Bloodlines.

Chapter Twenty Seven: Daryls Dream.

Meanwhile at the kingdom Daryl had no idea that Alyssa had been Returned to Alexandria.

Ezekiel led Daryl down a quiet hallway in the Kingdom, his royal demeanor softening just slightly as he gestured to a simple wooden door. "This shall be your quarters for now," he said, his voice low but firm. "Rest. Tomorrow, we deliberate further."

Daryl grunted in response, his eyes scanning the room briefly before stepping inside. The space was modest but clean—far better than anything he'd had in a long time. A single bed sat against the far wall, a small table and chair in the corner, and a flickering oil lamp casting shadows across the walls.

Ezekiel lingered in the doorway for a moment. "I trust you'll find it adequate. Sleep, my friend. You'll need your strength."

Daryl nodded, not bothering to look back. "Thanks."

Ezekiel closed the door softly behind him, leaving Daryl alone. He dropped onto the bed, his legs hanging off the side as he let out a heavy sigh. The weight of everything pressed down on him—Negan, Alexandria, the Kingdom, and, most of all, Alyssa.

He rubbed his hands over his face, frustration bubbling up. He knew he should be out there, fighting, bringing her home. But instead, he was stuck here, trying to convince Ezekiel to join a fight the King clearly wasn't ready to commit to.

Daryl clenched his fists. Rick was supposed to be the leader, but lately, he'd been a shadow of his former self. Weak. Lost. And Alyssa? She'd sacrificed herself to save him, and now she was with Negan. He couldn't stop thinking about what might be happening to her—what had happened to her.

The thought made his chest tighten. Rick was Alyssa's father, but Daryl knew the truth: Rick had failed her, time and time again. He wasn't the one Alyssa looked to when things got hard. That had always been him. And now, he'd failed her too.

Daryl let out a slow, shaky breath and leaned back against the bed. He needed to focus. The Kingdom's manpower was essential if they were going to start a war with Negan. They couldn't win without it. But the thought of waiting, of sitting idly by while Alyssa suffered—it tore at him.

Eventually, exhaustion began to weigh him down. His eyes grew heavy, and he let himself sink into the mattress. The last thing on his mind as he drifted off was Alyssa—her sharp wit, her fiery spirit, her stubborn loyalty.

He'd get her back. Somehow, some way, he'd bring her home.

As Daryl drifted into a light sleep, the familiar weight of exhaustion overtook him. He hadn't had this dream in a long time—at least not since Negan came into their lives. Back then, the dreams of the little boy were almost constant, haunting him with their vividness. But now, the dreams had been absent for what felt like forever.

The familiar blank, white void surrounded him, a space he recognized instantly. He wasn't truly awake—this was one of those dreams. Daryl looked around, and there he was again: the little boy with unruly hair, just like Daryl's, and piercing eyes that mirrored Alyssa's. Except this time, the boy seemed older. No longer a toddler, he looked about five now, more confident, more sure of himself.

The boy walked toward him silently and reached for Daryl's hand. Daryl hesitated for a moment but eventually let the small hand guide his own. He looked down at the boy with furrowed brows.

"Why are you here again?" Daryl asked softly, his voice rough but tinged with vulnerability.

The boy didn't respond. He simply shook his head, his expression unreadable, and gently tugged Daryl forward. They walked together through the endless void until something materialized in front of them. A bed, plain and unassuming, appeared as if summoned by an unseen force.