Page 14 of Bound By the Beast Man

DIANA

E xhaustion is a heavy, leaden thing, a weight that pulls me down into the darkness of sleep.

I fight it, terrified to close my eyes and lose sight of my rescuer, my only shield against the world.

But my body, after years of unnatural stasis, has reached its limit.

Curled in the surprising warmth of the manticore’s cloak, with the small fire crackling nearby and his powerful silhouette guarding the cave, I finally surrender.

Finally I can fall into a sleep that is not a dreamless void, but a true slumber.

And in that slumber, my mind betrays me. It takes me back home.

The dream begins with a cruel and beautiful lie.

I am in my garden, the morning sun is warm on my shoulders, and the air is sweet with the scent of moon-blossoms. My hands are stained with rich, dark earth.

It all feels so real, so vivid, that a part of my sleeping mind weeps with joy.

Ingrid is on the porch, her laughter as bright and clear as a ringing bell as she sweeps half-heartedly, her mind clearly on the upcoming festival.

My mother is humming in the kitchen, the scent of her baking bread wafting through the open doorway.

My father is mending a fence near the edge of our yard, his movements strong and sure.

I am whole. I am home. The relief brings a lightness in my chest that makes it easy to breathe.

“Hurry up with that sweeping!” I called out to Ingrid.

“I am hurrying!” she called back.

My mother brings us fresh milk, her smile the warmest thing in the world.

This is not a memory; it is a perfect, living moment, a gift from a merciful god.

I cling to it, savoring every impossible detail, praying that I never have to wake up.

The sun is warm, the world is safe, and my family is alive.

The sky in my dream darkens with an unnatural speed.

The warmth of the sun vanishes, replaced by a sudden, biting chill.

The villagers' smiles falter and twist into masks of confusion, then terror.

A single, blood-curdling scream rips through the perfect peace, and the beautiful lie shatters into a million pieces.

The nightmare begins again, but this time it is different.

I am not a participant. I am a helpless observer, forced to watch the slaughter of my people from a strange, floating perspective.

I see the Purna emerge from the shadows, their impossible beauty a terrible mockery in the face of their actions.

I see Kael fall, his brave charge cut short by a bolt of black magic.

I see my parents, their last defiant stand so small and hopeless against the tide of evil that has washed over our village.

I try to scream, to cry out, to warn them, but my dream-self has no voice.

I am a ghost, a silent witness to the destruction of everything I have ever loved.

The smell of burning wood and blood fills the air, a scent so real it makes my phantom stomach churn.

As the flames climb higher, licking at the thatched roofs of the cottages, a new figure emerges among the Purna.

It is taller than any of them, a looming column of shadow that seems to drink the very light from the fire around it.

Its form is indistinct, its features lost in a shifting, roiling darkness, but its presence radiates an ancient, oppressive evil that chills me to my very soul.

The Purna, so arrogant and cruel in their own right, seem to defer to it.

They part for it as it glides through the burning village, its gaze sweeping over the carnage with an air of cold, satisfied authority. It does not participate in the killing.

This is the shadow I have seen in my darkest nightmares.

And it is real.

I wake with a strangled gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs. My body is drenched in a cold sweat, and I am trembling violently, the phantom chill of the nightmare clinging to me.

The transition from the fiery chaos of the dream to the cold, quiet reality of the cave is a dizzying shock. For a terrifying moment, I do not know where I am.

Then I see him. He is a massive, dark silhouette keeping watch, his broad shoulders blocking out the pale light of the pre-dawn sky. The primal fear from the dream momentarily transfers to him, this powerful, unknown creature, before I remember. My rescuer. Corvak.

The memory of the nightmare, especially the shadowy figure, leaves me deeply shaken. It was more than just a reliving of the trauma; it felt like a revelation, a crucial piece of a puzzle I cannot begin to understand.

I have never told anyone about the shadow, not even in my own conscious thoughts. I had pushed it down, convinced it was just a figment of my grief-stricken mind, a nightmare born of terror. But seeing it again, seeing the way the Purna moved around it, I know it was real. It was there.

I hug his cloak tighter around me, its warmth and his scent a small comfort against the deep, internal chill. I look at him, his posture one of absolute, unwavering vigilance.

He is my only ally in this hostile, terrifying world. Somewhere inside, a desperate, lonely piece of me wants to tell him everything, to share the terrible burden of what I saw. But another part, the part that learned to survive by being silent and invisible, is terrified.

Will he believe me?

Or will he think I am mad, my mind finally broken by my long years of captivity?

The words are caught in my throat, a heavy, unspoken secret that feels as unwelcome as the stone floor beneath me.