The Curse of the Stars

Chapter Two

There was only mist. It enveloped the world around him, lingering inches from his toes. He could not remember where he was or what took him there but he remembered who he was because that was what mattered.

He took little notice of his clothing; the sweats he wore to bed. The upper half of his body was bare but he could not feel the cold. The world was still. The silence was piercing. He had never witnessed such silence.

He did not witness it long. A soft sound rose from the stillness. His ears strained to hear. He could see nothing through the mist. He walked but seemed to get nowhere.

There was the sound again. He could fathom it now. A voice. It was getting closer, louder. From where? He wasn't sure. Caster turned and spoke. "Hey! Who's there?"

A gust of wind slammed on his chest, pushing him a step back. The voice was there, harsh. And close.

"Who are you?" It was a slow growl and it was female? It took him a moment to understand what she was saying. There was a foreign tilt to her voice. Caster turned but could not see. "Who are you?" The voiced asked again. It wasn't coming from a particular spot. It was around him, in all places at once.

Whoever it was, giving his name was not an option. And yet he found himself asking the woman the same question. "Who are you?" He asked loudly.

A harder gust of wind hit him. No, it did not hit him. It whirled around him like a hurricane, howling. The mist swirled with it too. And it swirled round and round, rising, still not touching him. He felt the cold now, as if his skin was being pierced by a thousand freezing needles.

The voice came in a fervent chant. Repeating who are you who are you until the words were hammering his head. Until it was in his head. His hands flew to his ears but it was no use. The chants had made its way past his ears as the wind tore at his hair. The shrill rawness of the voice clawed at his mind until he was a heap in the ground, writhing in an unending horror. It felt like a lifetime before he found the strength to find his voice.

"Caster." He whispered. The chant and the wind paused, as if to listen. "Caster." He shouted.

The chant stopped. The wind and the fog circled around him one last time before vanishing. And as he laid on the ground, he saw a pair of pale feet walking towards him. His vision was starting to blur. The feet came closer until a figure stood over him. He could not see who it was. His eyes were somehow failing him.

"Caster," The girl said, her voice reminding him of poison. "Wake up."

He jolted awake. For a moment, he was lost, half living the dream and half wondering where he was. And then he remembered. The mansion. The window was draped in heavy velvet yet the room was filled with a dark glow. He had never fancied daylight. His erratic breathing slowed. He wiped his forehead with the back of his palm. He was drenched.

"Caster." He murmured. It was his name. It was who he was. But then why did it seem wrong when he told it in the dream? The bed was forgotten as he stood to venture to the baths. It was just as massive as it was the night before. To Caster though, it felt infinitely bigger and emptier. Two slaps of cold water on his face later, he found himself staring at his own reflection. He had green glasses as eyes and a wild tame of curls he had grown since the academy ceased to hold control of his life.

Was it just him or did his eyes look deeper? Wilder? He shook his head and dismissed the thought. He groomed and dressed before traveling down the grand staircase and into the dining hall where his father remained absent. Rolland Cross would not be joining him until another two weeks. Caster wasn't sure what to think of this. He wasn't close to his father before. More so after the incident. Rekindling relationships was hard to handle if one was constantly traveling from New York to London, barely breathing between meetings.