Terror. A dimension mirroring the living one--but morphed to reflect the imagination of its Overseer. And the current Overseer... has refused to relinquish her power for centuries, tormenting her souls--"terrors"--into becoming... zombies.
Arielle f...
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If she hadn't been sure her hands were clasped and near her belly button, Penelope would have believed her nails were scraping into her scalp, searing into her brain.
A migraine. It woke in her temples, flared across her forehead, tormented her neurons, fried her nerve endings. It was rare for her to suffer such agony, but when it happened, Penelope lost all sense of time and space, and her habitual, mild irritation turned to dreadful fury.
This migraine, that she'd begged to dismiss the instant it appeared—minutes after Arielle had left the premises—continued to rage on, its surges of pain powerful and destabilizing. She could barely stand, barely float, and found herself holding onto the wall as she stared at her mirror.
"This... is insane."
The words writhing from her mouth were brittle, flimsy as burnt twigs. She was never so incapacitated. Not unless something, someone else as strong as her was in the vicinity. Or her powers were threatened... or about to expand.
Her teeth clicked in her mouth, as if a chill had breezed into the room and whooshed up her back and neck. But that wasn't possible. Flames still encircled her precious home, still swirled up and down her walls, still protected her from any invasions.
There were no invaders, of that, she was certain. She'd sense them. If her minions had breached into the area, she'd smell them. Right now, she smelled nothing but sulfur and smoke, scents that usually soothed her, preserved her.
"So it's more power, then?"
Her jaw clenched as another tremor traipsed up and down her spine. How could she be so chilled when heat surrounded her? Hadn't she lit the whole realm up to stay warm, to never experience the cold again? Why were chilly gusts gyrating about her, seeping under her skin, chilling her core?
Managing to grit her teeth through another flare of pain, she tapped the mirror's surface, animating her soul count. Her sight was blurry, struggling to adjust to the numbers racing across the screen.
Racing? She squinted, scrunching her eyebrows.
"No... that's not right." She scratched at her hairline, desperate for a means to cease the agony. She was positive she'd draw blood if the migraine didn't subside soon. If she didn't recover her full mental capacities, her barriers would weaken, her enemies would break in.
Her extremities tingled, and a slight twinge of copper coated her tongue. A taste she'd never enjoyed, but endured when receiving new gifts, new skills soaking into her. That was the source of the migraine, she deduced. Her brain absorbing new information, her body bracing to drink it all in.
But did she really have to suffer like this when becoming stronger?
The numbers continued to zoom to and fro on the reflective surface. The longer she glared at them, the worse her vision became; dancing with black stars, sizzling with flashes of flames and explosions.
