Tasteful Darkness

Chapter 3

Balendin – Now

Sleep. Another thing meant for living creatures, but among the rare things I actually choose to waste my time on.

Dreams have always intrigued me. When I first experienced them, I thought I was back in the Underworld. They took years to get used to, but now I look forward to them every night.

It wasn't my own dreams that I had to get used to, however. Shortly after I arrived in the Overworld, I realized that my kind has the strange ability to see human's dreams. Not just see them, but enter them and interact with the world inside.

I never understood why. Maybe it's because dreams come from a place just as dark and unknown as the Underworld we thrive in. Maybe it's because when someone is dreaming, they are walking on the tightrope between the conscious and unconscious world, the very place my kind always exists in.

I groan and sit up, stretching my lanky arms above my head. Overnight, my body seems to have morphed into a woman with long, yellow hair that ends just above my narrow hips. I don't mind the new body.

I go to stand when I realize I'm not alone. There's a chill in the air, but a chill that I recognize. A feeling that I used to live with a thousand years ago.

I have not been to the Underworld in some time, but it appears they're desperate enough to come to me.

I prevent the urge to curse when I see them standing in the corner. Their form is smoking, the black strands of darkness that make up their body constantly changing with every breeze that enters the room.

"Balendin," the Guard says.

At the sound of my name—my true name—my body physically reacts. Our names mean power, and the idea of them knowing it pisses me off.

I glare at them. "Why are you in the Overworld?"

Guards belong in the Underworld—only Nightwatchers are permitted in the Overworld. Unless this one is deliberately breaking the laws—which I highly doubt—they are here for me. I wouldn't be surprised if this was their first time up here.

"You know why," they say, their voice deep and cold as it leaves their body like a gust of wind. Our true forms lack any human characteristics, and the only thing that sticks out against the black is the two golden slits that form our eyes.

Guards, Nightwatchers, and Creators all have different forms. Guards are built for violence—something often needed when dealing with corrupted souls in the Underworld. Nightwatchers are considered the weakest of all three since they aren't made for conflict. They lack any claws and look the most humanoid out of all of us.

Creators have the most abstract of forms. Their lower bodies fade into a curtain of darkness that drags along the floor, leaving shadows in their wake. They, like Guards, have claws in case they ever need to put other Guards back in line.

Guards like me.

"It is time for you to return home," the other Guard says. "Your allotted thousand years are up."

"Lies," I snap. "I still have the equivalent of twelve human days." I think. It's easy to lose track of how many hundreds of thousands of days I've been here.

The golden slits that make up their eyes narrow. "I am not sure it is wise to test your creator's patience."

Ah, yes. The Creator. The parental figure of mine.

"I haven't seen them in centuries," I say, waving them off. "I doubt they even still care about me."

The Guard steps forward. I can sense their building anger in the flickering smoke around them.