is my dream—
I can control it. I can go deeper.
He lingered in bed, eyes locked on the chandelier above him, watching it sway.
Left… right…
He counted each movement, lost in thought.
He forced himself to sit up. The chandelier above swayed gently. Lavender hung faintly in the air—too faint to be real.
On the desk nearby lay a piece of parchment—aged, musky, and brown at the edges.
He picked it up.
The handwriting was so beautiful, so elegant, he froze. It was the most beautiful penmanship he'd ever seen.
He chuckled softly.
"I don't remember ever seeing handwriting before… but somehow, I can still read it."
---
Dear Lucien,
Yes, that's your name, in case you've forgotten.
Hah, the relief I felt when I saw my beloved son open his eyes again after so long.
Five months, Lucien. Five months of silence—no laughter, no mischief, no hearing you call me Mom.
If you're reading this and I'm not around, don't panic.
I've gone to inform our relatives of your awakening.
If you're hungry, check the kitchen. You'll find something to tide you over.
When I return, we'll have a feast.
Love,
Seraphine Vael
Your mother.
---
"Lucien Vael…" he muttered.
So that was his name.
He smiled faintly.
"One down. A million more to go."
She mentioned a Principal Thorne. Maybe I was a student somewhere. An academy? That'd be… something.
But then he paused.
If I can't remember anything… I'll have to start all over again.
Names, people, places—likes, dislikes.
Everything would have to be relearned.
He exhaled slowly.
The floor was cold under his feet as he stood, his body protesting after months of stillness. He passed the ornate writing desk—his curiosity briefly drawn to it—but hunger won in the end.
He opened the door.
---
The air outside was colder, heavy with the scent of old varnish and dust.
A row of portraits lined the narrow hallway, their frames dulled with age. Eyes half-faded by time seemed to follow him in silence.
The floorboards groaned beneath his steps. Ahead, the passage forked—one way vanishing into shadow, the other lit by a trembling glow spilling across the wood.
He turned toward the light.
---
The kitchen door was ajar.
Creeaak.
It opened into a sanctum bathed in warped moonlight.
The pale glow wavered through the uneven windowpane above the sink, bending across the room in soft, trembling streaks. Pans of copper hung neatly on the walls, their surfaces catching the silver gleam.
Despite its age, the space was pristine.
The windows here were clear—no stained glass, no sigils.
Only moonlight, pouring in soft and blue.
He stepped forward.
The air smelled faintly of thyme, lavender, and old wood. Every surface gleamed with quiet order.
A note was pinned to the cabinet.
---
Choose whatever you like, son.
There's bread and soup inside.
I hope your appetite has returned.
—Mom
---
He opened the cabinet. Inside sat a clay pot of soup, bread wrapped in linen, and a single red apple.
He picked up the apple—it was cold. Too cold. Like it had been plucked from winter itself.
He ate slowly, savoring each bite. Warmth crept through his chest, dulling the dread still clinging to his heart.
Warm silence wrapped around him like a cloak.
Only the creak of wood and the soft groan of the house broke the quiet. Silver light danced across the marble counters.
His gaze wandered across the kitchen—the light, the quiet, the feeling.
So this is what home feels like…
For the first time, he didn't feel like he was dying.
---
When he finished, he stepped into the sitting room. The air shifted. The light changed.
Moonlight streamed through the windows, silver and still.
He caught faint murmurs from outside and moved closer.
Outside, in the distance, color burst against the horizon—brief and silent. Then again, and again.
Fireworks.
The night was alive with festivity—brilliant colors blooming in the sky.
Far away, music drifted faintly through the air.
Festive. Joyful.
Yet here, inside, everything was still. Empty.
He looked at his reflection in the glass.
A cascade of snow-white hair framed his face, wild and untamed. His nose looked sculpted from marble, sharp and elegant. His lips full, soft, with a natural crimson sheen.
Despite the grace, there was no mistaking it—he was still a teenager. Youth softened the edges of his features, refusing to let them harden.
But what held him captive—what rooted him in silence—were his eyes.
They didn't bear a single hue. At first glance, they were grey.
But the longer he stared, the more the color fractured—like light through broken crystal, a gateway to some celestial sea.
He stared for a long while… then sighed.
And turned toward the door that led outside.