1220-01-06
Ana "Silvercrest" Aquavelle:
Cold.
I felt cold.
It overwhelmed me, surrounded me. An awful sensation, as if the entire world was made of ice and snow. It wasn't just physical; it was a feeling I never wanted to experience again. A dream. A recurring nightmare.
The cold pressed against me, on me, through me, dripping like water. And yet, somehow, that icy water sustained me, made me whole. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream.
A nightmare.
A voice.
Eyes.
The nightmare held me still. I couldn't turn my head. Beside me, something wet—soggy, like soaked bread or a drenched blanket. A voice whispered. It assured me I'd be alright. It prayed for rescue.
Amber eyes stared back at me—eyes like mine, glowing with a cold truth, an impossible warmth against the frozen void around us.
A jolt.
Then, the sun.
The sunlight broke through, and someone—an entity, a person—picked me up. I didn't know who. Someone. Anyone. They held me close. I cried, but no sound escaped. I couldn't move, couldn't speak. I was frozen, suspended in an unreal state.
And then, I jolted awake.
It wasn't just a dream. It was a memory.
I remembered everything.
My life with my mom.
The island.
Her friends.
The child who held me close on cold nights.
I remembered my adoptive father whispering to me in the dark, telling me to forget. But I never did. I never could.
I watched my sisters grow up, pretending I was one of them. Deep down, I knew I wasn't. I pretended to forget—because that's what they wanted. That's what he wanted.
But I remembered everything.
My mom—my real mom. Her face, her eyes, the exhaustion etched into her expression. The birthdays we celebrated in our little house. How she rocked me to sleep. How she spoke about my father.
My father. I could barely remember him. Isn't it funny? The one thing I wanted to remember was a blur. A face that seemed ethereal, unreal.
I got out of bed. The room was adorned in the colors of the United Islands of Khiz. It was a nice room. The room where I had grown up. The room where I was supposed to feel at home. But it wasn't. Not really.
I thought of that forsaken island.
The statue.
Her face.
And another part of me just wanted to forget.
These thoughts haunted me whenever I had the dream—no, the nightmare.
I'm eight now.
I never bothered to remember my real birthday. It was one of the many things that blurred together, fading into the cold.
I remember my eighth birthday like it was yesterday—a grand celebration.
Maybe now I could forget.
Maybe now I'd finally be given an answer—an answer to why I can't.
The door creaked open. My mom stepped into the room. Her smile was warm but tired.
"Good morning," she said softly. "We're going to have a small celebration today. Just us."
"William's coming over," she added. "He promised he'd bring something special for you."
William. My cousin. He's like a brother to me. I didn't see him often. He had this way of making things feel brighter. But he wasn't here often.
"Is… Dad coming?"
"No, darling. Your father... he's busy." She sighed. "But we'll make this day special, won't we?"
"Just you, me, your sisters, and William." I smiled.
"We'll make a cake!" voice lifting.
"Okay," I said, squeezing her hand.
"Get ready, sweetheart. We'll start when William gets here." she continued.
I wondered what the celebration was—even my fake birthday they celebrated on 05-30.
"Thanks … Mom."
The celebration blurred together. A mix of cake, smiles, and laughter that faded into the background. I barely remembered it—just fragments of joy, too distant to hold onto clearly.
After the celebration, my father was finally done with work for the day, standing by the stone fountain, his expression unreadable as always.
He turned to me then, and in his usual steady voice, he told me that I was to choose a path.
"There are three forces that govern this world," he explained. "The serpent and its dragons, the lion and its angels. And finally the soul."
His words hung in the air. A choice of unimaginable weight.
"Which one did you choose?" I asked, already dreading his answer, but his gaze softened.
"I won't tell you until you decide. But know this: I won't hold it against you if you choose the opposite."
He handed me a small, leather book. The title, Of Lions, Serpents, and the Soul. The letters glimmered in gold against the dark cover. It's written by Adrian Kundra.
I flipped through the pages. Not really reading at first. I felt drawn in by the words. I could almost hear my father's voice in them.
The garden behind us felt like a dream as I sat near the fountain, thinking about the words I had just read. It was a lovely garden, full of flowers and plants my mother tended to, but my thoughts kept wandering.
I hadn't seen Lucius recently.
Where was he?
As I sat, my thoughts turned to my "biological" siblings. William, my ten-year-old cousin, was always surrounded by attention. Maids trailed behind him as if he were some prize.
It wasn't like I was left out entirely, but it was as if my father and mother had always reserved something special for William.
I wondered if it was because William was meant to be the next ruler of the archipelago. The idea bothered me more than I cared to admit. What if I was stronger, better, smarter? Could I be the next one to rule?
The thought lingered, but my attention turned back to the book. I picked it up once more, this time reading more fervently.
The cost of the soul is memory, the book read.
The weight of it all is too much. I think, maybe, if I could just forget—forget my real family, forget the pain—they wouldn't matter.
The memories of a father I wasn't even sure was alive. Of a mother who protected me, but I barely remember. It's hard to think about them. Especially him. The one who gave me nothing but hurt.
I hate the thoughts. I hate myself. Even though I have everything anyone could ask for, all I want is my mom. My real mom. Melissa, she's a great mother. She's done so much for me. She's always been there when I needed her. This feeling gnaws at me. I don't understand it.
I hate it. I hate myself. I hate these memories. I hate this body. I wish I were older, or maybe if I was just… different, things would've turned out better. Maybe then I wouldn't feel this way. Maybe then I could've done something, anything, to change it.
I hate dragons. I hate the beast that did this to me, to my family. I hate it all. Every last bit.
They keep spiraling.
It's easier to focus on the pain. I wanted to complain. I wanted to complain about my life.
"Why did this have to happen to me?" I mumble.
I could complain about the training. Every day feels like its own battle. That wouldn't be true. I could complain about the weight on my shoulders. I have none. I feel so damn alone. Alone in a way that cuts deeper than any physical wound.
I don't think anyone here would understand. I don't even.
It's just easier to let it all sit inside, let it all build up until I can't hold it anymore. But I will. For now, I will.
I just want to find it. A way to let it all go.