I Remember
Canvas rustles in the breeze, whispering secrets of an incoming storm. Beyond the tent’s glow, the camp hums—a pot clanking over a fire, boots crunching against the underbrush, voices low with weariness. But inside Selene’s tent, the world has shrunk to shallow, rapid breaths and the fevered edge of a waking dream.
“Elara!”
The cry is raw, torn from Selene’s throat. The tent flaps shudder as Elara bursts inside, heart hammering. Selene sits upright on the cot, tangled in her blankets, eyes wide and unfocused. Sweat beads along her temples, her breath coming too fast.
Elara barely has time to kneel before Selene flings herself forward, gripping her with desperate strength. “I thought I lost you forever,” Selene whispers, her voice unsteady against Elara’s shoulder.
Elara stills, the words striking like a cold wind. Lost forever. A nightmare, then. Or something worse.
She tightens her hold, grounding them both. “I’m here,” she murmurs. “You’re safe.”
Behind her, the tent flap shifts again, and warmth presses against her back. “Silly,” Lyra says softly, crouching to wrap her arms around them both. “You’re the one who almost died.”
Selene pulls away just enough to look at them, confusion clouding her face. She presses a palm to her forehead as if trying to catch thoughts slipping through her fingers. “Wait…” Her gaze flickers around the tent, searching for something unseen. “Where’s Bob? And the other automatons?”
The air changes. The warmth of reunion curdles into something tense, brittle.
Near the entrance, Enoux shifts, the flickering lamplight catching the sharp edge of her expression. Elara feels her stomach tighten.
“You… saw it?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Selene frowns. “Saw what?”
Enoux steps forward, arms crossed, her stance braced against something unseen. “Selene,” she says, slow and deliberate. “Did you see vampires? And the undead?”
Selene’s face drains of color. Her fingers curl against the blanket, gripping the fabric like a lifeline. “Wait… yeah.” Her breath stutters as her eyes dart between them. “How…” A tremor runs through her. “How did we survive that?”
Elara’s pulse thrums in her ears. This isn’t just a lingering dream. Selene’s fear is too raw, too real. A shared vision? A fractured memory? The unease coils deep in Elara’s chest, cold and unwelcome.
Outside, the distant laughter of the Gnarly Roses fades, replaced by the rustling of trees, the crackle of a dying fire. The world teeters on the edge of knowing.
Elara exhales, slow and measured, then meets Selene’s gaze. “We need to talk.”
The fire crackles, sending orange sparks spiraling into the night. The scent of Gru’s stew—thick with potatoes and something best left unasked—fills the camp, its warmth a stark contrast to the creeping evening chill.
Selene sits hunched in a heavy wool blanket, a steaming bowl cupped in her hands. She eats quickly, spoon scraping against the rough ceramic, shoveling broth and meat into her mouth as if it might vanish at any moment. Beside her, Lyra does the same. Their silent urgency is telling—a shared instinct, an unspoken acknowledgment of what Selene has endured.
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A few feet away, two Fell-Hounds crouch over a wooden trough, thick black tongues lapping at the stew. Firelight dances over their sleek, smoke-colored fur, their ember-like eyes flicking upward at every sudden movement. One growls—a low, bone-deep rumble that vibrates through the earth—before snapping up a chunk of meat with a wet crunch. The other huffs, shoving its muzzle deeper into the broth, steam curling around its snout.
Gru smirks, arms crossed over her broad chest. “Plenty more where that came from,” she says, nodding toward the iron pot suspended over the flames.
The others are scattered around the fire, bowls in hand, eating in contemplative silence. The usual murmur of conversation has dulled, tension hanging thick in the air.
Selene slows, her spoon hesitating mid-air. A crease forms between her brows as she swallows hard. “I... I saw something.”
Elara straightens, her grip tightening around her own bowl. “What do you mean?”
Selene exhales, a thin mist curling from her lips. “It wasn’t a dream,” she murmurs. “It felt too real.”
The Fell-Hounds pause, ears flicking toward her voice.
A hush settles over the group, heavy and expectant.
Selene grips the edges of her blanket, her voice quieter now, hesitant. “There was... wave after wave of them. Undead. So many, I couldn’t see the ground. They came in tides, like they were endless.” Her fingers tighten around the rough fabric. “The sentry cannons fired until they overheated. I saw them glow red, then crack apart. We lost half the caravans, at least.”
A few of the others exchange glances, their wariness shifting into something heavier—uncertainty, unease.
Selene swallows, her voice growing unsteady. “And there were automatons—tall, metal-clad warriors. They fought like nothing I’ve ever seen, cutting through the undead like scythes through wheat. But it wasn’t enough. The vampires came next. They tore through our defenses like paper. And then...”
She falters, pulse hammering in her ears. Her breath comes shallow, thin.
“The Lich.”
Elara inhales sharply.
The fire pops, a log splitting, sending a spray of embers into the night. Selene’s hands tremble around her bowl, her knuckles white.
“I don’t know what happened after that,” she admits. “There was darkness. Then nothing.”
Elara studies her, concern sharpening into something more calculated, more precise. She grips her own bowl, fingers pressing into the ceramic. Slowly, she leans forward. “Selene, that didn’t happen.”
Selene blinks. A strange ringing fills her head.
“What?” Her throat tightens. “No, I... I remember it. It happened. We were fighting—”
“There was no battle,” Enoux says, firm. “No undead. No automatons. No Lich.”
Selene’s breath stutters. The words don’t make sense. They don’t fit.
“No.” She shakes her head. “No, you’re joking. You have to be joking.”
No one answers.
The fire’s warmth feels distant now, swallowed by a sharp, creeping cold. Her grip on the blanket tightens. “If it didn’t happen,” she whispers, “then why do I remember it so clearly? I felt it... I lived it.”
Elara’s lips part as if to answer, but nothing comes.
The silence presses down.
Then Lyra shifts, setting her bowl aside. Without warning, she pulls Selene into a tight embrace. “It’s okay,” she murmurs against Selene’s hair. “You’re safe.”
Selene stiffens at first. But the warmth—the solid, familiar scent of her sister—eases something deep in her chest. She exhales, her body sagging against Lyra’s.
Then Lyra’s voice drops, light but edged with something heavier.
“Also, apparently we have a grandfather.”
Selene jerks back. “We what?”
Lyra grins. “That’s the spirit.”
A soft, surprised huff of laughter escapes Elara—quick, fleeting. But the moment is gone just as fast, the weight of unanswered questions thick in the air.
Selene looks between them, unease settling deep in her gut like a stone.
Something is very, very wrong.