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I don’t want to turn. I don’t want to see him. But I always do.

The rider is there, perched atop his monstrous steed, his decayed form draped in shifting shadows. The beast’s eyes burn like dying embers, its breath curling in thick, black smoke. And as always, the rider holds his own head beneath one arm. The distorted face grins at me, a grotesque mockery, its hollow eyes burning with something too ancient, too knowing.

This time, he moves faster.

“Ériu,” he breathes, his voice not one, but many—layered whispers of the dead, wailing in unison, gnawing at my sanity.

“Ready yourself,” it breathes, the voice no longer distant but right against my skin, a cold whisper that slithers down my spine. The rider hasn’t moved—yet somehow, he is here, beside me, above me, around me. The scent of rot clogs my throat, choking, rancid. A decayed hand—cold, damp, wrong—trails along my jaw, nails scraping as if testing the fragility of my flesh. I can feel the grin in the darkness, wider than before, stretching impossibly, grotesquely. “You cannot run. You cannot hide. The end is written, and I will be there when it comes.”

I don’t understand why it’s different, why the nightmare is unravelling beyond its familiar bounds. But I know one thing.

This time, I won’t wake up before the end.

The shadows surge forward, slamming into my chest. Air tears from my lungs, vision narrowing to pinpricks of darkness.

The pressure around my throat tightens one final time. My lungs seize, burning, screaming for air that will never come. My limbs go slack, the last of my strength slipping away as the darkness consumes me whole.

I am drowning. I am dying. I am gone.

I jolt awake, heart hammering wildly. The remnants of the nightmare still cling to me, leaving me disoriented and panicked.

In my frantic attempt to rise from the bed, I neglect to pay attention to the fact that I have tangled my legs in the blankets. The momentum sends me tipping sideways, and before I can steady myself, I crash to the floor with a resounding thunk.

A loud groan escapes my lips as I stare up at the ceiling, trying to reorient myself. The cold of the floor against my back aids in counteracting the heat of adrenaline still coursing through my body, the remnants of the dream lingering nearby. Just as I gather myself, the door swings open to reveal Saoirse, her expression wide-eyed and startled.

“Triona, in the name of the saints, what’re you doin’ sprawled out on the floor like a sack of spuds?” she asks, her voice barely masking her amusement.

I wave a limp hand in the air. “Can’t you see? I’ve abandoned the burdens of vertical living. The floor is my home now.”

I heave out a sigh of frustration. “I fell out of bed. You walked in at just the right time to witness my downfall—both literal and metaphorical. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to lie here a few moments longer, gathering up the shattered remains of my pride.”

Saoirse bursts into laughter, the sound ringing through the room like a bell. “Well, I’d say ye’ve gone and shattered more than just yer pride. But there’s no more time to wallow. Yer da’s callin’ for ya. Says there’s no time for rest—time to train.”

I groan louder, throwing an arm over my eyes. “Of course he is. Nothing like a bruised arse to really enhance my fighting stance.”

There’s a pause before she speaks again, a devilish lilt in her tone. “Triona?”

“What is it, Saoirse?”

“D’ye need something for yer arse? I reckon ye’re mightily relieved ye’ve got such a plump one.”

“Ugh, get out, you wee gobshite!” A pillow whizzes through the air, but she ducks, cackling as she darts out the door before I can aim another.

Left alone, I sigh dramatically and roll onto my stomach, smothering my face into the rug before muttering, “I hate her.”

The begrudging smile tugging at my lips, however, says otherwise.

In truth, her cheery disposition is exactly what I’d needed after that dream, but the interaction only serves as a distraction for minutes. The moment she’s gone, the dark shadows from the dream return.

A great famine. Blight. Death. Destruction. Chaos.

The visions swirl through my mind, and no matter how I try to shake them, they cling to me as I sluggishly get ready for the day.

As I’m leaving my chambers, I’m startled to find my father sitting just outside my door. The sight of my startled expression draws a deep chuckle from him.

“Da, what have I said about doing that?” I ask, shaking my head, grateful for the warmth of his familiar smile.

“Jus wantin’ to walk with my wee one over to the farmhouse for our trainin’.”