The dream came fast.
He was back in the village. Not the smoldering ruin that haunted his memory, but the warm version—firelight dancing off stone walls, his little sister and brother laughter echoing from the well, the smell of stew drifting through the air. Everything bright and golden.
But it wasn't right.
The people didn't have faces. Just blurs where eyes and mouths should be.
And in the distance, over the ridge, a black sun hung in the sky, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He turned toward it, and the warmth vanished.
A field of corpses stretched out before him—too many to count. Villagers. Strangers. Mosters. Reign soldiers. Their bodies melted together like wax, writhing, whispering in a language he couldn't understand. In the center of it all stood a figure cloaked in shadow and ash.
His eyes burned like coals, but his voice was ice.
"You were meant to die, Reivo."
And then the ground split open beneath him, and he fell—screaming without sound.
Reivo jolted awake.
It was still dark, but not night-dark. Fortress-dark. Torches on the walls cast long, flickering shadows across the stone. He was drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a war drum.
A shape moved near the door.
He tensed—until Lira stepped into the light.
"You talk in your sleep," she said softly.
"Didn't know I slept."
"You didn't, not really. You fought it for hours. Pain makes the mind cling too hard to the body. I gave you something to force the issue."
He didn't like the idea of being drugged, but he didn't argue. He needed the rest, even if it came with nightmares.
"You said tomorrow we'd continue the treatment," he said. "It's tomorrow now."
Lira gave a small smile. "So it is."
She set down a bundle of supplies and pulled a stool beside his cot. "We have to remove the last of the internal shrapnel. You're healing too fast in the wrong way—scar tissue over metal. That'll cripple you in a month if we don't cut it out."
"Cut it out?" he asked, voice low.
She nodded. "I can numb the nerves. Mostly."
"Mostly."
"I find honesty makes it easier."
He gave a bitter half-smile. "Do your worst."
She didn't. She did her best.
The pain was still blinding, but she guided him through it—breathing exercises, old soldier's tricks, bits of half-muttered prayers she claimed didn't work but still used anyway. Reivo endured. He had no other choice.
When it was done, and he was bandaged anew, trembling and pale, Lira stayed beside him.
"You survived what should've killed you," she said. "That means the world's not done with you."
"Or it means I wasn't lucky enough to die."
"Maybe. But it also means you get to choose what happens next."
He turned his head slowly to look at her. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because I've seen what the Reign does to weapons they think are broken. I'd rather you stay alive long enough to prove you're more than that."
He didn't answer.
---
Later, when she was gone and the torches burned low, Reivo stared at the ceiling, mind heavy with exhaustion and thoughts he couldn't name.
He didn't trust Lira. Not fully.
But something about her was different. She didn't look at him with fear or disgust.
She looked at him like he was a choice.
And that unsettled him more than anything else.