Page 32 of The Sanguine Selection
In the shadowedrealms of my tormented slumber, there is no sensation, no light, and no rest. Only an endless abyss that devours my thoughts and devolves them into fragmented memories and distorted emotions.
Time slips through my grasp like the sand of an hourglass falling through my fingers. I drift through this mercurial abyss, unaware of the world beyond while locked in the confines of my own mind.
How long have I languished in this void—years, decades, centuries?
There is no way to measure the passing of the seconds in this desolate place where the boundaries of consciousness blur into a disorienting haze. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of my memories.
Pain is the only thing I can feel, creating a symphony of agony that knows no end inside of me. It’s a relentless, haunting melody that echoes through the recesses of my being, reminding me of everything that I’ve lost.
I’m trapped in this dark limbo, separated from the world outside, disconnected from my own existence. There is no reprieve from the turmoil that festers within me, no respite from the unending torment that gnaws at the fringes of my consciousness.
Because within it, I remember her and what once was.
It is a suffering deeper than any physical pain, an existential torture that pierces the very core of who I amnow. In the waking world, I was once a king—a sovereign of the night.
Yet here in this abyss, I am reduced to a mere specter of my former self. The memories of my reign and my dominion over our coven are mere fragments now, fading like fractured pieces of glass that puncture my mind with their cruel sharpness.
The power and authority I once held have crumbled to dust, like ancient ruins swallowed by the sands of time. Worse, because of my own self-importance and foolishness, I’ve lost more than just my throne.
My brother is gone.
She’s gone.
I’m gone—all but dead.
But wouldn’t death be a beautiful reprieve from the hell of my thoughts?
Alas, the torment that courses through me cannot be undone by anything, for my brother and I cannot truly be killed. And so, we lie and rot, waiting for someone to revive us as our kingdom crumbles around our tomb.
The Novikov line, once feared and revered, has been reduced to mere legend. My brother and I—our bodies the last remnants of our dark lineage—are nothing more than withered husks, shadows of our former glory.
And so I wait in an eternal sleep.
My slumber is deep and dreamless, a void that mirrors the emptiness within me. Time stands still, and my consciousness hovers on the precipice of oblivion, except I never tip over, and memories still plague me.
This goes on forever until…a voice pierces through the hollowness of my subsistence.
The majestic timber of it resounds with the weight of ages. It’s a voice I know all too well—Mikhail.My twin.Somehow, he’s reaching out to me across the psychic bond that has linked us since birth.
"Marek!"
His mental call is a desperate, urgent cry that tears through the void of my dormant mind. At first, I’m too numb to respond, lost in the endless expanse of my own suffering. Mikhail’s voice is a lifeline that I try to grasp but can’t quite reach.
Sensing my despair, he calls again, only louder. Like a bolt of lightning searing through the darkness, his presence jolts me from my tormented detachment. My senses, dulled and disoriented, slowly begin to awaken.
Confusion grips me as I struggle to make sense of my surroundings. The abyss that had held me captive for what felt like an eternity starts to recede, like the tide withdrawing from the shore. My mind, accustomed to the formless chaos of the void, grapples with this new reality.
Mikhail's voice reverberates in my mind once more, insistent and imploring."Brother, it's time. We must rise. Taste what is being given!"
His tone snaps me to attention, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of my own existence once more. With a sharp intake of breath, I draw in the cold, stale air of the chamber where we have slumbered for countless years.
The sensation is jarring, a stark reminder of my corporeal form. My senses slowly come back to me, one by one. I feel the unyielding stone beneath me, smoother than the ice that forms in winter.
In the air, I scent the dampness that lingers. Around the chamber, screams reverberate, and before my closed eyelids, pops of color explode. But everything is dulled by the intoxicating taste that fills my mouth.
Warm.
Decadent.
