The dream came as it always did: slowly, quietly, like smoke curling under a door.
I stood in a vast crimson fog, the air thick and wet with the scent of iron. Shadows moved just beyond sight, shifting with purpose, whispering in voices that were almost mine. Faceless Brides, countless and endless, reached toward me with hands that had no weight but infinite intent.
I did not scream. I did not run.
I stepped forward. Every motion deliberate. Every breath steady. I had learned to remain calm even when reality bent, even when the Veil pressed against my mind.
One shadow touched my shoulder. Its chill went deeper than stone. I should have recoiled. I did not. Instead, I gripped its wrist. It vanished beneath my hand, leaving only the emptiness it had carried.
A whisper brushed my ear, cold and insistent: "Join us. Be ours."
I turned my head, icy and unflinching, and whispered back, not to the voice but to myself: I am not yours. I never will be.
The fog thickened, pressing against my chest. I felt my pulse quicken, but I held it steady, letting the cold calm flow through me like a blade. I could feel the Veil testing me, weighing my resolve.
Then, in the distance, a figure appeared. A Bride without a face, but taller, broader, commanding the fog itself. It reached out, and the shadows surged behind it. I stepped forward again, unafraid.
When I awoke, the night was quiet. The candle had guttered low, throwing shadows across my chamber. My palm throbbed faintly where the ritual blade had drawn blood, a reminder that I had already chosen to bleed for no one.
I rose, careful not to disturb the thin frost forming on the windowpane. If they think fear will claim me, they are mistaken. I will endure. And one day, they will understand that restraint can be a weapon.
Even in dreams, I had begun to sharpen it.