Page 1 of Unseen Eye
Chapter One
It starts like so many of my nightmares, with chaos.
All around me, houses are swallowed by flames. The once vibrant colors of the buildings are now reduced to smoke and ash. Villagers scatter in every direction, some desperately fleeing the attack while others, braver or more desperate, fight until their last breath. A deafening explosion pulls my attention to the right, just in time to see one of the castle walls crumble. Shadows flicker against the backdrop of battle, the smoky air thick with the metallic tang of blood. I stand in the midst of the chaos, disoriented, as dark figures clash around me, emerging from what looks like a gate. Its door wide open, revealing nothing but a black abyss.
Through the chaos, a figure steps out from the darkness—a tall man with long black hair, tied back neatly, and cold, pitiless onyx eyes. A crown sits atop his head, and… oh gods, are those bones? His gaze slices through the mayhem, baring a twisted smile. When he speaks, it’s in a language I don’t understand, and I notice something chilling—his tongue is forked like a serpent’s. His army looks at him with an eerie reverence, signaling that he’s not just anyone. For a brief, terrifying moment, his eyes lock onto mine, as if he can actually see me. A wave of icy dread floods over me.
I blink, and the scene shifts. Now I’m inside the grand castle I had been staring at moments before. The halls are overrun with shadow-like creatures, leaving destruction in their wake. They tear through the defenses as if they weren’t even there, smashing down doors and ripping tapestries off the walls. Their clawed paws leave deep marks on the stone as their growls fill the air. A hooded figure, tall and broad-shouldered, slips through thechaos like a ghost. His cloak is lined with runes that shimmer faintly as he moves with deliberate purpose, each step silent, as though he knows exactly where he’s headed. He vanishes behind a hidden passage, disappearing without a trace. I try to follow him, but the scene shifts again.
Now, I’m in a luxurious bedchamber, somehow untouched by the devastation outside—at least for now. The room is cluttered with sand, powders, and books, as if some kind of work or ritual has been taking place. A woman stands in the center of the room, her back to me. Even without seeing her face, I insistently recognize her from my past dreams. Her dark hair falls in waves, and there’s a heaviness in her movements, a pain she’s trying to hide as she gathers a few items. A bassinet stands next to the bed, a wailing newborn baby inside.
Suddenly, the door flies open, and a different hooded figure rushes in. “We’ve been betrayed,” he says, his voice urgent. Then, in a hushed tone, he says something I can’t quite make out. The woman nods, a single tear slipping down her cheek as she clutches the baby tightly. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
The dream begins to fade, the images dissolving into darkness. But before everything goes black, I see the man with the bone crown again, this time speaking a language I understand. “Her abilities are starting to manifest,” he says to someone equally unnerving. As if sensing he’s being watched, his head snaps toward me, his eyes locking onto mine once more. His grin stretches wider, revealing sharp, glinting teeth as he hisses, “You can’t escape us.”
***
Cold sweat beads on my forehead, and I’m gasping before I even realize I’m awake. My fists clench the bedsheets, knuckles white, as I try to shake off the feeling that his eyes are still on me, thatchilling gaze from the darkness.
I swallow hard, the taste of ash lingering, as I take in the familiar dimness of my room, the soft light creeping through the window. Everything here is calm, ordinary. But I can’t quiet my heart, drumming wildly against my ribs, or stop the echo of his voice, as if it’s still drifting through the air.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts, followed by Kendry’s steady voice. “Another one, Eva?” he asks, already knowing the answer. He’s seen this before—the nightmares, the cold sweat, the fear I can’t quite shake.
I loosen my grip on the sheets as Kendry steps in, carrying the candle that casts his face in a soft, familiar glow. He scans the room out of habit, his eyes lingering on me for a moment, concern etched in the slight furrow of his brow and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Still keeping the monsters at bay?”
“Trying to,” I murmur, the attempt at humor falling flat even to my own ears.
He nods, reassuring but firm. “Get it all down before it fades, like you usually do. Sometimes writing things out can keep them from eating you alive.”
He’s right, of course. The dreams have a way of leaving traces, even after I wake—memories that don’t feel like mine. I reach under the mattress for my journal, flipping to a blank page as the candlelight pools around me. Every detail comes spilling out: the crowned man with the bone-white grin, the haunting voices, the shadows tearing through the castle. And her—the woman I’ve seen before, from other dreams.
The storyteller in me can’t help but think of ways to weave it into something bigger, something more than just a nightmare. With all the vivid dreams I have and the endless stories Kendry tells about the gods, I never run out of inspiration. My imagination’s always been a chaotic mix of the fantastical and downright strange—some of it so bizarre, I even wonder whereit came from. Because of this, writing has by far become my favorite pastime.
As I jot down the last few words, I feel Kendry’s weathered hand rest gently on my shoulder, steadying. “Dreams are the mind’s way of processing the world,” he tells me. “And sometimes, they reveal truths we aren’t ready to see when we’re awake.” And while I nod, I can’t shake the feeling that something in the dream—someone—is watching me.
By the time I’m satisfied with my story, the sun’s beginning to rise. I splash some cold water on my face and change into my worn brown leathers. My fingers brush the deep violet gem around my neck, a near match to my eyes—violet, flecked with silver in the right light. Kendry said it once belonged to my mother, though I’ve always wondered if I share her eyes or if they’re entirely my own.
Growing up, I used to weave stories about her, filling in the gaps. Sometimes, I’d dream about her, piecing together fragments of a woman who felt so close, just beyond my reach. I imagined her as fierce, wise, or kind—anything I needed her to be, really. But the truth is, I know almost nothing. A necklace, a half-formed memory, a faint resemblance in the mirror. Despite my endless questions, Kendry rarely tells me anything more. And when I mention my father… well, he changes the subject entirely. He’s done it enough times that the hint is clear: drop it.
But is it so wrong to want more? To want answers about where I came from, even if they aren’t the answers I hope for? Sometimes I wonder if even my dreams were just my mind’s way of holding on to someone who was never really there.
I pause to fix the clasp, which always seems ready to slip loose or catch in my blonde curls. Fastening it carefully, I pull my hair back and step out of my room.
The main room serves as both a living area and a kitchen, dominated by a large hearth that provides heat and a place tocook. Shelves line the walls, overfilled with books, herbs, and various trinkets Kendry has collected over the years. A worn but comfortable couch sits near the hearth, accompanied by a couple of mismatched chairs and a sturdy wooden table that serves as both a dining and a workspace.
Dressed in the same clothes as before, I spot Kendry working on his latest remedy. He grunts something I assume is close to a good morning as I reach for a mug. Silver streaks line his dark hair, which he always pulls back into a ponytail. His skin is weathered and tanned, marked by countless scars from his adventurous past, and his hands are calloused from years of handling weapons and concocting remedies.
Kendry is a man of many talents. His knowledge of herbs and remedies seems almost magical. His hobby of making remedies is more than just a pastime; it’s a passion. He spends hours every day in his workshop, surrounded by jars of dried herbs, vials of colorful liquids, and an assortment of curious tools. His remedies are renowned throughout the region, capable of curing ailments that stump even the most seasoned healers. I’ve watched him work since I was a child, learning the ins and outs of each plant and potion, understanding the delicate balance required to create something truly effective.
As I pour coffee into my cup, I take a moment to inhale the glorious smell of my favorite caffeinated beverage. My favorite part of my morning routine is my coffee, and Kendry always makes sure there’s a fresh pot ready for me. It’s one of his many silent gestures that shows he cares, even if he never says it outright.
Despite his rough demeanor, Kendry has always been patient with me—a steady, unbreakable presence since I could remember. He’s the only parental figure I’ve known, teaching me everything about survival, from wielding a sword to identifying poisonous plants. Like the time I tried to make teafrom poison ivy—lesson learned. Kendry just shook his head, his mouth twitching with the barest hint of a smile before launching into a lecture about plants I’ll never forget.
He’s always said it’s his life’s mission to make sure I’m never defenseless, that I don’t suffer the same fate my parents did twenty-three years ago when raiders attacked our village. I was just a baby then, but he’s never let me forget the world’s edges can be as sharp as a blade. His lessons are often harsh, sometimes grueling, but always with the intent of preparing me for the cruelties he knows too well.
“Twenty minutes,” Kendry says, finally peeling his eyes away from his mortar. He glances at the dark circles under my eyes but doesn’t comment. Sticking to his strict regimen, he insists we cycle through a set of drills each morning, honing my skills in areas most people, especially females my age never touch. It’s like school, but not in any familiar way.
When I was younger, my lessons began with the basics: math, writing, and reading. But those were soon replaced by practical skills—potion making and sword handling, the kinds of things Kendry believed I needed to thrive. “They’re more useful than anything you’ll learn in a classroom,” he’d say. At least now, he doesn’t drag me outside at dawn for three grueling miles before I can sip my coffee. Those were… rough times.
