I woke to warmth. Not the warmth of blankets or sun on skin, but something deeper, fuller like I was wrapped in the heartbeat of the world itself.
I couldn't open my eyes.
Everything was too bright, too loud, too new. My limbs felt heavy, clumsy. My mouth tried to form a sound, but what came out was a wet, helpless cry.
A cry.
I panicked. My body jolted, but it wasn't mine not the one I knew. My hands were tiny fists, my legs kicked without control. I couldn't speak. I couldn't speak.
Then I felt arms strong, trembling with joy gather me close. A scent surrounded me, lavender and earth, warm skin and salt. A voice broke the chaos, soft and breaking all at once.
"My Rose," the woman whispered. "Oh, my Rose. You came back to me."
The name struck me like a bell in fog.
Rose.
That's me.
Something cracked open in my chest. I remembered cold cement. I remembered eyes in the dark. I remembered teeth and pain and silence. I remembered disappearing.
And now, I was here. Small. New. Naked to the world and pressed against the chest of someone who held me like I was the center of it.
"My Rose," she said again, and her tears fell into my hair.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. But inside the helpless little body, I-I-was still here.
I had been given back.
I was lucky.
I don't think I understood that right away how rare it was to be born again and land in love. But as the days turned into years, as my new world stretched and softened around me, I knew it.
My name was still Rose.
Not because I told anyone. I couldn't have not with my infant mouth and clumsy tongue. But that's what my mother named me. Again. Maybe it was fate, or maybe the universe had a sense of mercy after all.
My parents were gentle. My mother sang to me every morning, her voice low and bright like sun through curtains. My father carried me everywhere like I was the most precious thing he'd ever held, and when he laughed, the whole house seemed to warm.
They were farmers. Not rich, not important. But there was safety in their arms, and softness in the way they looked at me like they couldn't believe I was real.
By the time I was five, I could speak, run, climb trees, and read a little. But more than that I could feel the life I had now was whole in ways I'd never imagined before.
That was also the year Aria was born.
She was a loud, squirmy thing from the moment she entered the world, kicking and wailing like the sky itself needed to hear her. I remember standing beside Mama's bed, peering over the blanket as Papa gently placed her in our mother's arms.
"She's pretty mama" I whispered.
"yes she is," Mama said, and kissed my forehead.
Aria had our father's ash-gray hair, soft and stormy, and the same sleepy blue eyes he had when he was tired and smiling. I, on the other hand, had Mama's hair crimson and thick, always falling into my face no matter how tightly she braided it. Aria would tug on it sometimes when she was big enough to crawl, giggling like I was her favorite toy.
I didn't mind.
I loved her in the kind of way that made my chest ache like she'd always been missing, and now she was here.
Sometimes I'd lie awake at night, staring at the beams in the ceiling, remembering things I couldn't explain to anyone. Remembering blood. Remembering teeth. Remembering the call that had come too late and the dark that came too fast.
But then Aria would stir in her crib, letting out one of her half-dreamed little whimpers, and I'd slip out of bed just to watch her sleep, tiny hands curled up near her cheeks.
I had been eaten by dogs in another life.
And in this one, I got a little sister.
I think I won.
By the time I turned six, the world felt just small enough to hold in my hands and just big enough to make me curious.
We lived near the edge of a great old forest, where the trees whispered secrets in a language only the wind understood. Mama always told me not to wander too far. "The woods are old," she'd say, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
But something pulled at me. A sense of familiarity in the strangeness. A quiet thrum beneath the soil. So, one crisp morning when the air smelled like moss and sun-warmed bark, I slipped away.
It wasn't far at first just past the back fence, then down the slope where the wildflowers grew thick and stubborn. My boots crushed them gently as I walked. Birds trilled overhead. The light filtered through the canopy in golden shards, and every part of me tingled with the thrill of doing something I wasn't supposed to.
And then I saw her.
She stood in a clearing like she had always been there, pale as milk, her hair a cascade of silken gold that shimmered even in the shade. Her eyes gods, her eyes were red. Not angry red. Not scary red. But deep and ancient and knowing, like lanterns lit with old fire.
She was just my size.
She looked at me like she'd been waiting.
"I'm Rose," I said, because what else was there to say?
She tilted her head. "Elizabeth," she replied. Her voice was careful, quiet, almost curious. "You're not from the woods."
"No. Are you?"
She hesitated. "Sort of."
She stepped forward, and I noticed the delicate curve of her ears slightly pointed, peeking through her hair. Half-elf. But something else shimmered beneath her skin, something colder. I could see it in the way her shadow clung a little too closely to her heels, in the way her red eyes didn't blink as often as they should.
Vampire. I didn't know how I knew, but I did.
We stood in silence for a long moment, like animals sniffing each other for danger.
"Are you going to bite me?" I asked, not scared... just curious.
She blinked once. "No. I don't bite friends."
"Oh." I smiled. "We're friends?"
She nodded slowly. "I think so."
And just like that, we were.
We played until the sun began to dip low. She showed me how to talk to the beetles under the bark, how to find water with your feet, and how to listen for the sighs of trees too tired to grow anymore. I told her about Aria, and Mama's red hair, and how sometimes I still remembered being someone else, someone older.
She just nodded like none of that was strange.
When I finally went home, twigs in my hair and dirt on my knees, Mama hugged me like she hadn't breathed all day.
I didn't tell her about Elizabeth.
Somehow, I knew she wouldn't understand. Not yet.
By the time I was seven, the forest felt like a second home. Elizabeth and I knew its paths and secret hollows better than we knew the edge of the farmland or the name of the nearby river. We spent our afternoons picking flowers beneath the golden canopy, braiding them into crowns, pretending we were queens of a hidden kingdom. She always chose the white blossoms, and I always picked the fiery red ones that matched my hair.
That day, the sky was clear, and our laughter echoed through the glade like chimes. We sprawled in the tall grass, faces turned toward the light, talking about nonsense and dreams.
Then everything changed.
The birds stopped singing.
The wind stilled.
A strange hum filled the air, like metal vibrating against glass.
I sat up fast.
"What's that?" Elizabeth whispered, eyes narrowed.
I turned toward the treeline and then I saw it.
Floating just above the ground was a massive, gleaming octahedron. A perfect geometric shape, its surface a black mirror reflecting warped versions of the world around it. Lines of light pulsed along its edges, shifting colors violet, blue, blood red. It made no sound except for the steady, horrible hum that crawled into my bones.
My breath caught.
"I know what that is," I said, barely louder than a whisper. "That's a Prism Horror."
"A what?"
"It's a monster. A strong one. Not from here. Not from anywhere that should touch a place like this."
The octahedron twisted in the air, its mirrored surfaces rippling like water then it split open. Seamless edges folded back like blades, revealing a gaping, jagged maw. No teeth just a swirl of darkness that pulled at the grass, the light, and us.
It wanted to eat us.
Elizabeth grabbed my hand.
Then
SHHHINK!
A blur of black and silver sliced through the air.
The monster gave no scream, but it cracked clean and perfect down the center, split in two like a rotten fruit. The pieces thudded to the earth and sizzled, leaking oily mist.
Standing in front of us was a woman.
She wore a maid uniform. A crisp, spotless black dress with a white apron, and long dark stockings tucked into laced boots. Her black hair fell to her waist in a thick, straight curtain. She turned slightly, and I saw her eyes silver, cold, unreadable.
She smiled.
And her right arm, from the elbow down, had become a long, elegant sword.
"Children," she said gently, "you really must avoid interdimensional anomalies."
A boy about our age ran up behind her, panting.
"Lilith! You didn't even let me catch up!"
He had messy brown hair streaked with black at the roots not dyed, not artificial. It looked natural, like the colors had grown into each other over time. His eyes were warm, golden-hazel. He looked at us and broke into a grin.
"You two okay?" he asked.
We both nodded, still holding hands.
"I'm Artorian," he said, offering a hand. "And that's Lilith. She's… sort of my guardian."
Lilith inclined her head with a polite curtsy, the sword already fading back into a normal arm.
"I'm Rose," I said. "And this is Elizabeth."
He smiled even wider. "Cool. Want to be friends?"
I looked at Elizabeth. She looked at me. We both nodded.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's be friends."