Chapter 4: Lyra's Dream
The nights were growing heavier.
It wasn't just the absence of light or the way the wind moaned mournfully through the trees—it was something deeper. A thickening of the air, a heaviness in their lungs, a silence between heartbeats that felt unnatural. Each creak of the cottage's old floorboards seemed to whisper, every shadow cast by the firelight danced too long, too deliberately.
And though Dorian had borne the brunt of the whispers at first—those soft, slithering murmurs from beneath the floor and behind the walls—it was Lyra now who felt the cold breath of something ancient brushing against her soul.
She had said nothing. Not yet. Dorian had enough shadows chasing him; she would not become another weight for him to carry.
But tonight, the storm was louder than her silence.
Rain battered the roof like stones hurled by unseen hands. Wind clawed at the windows, rattling the panes like a desperate entity begging to be let in. The fire had long died down to glowing embers, and the room was dim, their cottage surrounded in a storm-born gloom that felt almost sentient.
Lyra lay beside Dorian, watching the curve of his face in the low light, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. There was a peace in his sleep—a rare thing these days—and she hated to disturb it. But no matter how tightly she wrapped the blankets around her or how many times she shifted to find comfort, something would not let her rest.
It began again—the dream.
She recognized it the moment she stepped into the garden. It was always the same. Always fog-bound, always soaked in the sickly-sweet scent of decay. The air was damp and heavy, like breathing through wet cloth. The earth squelched beneath her bare feet, too soft, too giving, as though it might swallow her whole if she stood still for too long.
It was a garden that once might have been beautiful.
But not anymore.
Vines hung limp like dying veins. Petals wilted mid-bloom. Trees loomed skeletal, their bark flaking off like scabbed skin. And somewhere, always just beyond reach, the soft sound of running water—familiar, but impossible to place—drifted through the mist.
And then came Evelyn.
Not the Evelyn Lyra had once seen in photographs—no longer the wistful shadow Dorian spoke of with guarded sorrow. This Evelyn was transformed, hollowed and hardened into something elemental. Something cruel. Her presence didn't merely fill the garden; it seemed to warp it. The fog darkened around her, curling inward like smoke drawn to a flame.
She stood in the center, tall and still, a monument to rage and loss.
Her once-beautiful face had become a mask—drained of color, her eyes sunken and blazing with unnatural fire. Her mouth curled upward, not in warmth but in mockery. Her hair writhed around her like snakes of ink, caught in a wind that did not touch anything else.
Lyra felt her blood chill.
"You came," Evelyn said, her voice scraping against the air like rusted metal. "I knew you would."
Lyra tried to speak, but her lips refused to move. The fog thickened, pressing against her skin like cold hands. She could feel the weight of Evelyn's presence in her chest, a suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe.
"I waited," Evelyn continued, stepping forward, her steps silent despite the soft, wet earth. "Waited for him. Waited through death, through decay, through every lie he told himself about forgetting me. But he never did. Not really. You know that, don't you?"
Lyra's heart pounded so loud it echoed in her ears.
"You think you can save him?" Evelyn asked, her voice softer now, but crueler somehow, like a blade wrapped in velvet. "He was mine before he was ever yours. He promised me forever. He gave me everything—until you came."
The garden shuddered with her anger. Flowers blackened in an instant. Leaves withered and curled. Even the mist seemed to recoil.
Evelyn raised her hand.
In it, she held a knife.
It wasn't large, but it didn't need to be. Its curved blade shimmered with a dark light, pulsing like a heartbeat. It reeked of old magic—of blood and sacrifice and things never meant to be unearthed. Lyra felt it before she saw it, a tug in her belly, a wrongness in the air.
"I'll make you a bargain," Evelyn whispered, stepping closer. "Give him back. And I will leave your child untouched."
Lyra staggered back, horror blooming inside her. "No," she managed, her voice hoarse, thick with fear. "You can't have him. I won't let you take him."
Evelyn laughed—a terrible, hollow sound that made the trees tremble.
"You think this is a choice?" she spat. "I died for him. And now, I will take him back."
Her eyes flared, and Lyra felt the force of her rage like a slap. The fog turned black. The ground trembled. The sound of running water grew louder—more violent—as though a river was rushing through the very roots of the dream.
"I am bound to his soul," Evelyn hissed. "And now, I am bound to yours. The Zeolat cult made sure of it. Their blood rites called me back. You—" she pointed the knife at Lyra's stomach—"you are just collateral."
Lyra's arms wrapped protectively around her belly, instinct overriding terror. "He loves me. And I love him. Whatever curse you carry, whatever pain you suffered—I grieve for it. But I will not surrender him. And I will not surrender this child."
For a moment, something flickered in Evelyn's face.
A memory.
A crack in her fury.
But it vanished.
"You will," she said, her voice trembling now with something deeper—something ancient. "They always do."
She lunged.
Lyra screamed.
She reached out, grabbing the blade by reflex, not by bravery, and the instant her skin met the cursed metal, agony surged through her. The magic burned through her veins like liquid fire. She saw flashes—visions—blood, fire, a circle of chanting figures, Dorian on his knees in chains, a mark branded into his chest—
And then, with a final cry, she tore herself from the dream.
Her body jolted upright, drenched in sweat, mouth open in a gasp so sharp it scraped her throat raw. The storm outside howled louder than ever, a banshee wailing in the night. Lightning flashed, casting strange, skeletal shadows across the room. Her heart thundered. Her hands trembled.
But they were alone.
Dorian slept beside her, undisturbed.
She pressed a hand to her belly, breathing shallowly, then deeply—relieved to feel the quiet, living warmth within her.
But the fear did not subside.
The dream had not been just a dream. She felt it in her bones. In her blood. In the way the air still hummed with unseen energy.
Evelyn had returned.
And she was no longer the ghost of sorrow Dorian had once mourned.
She had become something darker.
A force resurrected by vengeance.
And she would not rest until she had taken back what she believed was hers.