Shadow Touched (Editing)

15. GREY

Every morning, before I wake up, I dream of a small jar, like the kind you get from the apothecary. It sits on a pedestal in an ornately carved-out cave decorated with strange markings that shimmer as I reach its center.

The space is cool. It smells earthy, yet I detect a hint of salty sea air. The ceiling is so high that I still can't see its end even when I crane my neck back. The room is lit, not with candles or pocket flames, but with what appears to be a small, bobbing sun that hangs unsupported in the air. Its light is soft and brilliant, showering the space with a divine glow.

The jar in the middle of the room is the only item in the cave. The bottle is nondescript, pointed at the top, and fat in the middle. It's made of what looks to be black porcelain. Only the blackness swirls and pulses. Squinting to get a better look, I realize the jar is not black porcelain but glass. The blackness is inside. Dark, beautiful, ominous smoke swirls within it. It calls to me. Its voice is one and many. Soft and loud. Sweet and seductive.

Warning bells go off in my mind. They tell me to leave. To flee. To find safety. My body refuses to listen. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror that hangs behind the stand. My eyes flick up, searching my face. I barely recognize the smoke-filled eyes that stare back. They're hungry. Determined.

My heart races as my hand stretches towards the jar. The taste of anticipation, the thrill of success jolts through me. If I can only just grab the bottle...

As my fingertips graze the cool glass, a powerful gale pushes me back. It forces me away from the jar and its pedestal into a swirling vortex.

Wisps of black are torn from my very essence as more force their way into me. I choke on them, struggling to swallow as they freeze my throat and burn my skin with their arctic chill.

Images swirl before me as more smoke is pulled from my lungs. I see Castle Mirrador—bodies strewn across its grounds. I see my father dead. Finch, dead. Adirra, Welland, Llew and more are all dead. I try to turn away, to close my eyes from all the death and destruction, but I can't. The Shadows continue to fight their way back to me. The wind tugs and drags, but the Darkness fights back. Meanwhile, all I love lies in ruin.

I can barely breathe; my eyes are wet with tears, with knowing. Forced to see all the death and destruction. I did this. I brought this upon my family. My people. When I think it can't get any worse, when I think the pain can only dull from this point, my eyes land on one more body.

Worn, brown leather boots. Olive green tights that emphasize the shapely legs within. A thick, cream-coloured sweater artfully splattered with red. No. Not red. Blood. Her blood. Naima, my love—my heart—lays before me. Her silver eyes are wide with terror; they dart back and forth as she struggles to catch her breath.

I tear myself from the wind. Struggling against its grasp, I finally fall to the ground before her, my knees stinging at the impact. Breathless, I reach for her, grabbing her soft brown hand. Her eyes grow even bigger, and the fear within reaches a fever pitch. She pulls her hand free as she tries desperately to scramble away from me.

"Nai—" I reach for her again.

"Grey—why?" The question confuses me. The betrayal in her eyes shatters me. I have no answer for her. I have no clue what's happened.

Her eyes flutter to the hand that doesn't reach for her. A casing of slate Visterian metal covers my full arm. A unique form of armour, the metal is soft yet strong—malleable. At the end of the casing, my hand is locked in a tube, also covered in metal; I feel it flex with want. There's a thin cylindrical-shaped pipe with a crescent-shaped blade at the end of the tube. It's long and brutal. Rich red blood drips from it. I note how the blood that soaks Naima's shirt spills out from a long, thin wound that could only have come from the blade attached to me.

A cold, hateful laugh, riddled with desire, spills from my throat.

"Because you chose wrong."

I jerk awake, covered in a cold sweat. I lean over my bed and grab the pewter bowl hidden under it. Pulling it forward, I throw up whatever's left in my stomach.

When I'm done, I lay back, wiping a hand down my sticky face. That's when I see the blood on my hands. For a minute, I think it wasn't a dream at all. I wait for guards to rush in. For the men I'm meant to command to haul me away to the castle's dungeons, where I'll sit and rot until the day they string me up in Varran City Center, hanging from the gallows for all to see.

No one comes. I rise from my bed, grab my bowl of refuse and head to the washroom, where I wash the bowl and the blood from my hands, wondering all the while—who or what—have I hurt? No answers come.

What is happening to me? What am I becoming? Who have I become?

I scrub the bowl—a novelty since I've never been expected to clean a single thing. My hand swirls the water around, and I watch as the blood that covers it pools with my sickness and then washes down the drain.

~*~

The daily shock that comes with my blood-soaked hands has, I'm ashamed to admit, led me to rely on a morning glass of whiskey.

I take my time with it. Sip it slowly while my heart relaxes. Let the smokiness of the alcohol coat my tongue and burn my throat as I settle myself, pushing down my fear until it's locked away in a tiny box deep in the recesses of my mind.

As I finish wiping up the evidence of my—I don't know what to call it, madness? Curse? It doesn't matter—as I finish cleaning up, prepared for a stiff drink—a loud knock sends me scrambling.

I rush to the door. Half-dressed and dripping water, I'm certain I look as mad as I feel.

My father's personal messenger, Regan, stands before me.

"Your Highness." He gives a curt nod. It's his version of a bow. Regan is not known for his sparkling personality. It's probably why my father likes him so much. He's quiet, discreet and gets the job done.

He hands me a thick parchment sealed with my father's brand—a large cursive R connected to a lowercase V.

Confused, I take the parchment. It's strange that my father would send a written note.

Sliding my finger under the wax seal, I peel the note open.

Greyling,

Bleeding hearts grow in dead woods.

I re-read the message as confusion turns to terror. Coded messages are not abnormal, but the meaning of this one makes three things abundantly clear.

Lord Solditch lives. The Gloaming is here. And I—I am doomed.

~*~