CHAPTER THREE- THE MAN IN THE CASKET
1354 Words
“Irene.” The name echoed in the silent darkness that had been his world for centuries, a fragile melody against the crushing weight of his confinement.
Just the whisper of it in the hollows of his mind sent a ripple through the stagnant existence that was his cursed reality. “Irene.” She was the anchor in his endless sleep, the single thread of light that pierced the suffocating blackness.
Ever since the witch, Alice, with her twisted smile and eyes that held the cold indifference of the grave, had uttered the damning incantation. He had been adrift in a sea of unconsciousness
The spell, a cruel masterpiece of dark magic, had promised everlasting slumber, a living death trapped within the confines of this wooden prison.
Yet, there was a loophole, a sliver of hope woven into the curse itself – a prophesied soulmate whose touch would break the enchantment. And Irene… Irene was the key.
His only solace, the fragile tether to sanity in this timeless void, was his ability to traverse the ethereal landscapes of human dreams.
It was a strange, unwanted gift that had manifested after the curse took hold. While his physical form lay dormant, his consciousness could drift, a phantom observing the sleeping world.
For centuries, he had been an unwilling voyeur, a silent witness to the deepest recesses of the human psyche.
He had wandered through dreams thick with ambition, shadowed by fear, stained with the bitter tang of jealousy, and often, overwhelmingly, saturated with the base desires of lust and greed.
These nocturnal wanderings, meant to be a form of torment by the witch, had instead become a source of profound disillusionment.
The raw, unfiltered desires he witnessed night after night were a stark and often repulsive contrast to the noble ideals he had once held.
Dreams that manifested the darkest corners of the human heart, desires men wouldn’t dare to act upon in the waking world, played out with unrestrained abandon in their sleep. It disgusted him, this constant exposure to the underbelly of humanity.
It was a stark reminder of how far removed he was from the mortal realm, even though the faintest echoes of his own humanity still flickered within him.
So many years had passed since he had walked under the sun, felt the warmth of a beating heart within his own chest.
His sire, a creature of immense power and ancient lineage – one of the first of their kind, a true Original – had gifted him with the dark blessing of vampirism.
And by some rare twist of fate, Valyrian had been among the fortunate few who inherited the full spectrum of their sire’s formidable traits.
Strength beyond measure, speed that blurred the line of sight, heightened senses that painted the world in vivid detail, and a resilience that bordered on immortality – he had possessed them all
He had been a creature of the night, powerful and formidable, a far cry from the helpless being confined within this coffin.
Then, one endless night, as he drifted through the familiar murk of human nightmares, he had stumbled upon something different.
A radiant light, pure and untainted, had beckoned him. It was an anomaly, a beacon in the darkness, and drawn by an irresistible curiosity, he had followed it.
The light had led him to a vision of a young girl, sleeping peacefully in her bed. Even in her slumber, an aura of pure, positive energy emanated from her, a soothing balm to his weary consciousness.
It was unlike anything he had encountered in his centuries of dream-walking. This energy, this vibrant life force, was enough to sustain him in a way the dark, chaotic energies of other dreams never could.
In the beginning, she had been vaguely aware of his presence, a shadowy figure at the edge of her dreams.
He had been cautious, a silent observer, unwilling to startle or frighten the source of his newfound solace.
As the years drifted by, an imperceptible shift had occurred. The hazy outlines of his form had begun to solidify in her dreamscape.
She started to see him, truly see him – the contours of his face, the fall of his dark hair, and finally, the unusual, deep violet hue of his eyes that had become his most striking feature.
He had longed to speak to her, to reach out and bridge the gap between their worlds, but an invisible barrier held him back.
He sensed a natural guard within her, a latent power that instinctively kept him at bay. The witch’s curse, he suspected, had its own intricate safeguards, preventing him from directly influencing his soulmate until the precise moment dictated by the prophecy.
Frustration had been a constant companion in his silent observations. He could feel the burgeoning connection, the subtle pull that resonated between them, but he was powerless to nurture it, forced to remain a silent spectator in her dreams.
Now, a shift had occurred. Her dreams had changed. They were no longer the innocent wanderings of a child. He sensed a growing awareness within her, a subtle unease that mirrored his own desperate longing.
And recently… recently, her dreams had been filled with a profound grief, a raw pain that resonated deep within his ancient heart.
He had witnessed the fractured memories of her loss, the sterile white of a hospital room, the horrifying image of blood staining the forest floor. He had felt her confusion, her suspicion, the gnawing questions that plagued her waking hours.
And then, the move to Wolf Valley. The name itself had sent a jolt of something akin to recognition through his dormant body, a faint stirring within the confines of his prison. He knew this place and knew its history, its secrets.
The threads of fate were drawing them closer, the prophecy inching towards its fulfilment.
Her dreams were still different still. They were tinged with the unsettling atmosphere of Wolf Valley, the feeling of being watched, the whispers of the unknown. And then, the fleeting glimpses of a man with golden eyes.
A jolt of something sharp, something akin to… jealousy?"… had pierced through his centuries-long slumber. Who was this man who had captured her attention, even in her subconscious? Was he a threat? A rival? Or something else entirely?
But beneath the confusion and the flicker of possessiveness, there was an undeniable truth. Irene was in Wolf Valley.
She was closer than she had ever been. He could feel it in the subtle shifts in the energy that permeated even his cursed sleep.
The air around his coffin felt different, charged with a faint, almost imperceptible hum. The darkness that usually enveloped him seemed less absolute, as if a faint light was beginning to filter through.
Hope, a sensation he had almost forgotten, flickered within him, fragile yet persistent. Could this be it? Was she finally here, in the same valley that held his prison? Was her touch, the touch that held the power to break the curse, finally within reach?
The centuries of waiting, the endless nights of silent observation, the gnawing loneliness – it all seemed to coalesce in this single, desperate hope.
He focused his will, reaching out through the dreamscape, trying to feel her presence, to understand the connection to the golden-eyed man.
But a new barrier seemed to be forming, a veil that obscured her dreams, making it harder for him to see her clearly. It was as if something was actively trying to keep them apart.
Frustration gnawed at him. He was so close, yet still separated by the confines of his coffin, by the lingering power of the witch’s curse, and now, by this mysterious interference in her dreams.
He had to find a way, any way, to reach her, to guide her, to ensure that she found him before… Before what? He wasn’t sure. But a sense of urgency, sharp and insistent, pulsed through his ancient veins, even in his cursed slumber.
The game had changed. Irene was in Wolf Valley, and the prophecy, it seemed, was finally about to unfold.
- Writer
