The dream did not come softly this time.
It tore me from sleep like a hand closing around my throat, dragging me into a world of flame and shadow. The sky burned crimson, clouds roiled like smoke, and the ground beneath my feet was blackened, brittle ash.
The Veil was everywhere. Its mist curled through the fire, shaping itself into faceless Brides who wailed without voices. They reached for me, their hands glowing like iron fresh from the forge.
I did not scream. I did not run.
The fire surged around me, hotter, hungrier, pressing against my skin as though it would strip me bare. My pulse quickened, but my steps remained steady. This is a dream, I told myself. It is not mine. It belongs to them. And I will not yield to what is not mine.
The figures closed in. One reached for my face, its touch a furnace. I let it. The heat licked across my skin, searing—but I did not flinch. Pain was information. Fear was weakness. Neither would rule me.
The flames rose higher, swallowing the Brides one by one until only a single figure remained. The largest, the broadest, cloaked in smoke. Its hand extended, and within it burned the ritual knife, glowing red-hot.
I met its faceless gaze, my expression calm, my voice steady. "If you want me," I said, "you will not ask. You will take."
The figure hesitated. For the first time, the fire faltered.
And I woke.
My chamber was cold, shadows pressing against the walls, frost whispering along the glass of the window. My pulse still pounded, but my face betrayed nothing.
I rose, crossing to the mirror in the corner. My reflection stared back, pale and composed, unmarked by flame. Only my eyes betrayed what I felt — not fear, not surrender, but a quiet, sharpened resolve.
The Veil would test me again. I knew it. It would press harder, demand more, reach deeper.
But the fire had shown me something it had not meant to: even within its grasp, I had stood unbroken.
And if fire could not claim me, neither could the Veil.