The grand ballroom stretched impossibly high, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow despite the warm glow of a thousand candles. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing light across marble floors so polished they reflected the revelers like still water. Finnian found himself standing at the edge of the magnificent space, dressed in clothes he'd never worn—a deep blue velvet doublet with silver threading, fine leather boots that fit perfectly, a ceremonial sword at his hip that felt both foreign and familiar.
The guests moved around him in a swirl of rich fabrics and gleaming jewelry. These weren't the simple folk of his village or even the merchants who sometimes passed through. These people carried themselves with the unmistakable bearing of nobility—their clothes were cut from the finest materials, their jewelry caught the light with the deep fire of genuine gems, and when they spoke, it was with the refined accents of those born to power.
Medieval finery surrounded him: ladies in flowing gowns with trailing sleeves and intricate embroidery, their hair arranged in elaborate braids woven with pearls and gold. Gentlemen wore rich doublets and hose, their cloaks lined with fur despite the warmth of the hall. Servants moved between them carrying silver platters laden with delicacies Finnian couldn't name, filling golden goblets with wine that sparkled like liquid rubies.
But it was more than their wealth that set them apart. There was something in their eyes, a depth of knowledge and power that spoke of abilities beyond the mundane. When they gestured, sometimes the air itself seemed to shimmer. When they laughed, the sound carried harmonics that resonated in ways that had nothing to do with acoustics. These were people of magic, he realized with dream-certainty. Important people. Influential people. And somehow, he belonged among them.
The crowd began to part, forming a natural corridor toward the center of the ballroom. Finnian felt himself drawn forward, though his feet seemed to move without his conscious direction. The conversations hushed to excited whispers as all eyes turned toward the heart of the gathering.
There, beneath the largest chandelier, stood a couple that commanded the attention of every person in the hall. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair touched with premature silver at the temples. He wore robes of deep burgundy that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and when he smiled, power crackled almost visibly around him. But it was the woman beside him who made Finnian's breath catch.
She was beautiful in a way that seemed to transcend mere physical perfection. Her auburn hair fell in waves to her waist, crowned with a circlet of silver that held a stone the color of captured starlight. Her gown was the palest green, like new leaves in spring sunshine, and it moved around her as if stirred by breezes that touched no one else. But it was her eyes that held him—warm, intelligent, filled with a love so pure it made the chandelier flames seem pale by comparison.
And in her arms, she held a baby.
The infant couldn't have been more than a few months old, wrapped in silk the color of cream, tiny fists waving in the air as if reaching for the dancing lights above. The child's hair was dark like his father's, but his eyes—when they briefly opened—were the same warm brown as his mother's.
"Behold the heir!" someone called out, and the cry was taken up by dozens of voices. "Long live the House of Thornwick! Long live the Prince!"
The name sent a shock through him, though he didn't understand why. In the dream-logic way of such things, he both was and wasn't the child being celebrated. He was himself, watching from the crowd, but also somehow that infant, seeing the world through eyes barely able to focus.
The assembled nobility raised their goblets in salute, their faces radiant with joy and hope. This was more than a celebration—it was a moment of triumph, of new beginnings, of a future bright with promise. The baby gurgled happily, and even from across the room, Finnian could see the way magic seemed to dance around the child's tiny fingers like invisible butterflies.
"The bloodline is secured," he heard someone whisper. "The power will continue."
"Such strength in one so young," another voice murmured. "The kingdoms will tremble before him when he comes of age."
And then...….
Fire. Screaming. Blood everywhere.
The ballroom was burning. Crystal chandeliers crashed to the floor in explosions of glass and flame. Elegant nobles fled in all directions, their fine clothes torn and stained with ash and crimson. Bodies lay motionless on marble floors now slick with blood. The air filled with smoke so thick it burned to breathe.
Through the chaos flowed shapes that moved wrong—shadow-creatures pouring between the flames like living nightmares. They reached out with appendages that weren't quite arms, dragging screaming people into the inferno.
The elegant nobles who had raised their goblets in celebration moments before now fell like wheat before a scythe. Their screams echoed off the burning walls, mixing with the roar of flames and the inhuman sounds of their attackers.
"Protect the child!" The man in burgundy robes—the father—was shouting over the chaos, his voice carrying a power that cut through the noise like a blade. "Whatever else happens, protect the heir!"
Finnian watched in horror as the man threw himself between his family and the approaching shadows, power erupting from him in waves that made the air itself burn. For a moment, it seemed like he might hold them back through sheer force of will. But there were so many of them, and they kept coming, pouring through the doorway like a tide of living darkness.
The woman with the baby was backing toward a side exit, her face pale but determined. Even in her terror, she moved with purpose, one hand protectively cradling her child while the other wove defensive spells that created barriers of pure light. But Finnian could see she wouldn't make it—the shadows were moving to cut off her escape, flowing along the walls like spilled ink.
Then she looked directly at him.
Even across the burning ballroom, through the smoke and chaos, her eyes found his with unerring precision. And in that gaze, he saw everything—her love, her desperation, her absolute determination to save her child at any cost.
"Run," she mouthed as the handed the baby over to an oddly familiar face, though he couldn't hear her voice over the screaming. "Live."
She pressed something against the baby's chest—a pendant that flared with brilliant light—and suddenly both the person and child were gone, vanished in a flash of silver radiance that left afterimages burned against Finnian's retinas.
But the shadows weren't done. They surged forward with renewed fury, and everywhere they touched, blood followed. Blood pooled on the marble floors, reflecting the firelight like scattered rubies. It splashed against the walls, stained the fallen tapestries, dripped from the remains of the crystal chandeliers. The celebration had become a massacre, and Finnian could only stand frozen, watching it all unfold with the helpless paralysis of nightmares.
The blood kept flowing, kept spreading, until it seemed like the entire world was drowning in red—
Finnian jolted awake with a gasp that tore at his throat, his body lurching upright so violently that he nearly fell off the narrow cot. Sweat poured down his face and chest, soaking through his shirt until it clung to his skin like a second layer. His heart hammered against his ribs with such force that he could feel his pulse in his temples, his wrists, the base of his throat.