Ayra did not taste the food placed in front of her.
She did not hear most of what the elders discussed.
She nodded when expected. Answered when spoken to. Smiled when required.
But inside, her thoughts spiraled.
This is not real.
It cannot be real.
People do not die and wake up a week earlier.
Time does not bend because of heartbreak.
When breakfast ended, she stood too quickly.
"I'm feeling unwell," she said quietly.
No one questioned her. The ceremony week was stressful. A future Luna feeling overwhelmed was understandable.
Vincent's gaze lifted briefly at her words.
For a second, she thought he might speak.
He did not.
He simply nodded once.
Formal.
Distant.
As if nothing had happened.
As if he had not held her dying body beneath the trees.
Her chest tightened.
She left the hall quickly and walked back toward her room.
Not running this time.
Not panicking.
Just moving carefully, like someone walking across thin ice.
If this was a nightmare, it would end soon.
That was the only explanation that made sense.
Her mind must be protecting her.
The humiliation had been too much.
Her heart had imagined something worse.
Her imagination had created death to escape rejection.
Yes.
That sounded possible.
Painful events often turned into strange dreams.
She clung to the idea.
Back inside her room, she closed the door firmly.
Then she locked it.
The small click sounded louder than usual.
She leaned against the wood and exhaled shakily.
"This is a nightmare," she whispered.
She walked to the bed and sat down slowly.
If she fell asleep again, she would wake up properly.
Back in the forest.
Or back in the ceremonial hall.
Anywhere but here.
She lay down carefully.
Pulled the blanket over herself.
Closed her eyes.
Her heart still raced.
Her body still remembered the blade.
She forced her breathing to slow.
Inhale.
Exhale.
This is not real.
Just a dream.
Her mind replayed the forest again.
The voice behind her.
"As ordered."
Vincent's roar.
The blade entering her side.
She flinched and opened her eyes immediately.
Her ceiling stared back at her.
Unchanged.
Unmoving.
Too normal.
She swallowed.
If it was a nightmare, it felt too detailed.
Too structured.
Dreams were blurry.
Chaotic.
This felt precise.
Still, she shut her eyes again.
She waited.
Minutes passed.
Nothing changed.
She opened one eye cautiously.
Still her room.
Still morning.
Still seven days before the ceremony.
Her stomach twisted.
Maybe she needed stronger proof.
She sat up and looked at her desk.
On it sat a folded letter.
She remembered that letter clearly.
It was from a seamstress confirming the final fitting for her ceremony gown.
In her memory, she had read it after breakfast on this exact morning.
She had placed it in the top drawer afterward.
Her breath slowed.
If this was a nightmare, details might be wrong.
She stood and walked to the desk.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the letter.
The words were identical to what she remembered.
Same ink blot near the signature.
Same small tear at the corner of the page.
Exactly the same.
Her heart began to pound again.
She opened the top drawer.
Empty.
Her stomach dropped.
In her memory, the drawer had contained a small silver ribbon she had planned to wear under her sleeve during the ceremony.
It was not there.
Because she had not yet placed it there.
Because the ceremony had not happened.
Because this was before everything.
Her hands gripped the edge of the desk.
No.
No, no.
She shut the drawer forcefully.
This is just a detailed dream.
Her mind was filling gaps logically.
That had to be it.
She walked to the mirror again.
Her reflection looked pale.
Wide-eyed.
On edge.
"You're asleep," she told herself firmly.
She raised her hand and slapped her own cheek.
The sting was sharp.
Real.
Her eyes watered instantly.
She stared at herself.
That hurt.
Dreams did not hurt like that.
Her breathing quickened again.
Fine.
If pain was real,
Then fear must be real too.
Her gaze dropped slowly to her side.
Where the blade had entered.
She pressed firmly against the spot.
Nothing.
No tenderness.
No bruise.
Nothing.
Yet her mind screamed that she had felt steel there.
She walked toward the door slowly.
If this was a nightmare, perhaps something outside would glitch.
Something would feel wrong.
She unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway again.
A servant walked past carrying folded linens.
"Ayra," the woman greeted warmly.
Ayra forced a small nod.
Everything looked solid.
Consistent.
Real.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Maybe this was worse than a nightmare.
Maybe she had gone mad.
The thought chilled her more than the forest had.
If she imagined her own death,
If she imagined being hunted,
What else might she imagine?
She leaned lightly against the wall.
Think.
Focus.
What was the last thing she remembered before waking?
Darkness.
Cold.
Silence.
Then breath.
Sudden breath.
Waking in her bed.
Her fingers curled slightly.
The memory was too clean.
Dreams faded.
This memory did not fade.
It remained sharp.
Alive.
She forced herself to test one more thing.
If this week truly restarted,
Then she should be able to predict something small.
Something harmless.
She walked toward the main staircase.
At the bottom, two young warriors always argued during training breaks.
In her memory, one would trip today while showing off.
She reached the railing and looked down toward the courtyard.
They were there.
Laughing.
Boasting.
Her pulse quickened.
One jumped backward to dodge a playful shove.
His foot caught on the edge of a practice mat.
He fell flat on his back.
The other burst into loud laughter.
Ayra's stomach dropped.
Exactly as she remembered.
Not close.
Not similar.
Exact.
Her fingers gripped the railing tightly.
This was not a nightmare.
Nightmares did not predict events.
Her breathing grew shallow again.
Her mind raced.
If this was not a dream,
Then she had truly died.
And time had truly reset.
Why?
How?
What did it mean?
She closed her eyes briefly.
Calm down.
If this week repeated once,
It could repeat again.
Which meant,
The attack would happen again.
Her heart skipped violently.
She was not safe.
The blade would find her again.
Unless she changed something.
Her hands began to tremble.
No.
She refused to panic.
If she panicked, she would miss details.
If she missed details, she would die again.
The fear pressed against her chest, heavy and sharp.
Seven days.
Seven days until the ceremony.
Seven days until rejection.
Seven days until the forest.
She lifted her head slowly.
Her eyes were no longer only frightened.
They were calculating.
If this was not a nightmare,
Then it was a warning.
And she would not waste it.
But deep down, a small part of her still whispered:
Please let this be a dream.
Because if it was not,
Then she had already died once.
And she might die again.