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My vow is my truth,I confess.I will show her, in every way I can, that my words are more than mere promises. They are a commitment, as binding as any oath, to cherish and protect the one who has brought a heartbeat to my existence.
After more threads of tense silence, Beastie finally lowers the blade. “You will have the opportunity to do so.”
Eyes glimmer with aquamarine once more, the switch prevalent.
Zenya glances down at the blade before shivering and dropping it to clatter on the floor. “I’m really glad she didn’t put razor blades in your dick.”
Chapter 28
“It’s time to play?”
ZENYA
“Runaway” by Aurora
“Little Me” by Little Mix Nightcore Version
They’ve escorted me to the edge of a clifftop overlooking the schism, the great cavernous expanse separating Dreams and Nightmares.
My heart pounds with trepidation, disturbing the eerie calm in the air as Hecate and I stand upon the precipice. A swirling mist veils the view below. The only light comes from the ghostly torches surrounding Hecate, casting an ethereal glow on her striking form.
Morpheus twists his shadows along my body, but they don’t provide as much comfort or encouragement as usual. They cut through my exposed skin and send chills into my blood.
At first, I wove an outfit similar to my hiking ones: functional, well-insulated pants with pockets—very important—a lightweight shirt over a tank top, and a layered vest. Practical hiking boots.
Hecate assured me I wouldn’t need any hiking clothing or gear, and my subconscious kept returning my clothes to raggedy pink jeans and a soil-stained white crop top—much like what I’d wear when I was little. Always playing in the dirt and exploring the woods, climbing rocks and trees, etc.
Hecate turns to me, her voice infused with her ancient power. “This is where your first trial begins, Zenya. You must confront your past and make peace with it to move forward. Not only make peace. There will be a piece you must find.”
I peer over the edge, pulse thrashing in my veins. “What am I supposed to do? Climb down?” Confusion and fear shiver up my spine. The drop seems endless, a gaping maw ready to swallow me whole.
Morpheus, Phantasos, and Nyxion, these three immortal Gods of the Dreamworld, remain behind us like silent guardians ready to intervene only if necessary.
Hecate’s eyes glimmer with a knowing intensity as her torches crackle. “You must embrace the unknown, face your deepest fears. Trust in the journey.”
I take a hesitant step back, shaking my head. Before I entered this dreamscape, I was never afraid to climb anything—not even a great rock face like this. I longed for the challenge, the adrenaline pumping through my blood, and the delicious tremors in my muscles. “What if I fall?” I whisper.
Hecate’s lips curl into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Then you will fall. And you will rise.”
Without warning, Hecate places a firm hand on my back and gives me a gentle shove. My scream pierces the night and echoes as I tumble through the blackness. It sucks me like the force of the temporal storm vortex. I’m Alice tumbling deeper into Goth Wonderland, except the world around me dissolves into a kaleidoscope of memories and sensations.
It’s not just a schism. It’s another dimension. I’m falling through space and time.
Let go, Zenya,Eclipse’s voice chimes in my mind.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and lean into an arch with my face to the precipice and arms curled along the side of my body.
Almost as soon as I surrender into this resurrection-like pose, I land with a thud onto soft grass and a curling thicket. Brushing my hair from my face, I immediately recognize the patch of woods outside my childhood home. We never stayed in the same place too long, but this was one of my more prominent memories.
The familiar scent of pine and damp earth fills my senses.
About a hundred yards away stands the rustic, white farmhouse with its tire swing and cluttered porch.
I lurk behind the trees, my breath hitching as I see a little girl digging around her sandbox, playing with toy dump trucks and shovels. I cover my mouth, choking on my emotion at the eight-year-old in pink jeans with flower patches and a dirty white t-shirt. Light brown hair just like her father. Me. Little me.
Now and then, her wide, innocent eyes stray to her father. He’s tall, dark, and handsome with so much charisma dripping off him, it wasn’t difficult to charm women into his bed…before he turned them into pretty corpses.
Zachariah Myre aka the Bone Carver. Never Zachary. Never Zach.
