Normal text
Thinking
Onomatopoeia
Rayne's POV
The nova glare vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.
One moment—blinding light.
The next—I hit the ground hard, landing squarely on my backside in the least dignified way imaginable.
Nothing snapped.
Nothing tore.
I was... alive.
After falling from the sixth storey.
Wha—?
The haze hadn't even cleared when I heard her.
Mom.
Her voice trembled, threaded with a panic so raw it locked my chest. Arms wrapped around me—tight, almost painful—as if I might slip away the moment she loosened her grip.
"You're my everything, Rayne."
Thump. Thump.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The realisation crashed down all at once.
Nausea surged up my throat.
What the hell had I been thinking?
Dying—over this? Because I couldn't handle the pressure? Because I was weak?
As if death could wash something like me clean.
And Mom—
Would she have smiled through tears, proud that her daughter had chosen the easy way out? Proud that all her sacrifices had been thrown aside by a coward?
Thump.
No.
I was her hope.
Her pride.
If I died, everything she endured would become nothing. Scraps. Waste. I would have crushed the future she fought for with my own hands.
Was I really that cruel?
That heartless?
To do that to her?
Numbness settled over me as I sank into the plush maroon carpet.
Only then did I look around.
The chamber stretched vast and cavernous in every direction. Arched entrances lined the walls like silent sentinels. Overhead, a crystal chandelier chimed faintly, scattering harsh white light across polished marble so pristine I could see my own pale reflection staring back.
A sweeping staircase, plated in gold, rose towards a raised dais.
And upon it—
A throne.
Obscene didn't begin to cover it.
Rubies. Diamonds. Sapphires. Every surface crammed with gemstones, so excessive it bordered on grotesque—a monument to indulgence rather than a seat.
An old man lounged upon it, spine curved yet still radiating entitlement.
Even slouched, he carried himself like a proclamation—
Behold. I am royalty.
Ornate robes swallowed his frame. A silk cape trailed behind him like a ceremonial mop. The crown perched on his unkempt white hair was just as gaudy as the throne itself. His beard and mane had long since surrendered to neglect, leaving him resembling a lion long past its prime.
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Your Shadow Is My Light
FanfictionRayne, a girl born into tragedy, is haunted by a traumatic past, burdened by the memories of killing her father and witnessing her mother's death. Bullied and isolated, she often struggles with self-doubt, thinking that she's better off dead than al...
