The night pressed its darkness through the pines; the wind's moan struck the leaves like a broken melody. The moon was a thin crescent; its light weakly brushed the ground. Something inside me sparked—was it rage, grief, or an empty void? I could not tell.
"How will I kill them… damn it," I muttered to myself; my voice was like a funeral prayer. My fists clenched; my nails bit into my palms. Every breath the village took, every lit window, was stained with my mother's blood in my mind. "Rot in hell, you monsters… people of the village… just wait. I'll burn your homes to ash!" I shouted into my chest. The words dissolved into the night, but a fire in my ribs grew.
Suddenly my stomach twisted—the hunger was animal, humiliating. "Curse… curse it all," I spat again. Anger and hunger tore at me simultaneously. Mother… Father… "Mother… Father… they're dead… it can't be… what will I do?" Their names fell from my lips like stones: "Mom… I miss you… Dad…" Each word scattered into the air.
Why!? Why, damned be it!? God… why did you make me like this!? Damn you, God! Because of you… my parents are dead!
The more I spoke, the more my hatred spread through my veins like poison. A restless dark circled my eyes. I breathed in and out; nothing answered but silence.
Then my stomach clenched so hard it sounded—like something inside me screamed. I dropped to my knees, hands pressed into the earth. Each breath magnified the ache. A small sound—a faint rustle—came from the bramble: something moving. A chicken. A fragile clucking in the bushes.
Even with my sight dimmed, I moved—slowly, with a quiet that felt ritualistic. Shadows hid me as I closed in. My steps were barely there; the village's shouts still echoed, but the forest hid me. I reached out with shaking hands and caught the bird. My heart hammered with a primitive mix of relief and shame.
"Use a stone… take it… take it now! Damn it! Damn!" a voice rasped from my throat—the words half command, half self-reproach. I found a stone and struck the chicken's head with a hard arc. The sound cracked something inside me. Warm blood slicked my fingers; relief came with a bitter disgust. "Good… now I'll eat you raw. Gross, but… I'm hungry." I told myself that with a bitter little grin.
With every bite I swallowed, my mother's voice returned—"Riven, eat; you must keep your strength." Her touch on my hair, her small laughs—those memories lodged in me like nails. "I miss her…" I murmured. Tears soaked the soil as I curled into myself. A shame burned me for staying alive and a sharper purpose formed for revenge.
I lay down on the cold earth—the scent of pine cones and damp soil around me—and shivered. My teeth chattered in the chill as a drowsy sleep crept in. "Revenge… yes, revenge… I must live for that," I repeated like a mantra. "I must make a plan…" My mind opened to a dark unknown; how, with whom, when—everything was shadowed, yet a path seemed to stir.
My eyelids grew heavy; thoughts blurred—then everything went white.
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THE DREAM BEGINS
Everything was white; no edge, no shadow, no depth. There was no floor, no air—only emptiness. The silence was so thick it rang in my ears. A voice, distant yet clear, asked:
"DO YOU DESIRE VENGEANCE?"
I spun, but there was nothing to see. "Who are you!?" I shouted, though my words fell flat, without echo.
The voice came closer, carrying a smile. "I am… the Demon King."
Those words twisted something inside me. "What!? Why are you in my dream!?" I demanded, my voice trembling.
"Your thirst for revenge called to me, Riven," came the whisper. "How do you know my name!?" I cried, but the answer was only a murmur.
Then my eye—AHH! MY EYE!!—burned. It felt as if it were being torn open from the inside; the pain was so sharp I dropped to my knees. "Sorry… sorry…" the voice cooed mockingly. I squeezed my eyes shut and writhed, trying to dull the agony.
The Demon's voice curled around me like smoke: "This… is only the beginning."
I snapped awake in the cold, sweat-soaked and panting. The weight of the dream pressed on my chest. "What… was that? Damn it…" I breathed, caught between fear and curiosity.
The burning in my eye remained—raw and insistent. My curse had awakened—and there was no going back.
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