Echoes of a Broken Throne

TALE 01

You wake up gasping.

Air rushes into your lungs too fast, too sharp—like you’ve been drowning in something you can’t name. Your chest aches with it, tight and unfamiliar, something not quite pain but not something you can ignore either.

For a moment, you don’t move.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for your heartbeat to slow.

It doesn’t.

It pounds—loud, uneven—like something is trying to claw its way out from inside you.

It was just a dream.

It has to be.

But the images don’t fade.

They cling.

Fragments, broken and jagged, flicker at the edges of your mind—fire, not the kind that warms, but the kind that devours. It stretches endlessly, swallowing shapes you can’t quite recognize. Buildings. People.

No—

Something else.

Something worse.

The sound comes next.

Screams.

Not one. Not two.

Hundreds—layered over each other until they blur into something unbearable, something that makes your stomach twist and your throat tighten.

And above it all—

the sky.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

No.

Don’t think about it.

But it’s already there.

That moment.

That impossible, terrifying moment—

when the sun disappears.

Not hidden.

Not eclipsed.

Swallowed.

As if something vast and endless reached out and devoured it whole, leaving nothing behind but a hollow darkness pressing down on everything beneath it.

You inhale sharply, forcing your eyes open.

Your room comes back into focus slowly. The familiar outline of your ceiling. Faint light slipping through the curtains. The quiet hum of the outside world, distant but steady.

Normal.

Everything is normal.

So why doesn’t it feel like it?

You push yourself upright, pressing a hand against your chest.

It still hurts.

Not enough to panic.

Not enough to explain.

Just enough to linger.

“…It’s just a dream,” you murmur.

Your voice sounds wrong.

Like it doesn’t belong to you.

You swing your legs off the bed, your feet meeting the cold floor. The sensation grounds you—barely—but it’s something.

You need to move.

Think about something else.

Anything else.

The routine comes easily.

Too easily.

Bathroom. Sink. Mirror.

You don’t remember deciding to stand there, but suddenly you are—staring at your reflection like you’ve just met a stranger wearing your face.

You look the same.

Nothing is different.

Same eyes. Same expression. Same everything.

And yet—

Why does it feel like you’re looking at someone else?

You lift your hand.

Your reflection mirrors you perfectly.

Of course it does.

There’s no delay. No distortion. No sign of anything wrong.

And still—

Your fingers curl slowly, as if testing the movement.

It responds.

It always responds.

So why does it feel like you’re the one following it?

The thought lingers longer than it should—uncomfortable, unsettling.

You shake your head and turn away before it can settle any deeper.

You don’t have time for this.

Work doesn’t wait just because you had a bad dream.

The rest of your morning passes in fragments.

You get dressed.

You check your phone.

You scroll, pause, scroll again—though you don’t remember reading anything.

Messages blur together. Notifications pile up.

Nothing sticks.

At some point, you grab your bag.

At some point, you leave.

The outside world greets you like it always does.

Busy. Loud. Alive.

Cars pass. People move. Conversations overlap into a steady, familiar noise that should feel comforting.

It usually does.

Today, it doesn’t.

You walk without really thinking, your steps guided more by habit than intention.

Left. Right. Stop. Cross.

Everything unfolds the way it’s supposed to.

And yet—

something feels off.

It’s not obvious.

Not something you can point to.

Just a subtle misalignment, like the world has shifted slightly—just enough that everything still works…

but doesn’t quite fit.

You slow your pace without meaning to.

A strange awareness creeps up your spine.

Not fear.

Not yet.

Just—

something.

You glance over your shoulder.

Nothing.

Just people. Strangers. Passing faces that don’t linger.

You exhale quietly and turn forward again.

You’re overthinking.

That’s all.

It’s just because of the dream.

Right?

The feeling follows you anyway.

It doesn’t fade.

It doesn’t disappear.

It lingers at the edge of your awareness—like something watching from a place you can’t quite see.

By the time you reach your workplace, your chest feels tight again.

Not painful.

Just heavy.

You hesitate for a second before stepping inside.

There’s no reason to.

Everything is exactly the same as it was yesterday.

And yet—

You can’t shake the feeling that something is missing.

The thought hits you suddenly.

Sharp.

Uninvited.

Missing.

You stop walking.

What… is?

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but nothing comes.

No memory. No detail. No explanation.

Just that word.

Echoing.

Missing.

You press your fingers lightly against your temple.

Think.

There was something.

Someone?

No—

That’s not right.

If something was missing, you’d know.

Wouldn’t you?

Your gaze drifts across the room.

Desks. Chairs. People moving, talking, working.

Everything looks normal.

Everything is where it should be.

So why—

Your eyes stop on an empty space.

You’ve always worked here.

You’ve always known this place.

There’s never been anything different.

…Right?

“Hey, you okay?”

The voice comes from your side.

Close.

Too close.

You flinch before turning.

Your coworker stands there, brows slightly furrowed, concern soft but noticeable.

“You’ve been staring at that spot for a while,” they say, glancing briefly at the empty space before looking back at you. “Did something happen?”

You hesitate.

Did something happen?

“…No,” you answer, a little too quickly.

You force a small smile. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

They don’t look convinced.

“Again? That’s like—the third time this week.”

You blink.

“…Is it?”

A pause.

Short. Subtle.

“Yeah,” they say slowly. “You’ve been zoning out a lot too. Thought you were just tired, but…” Their gaze lingers. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod.

Of course you do.

“I’m fine.”

The words come out automatic.

Practiced.

Empty.

They sigh lightly. “Alright… just don’t overwork yourself, okay?”

“Yeah.”

They leave.

Conversation over.

Everything returns to normal.

And yet—

Your eyes drift back to that empty space.

“…third time this week…”

You don’t remember that.

And that should scare you more than it does.

You’re still staring when something lands on your desk.

A soft thud.

Papers.

“Hey.”

You look up.

Chloe stands beside you, a file already in your hands before you even realize you’ve taken it.

“You alive in there?” she asks, one brow slightly raised.

“…Yeah.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the file. “Just zoning out, I guess.”

“Mm.” She taps the folder lightly. “Need this done before lunch. Think you can manage?”

You huff out a quiet breath.

“I can manage.”

“Good. Because if you bail on me again today, I’m eating your portion too.”

You pause.

“…Again?”

She gives you a look.

“Don’t tell me you forgot. You ditched me yesterday too.”

Your grip tightens.

“I… did?”

Chloe studies you for a moment.

Long enough for something unspoken to pass between you.

Then she sighs.

“Okay, now I’m actually concerned.”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly.

Too quickly.

“…Right.” She doesn’t sound convinced. Then, softer, “Just don’t disappear on me again, okay?”

Disappear.

The word settles heavily in your chest.

You nod anyway.

“Yeah. I won’t.”

She lingers like she wants to say more.

But she doesn’t.

“Lunch,” she reminds. “Don’t forget.”

Then she’s gone.

The office noise fills the space she leaves behind.

You look down at the file in your hands.

You don’t remember taking it.

You don’t remember yesterday.

Slowly, your gaze drifts back to that empty space.

It’s still there.

Unchanged.

Unnoticed.

But now—

it doesn’t just feel wrong.

It feels…

waiting.

Your fingers tighten against the paper.

“…Don’t disappear…”

You exhale slowly.

“I won’t,” you whisper.

But it doesn’t sound like a promise.

It sounds like something…

already decided.

----------------------------------------------