𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 - she's a twisted soul, a death-ridden woman haunted by dreams
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𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄. No sharp gasp, no desperate clawing for breath—only the stillness of her chamber, the quiet hum of something ancient pressing against the edges of her mind. The dying embers in the hearth casted a dull glow, stretching shadows across the ceiling.
For a moment, she lay there, staring at those shifting shapes, feeling the exhaustion in her limbs. It had been a week. A week since the Cauldron was used. A week since its power had surged through the world, rattling the very bones of Prythian. And every night since, she had dreamed.
They were fractured, blurred at the edges, slipping from her grasp the moment she tried to recall them. No words, no faces, just that overwhelming feeling. It wasn't just exhaustion weighing on her limbs—it was something deeper. The moment her head hit the pillow, the dreams came.
Not the dreams she once had, the ones that had come to her centuries ago. They were not the same as the ones she had once had centuries ago. Back then, when her power first awakened, the Weaver had called to her in her sleep, drawing her to that forgotten cottage in the woods. Back then, the dreams had been whispers of power and hunger, guiding her toward what she would become. Those dreams had been a call—an invitation into understanding. And when she had followed them, when she had answered, the Weaver had taught her to wield what was inside of her, had shown her how to shape it, how to make it hers.
These dreams were nothing like that. These dreams did not call her to anything. They did not whisper of purpose or power.
They only took.
There was no voice in these dreams, no presence. Only images—fractured, distorted things that bled into one another like ink in water. They dragged her into places she did not recognize, showed her glimpses of things she did not understand. And when she woke, there was nothing left. No lingering words, no clear images—just the feeling. A deep, pulsing thrum in her bones.
Fire licking at stone. A great chasm splitting the earth. The Cauldron, its edges were cracked and broken. And then blood. So much blood. It coated her hands, her arms, pooling at her feet. She always woke before she could see whose blood it was. She flexed her fingers now, staring at her bare palms as if expecting to find them stained. Empty. They were always empty.
And Mother, the exhaustion.
Alicent closed her eyes for a moment, pressing her palm to her forehead. Her body ached with it, a creeping weariness that never quite left her. It wasn't just a lack of sleep—she had known sleepless nights before, had endured them with and ease. But this was different. This clung to her, buried itself beneath her ribs, like something had slipped beneath her skin and refused to let go.
