LENNA
I've been having odd dreams.
Every night, I wake gasping, sweat-soaked sheets twisted around my legs, the remnants of something clinging to the edges of my mind like smoke. I sit up in the darkness of my quarters, pressing my palms against my eyes, trying to catch the fragments before they dissolve completely.
Luminous eyes. The color of molten gold, or maybe ember. Watching me through a haze of heat distortion.
Smoke curling through my fingers, warm and alive.
A sense of longing so acute it feels like grief.
Then nothing. Just the cool stone walls of my room and the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor outside.
I shake my head, pushing the hair back from my damp forehead. It's just my mind processing the stables. The beasts. That massive creature that watched me with too much intelligence for something supposedly feral. I saw it for all of five minutes before Malrec showed up and treated me like I was about to set the entire facility on fire through sheer stupidity.
The dreams come again the next night. And the night after that.
Each time, I wake with less clarity than before, just impressions that scatter the moment I try to hold them. Heat. Eyes. The feeling of something missing, something I should recognize but can't quite name.
By the fourth morning, I stop trying to make sense of it. Dreams are dreams. They don't mean anything, especially when you're sleeping in a volcanic estate surrounded by infernal beasts. My subconscious is probably just adjusting to the new environment.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I dress for another day of labor.
The work itself is manageable, if monotonous. I'm assigned to the upper levels mostly—maintenance on corridors, polishing rune-glass in the observation rooms, occasionally assisting in the kitchens when they need extra hands.
It's better than some places I've worked. The demons here don't go out of their way to make things harder than they need to be, and the other humans keep to themselves, which suits me fine.
Nimae is... complicated.
She's friendly in the way someone might be friendly with a stray animal—cordial but distant, offering information when it's practical but never lingering longer than necessary. I catch her watching me sometimes when she thinks I'm not paying attention, her violet eyes sharp and assessing, like she's waiting for me to do something unexpected.
I don't blame her. I'm waiting for the same thing.
We cross paths in the servant corridors, exchange brief conversations about supply inventories or shift schedules, and then drift apart again. It's not hostile. It's just... empty. Like we're both going through the motions of coexistence without actually connecting.
I've made no friends here. But then again, I didn't come here to make friends.
The one mercy is that I haven't seen Malrec again. Not since he cornered me in the stables and lectured me like I was a child who didn't understand basic danger assessment. The memory of his voice—cold and cutting, laced with that particular brand of arrogance that assumes incompetence before asking questions—makes my jaw tighten every time it surfaces.
Asshole.
I prefer it this way. If I never have to interact with him again, it'll be too soon.
My thoughts are interrupted by a commotion, raised voices echoing through the corridor outside the storage rooms I'm inventorying and cleaning. Not quite shouting, but close. The kind of urgent, clipped conversation that signals something has gone wrong.
I pause, cloth in hand, and listen.
"—completely shredded?—"
"—should have known better than to?—"
"—get someone down there to clean it up before?—"
"—it's always bound to happen?—"
"—just another human to replace?—"
The words cut off as the speakers move past my doorway, but my chest tightens anyway. I know what they're talking about before anyone confirms it.
