Dylan opened his eyes.
Unlike the last ti, he didn’t wake with a jolt or a scream. He simply rose... slowly.
He remained lying there, arms still, eyes staring into the darkness. The haze of sleep still clung to his thoughts. But this wasn’t the kind of dream that fades at dawn. It was sothing heavier. Denser.
He didn’t move right away.
He stared into the void above him, as if sowhere in that shadow, he still hoped to see the silhouette of Raviel. Or the little girl. Or maybe... a bundle of wood in his arms.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but the echo of silence, muffled by the thick layers of night and the sleeping camp.
He inhaled—this ti, deeper.
And yet... sothing was missing.
Not sothing real. Not an object. But a feeling. A warmth.
A tenderness.
He placed a hand on his chest. As if to check that he was really there. That he was still himself.
And he understood. This wasn’t just a nightmare.
It was a fracture.
A hidden place inside him he’d never noticed before. And now, it still vibrated beneath his skin. Like a wound with no visible cut.
He sat up.
Around him, the camp slept. Maggie. Élisa. The fire’s flas were low, but still alive.
Dylan ran a hand over his face.
And murmured, only to himself:
"What the hell was that...?"
There was no answer.
But sowhere deep in the back of his mind, a voice... a tiny, childlike voice... still called to him.
Papa.
⸻
Dylan had the unsettling feeling of being pulled out of a mory right before the bloodbath.
As if the dream hadn’t been his mind wandering, but... sothing curated. Deliberate. Controlled. The images, the sensations, the emotions — all felt precisely selected. As if the demon had shown him exactly what she wanted him to see. And nothing more.
Not the aftermath.
Not what ca after that word.
After that final "Papa."
He clenched his fists over his knees, lowered his head.
Like Élisa had advised, he’d tried to push his will into the dream. To seize control. To act. To resist.
But he couldn’t.
Every ti he tried, sothing stronger — deeper — would press him down. Like a current dragging him beneath the surface.
And yet...
It wasn’t exactly the sa as before.
There had been a shift. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But real.
A sensation. A stir in his chest, in his spine, in his skull. A presence. Not foreign. No, sothing rooted inside him. Not watching. Fighting. A deep, buried will that sotis... scread.
Not in words.
Not in sentences.
But in impulses. In pulses.
Like an ancient survival instinct. A beast under the skin, growling without knowing if it ant to flee... or strike.
And through that pressure, through that strange inner tension, Dylan realized sothing.
He wasn’t alone in that dream.
Not alone in his body.
And maybe what he saw wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was a test. A setup.
Or a temptation.
He shivered despite himself. The fire cracked faintly.
Maggie shifted slightly in her sleep, turned away from him. Élisa, wrapped in her blanket, breathed slowly.
The real world was still here — cold and silent.
⸻
The day rose under a grey veil.
Not exactly bright. Just... less dark.
The fire had gone out during the night, and the morning mist had soaked everything. Maggie had woken first, as usual. She’d quietly rebuilt the flas without a word, then sat down to sharpen her axe, her expression as hard as ever. Élisa had stirred more slowly, groggy, her clothes wrinkled like crumpled paper, already rummaging for sothing dry to chew.
And Dylan...
Dylan just sat there, eyes open, unable to tell when yesterday had beco today.
"You didn’t sleep," Élisa said, sitting beside him, one knee pulled up under her.
He didn’t answer right away.
Maggie barely looked up from her blade.
"Another dream?"
This ti, he nodded.
He took his ti. Gathered his thoughts. Chose his words.
"It wasn’t like before," he said, his voice lower than usual. "It was... sothing else."
Élisa raised an eyebrow.
"Tell us."
Dylan took a deep breath. Then spoke.
Not like soone recounting a story. Not for effect or mystery. He spoke like soone finally unloading a weight too long carried. Like pulling out a thorn left buried too deep.
He told them about the forest. The firewood. The village. Raviel.
The flas.
The little girl who called him "Papa."
And how it had made him feel.
The void. The twisted sense of familiarity. The pressure in his chest that hadn’t left him since. The mont she’d joined him beside the charred corpse. That single word.
That emotionless gaze.
When he finished, silence dropped over them like a curtain.
Even Maggie had stopped sharpening her blade.
Élisa sat still through it all, arms resting on her knees, eyes on the dirt. Then she exhaled, very softly:
"That’s... not comforting."
Dylan turned his head toward her.
"It’s constructed. A ssage. Maybe a manipulation... but not aningless. What she’s showing you... it’s a mirror."
Maggie finally sat up straighter.
"She’s clearly trying to ta you."
The word made him sick.
Dylan gritted his teeth.
"I know. Maybe. She never speaks to . Just shows what she wants. And she always cuts it off before... before it gets bad."
Élisa shrugged.
"Classic. The demon in you wants you to understand her. To stop fighting. To believe it wouldn’t be so bad to give in."
She turned to him, more serious now.
"The danger isn’t what she shows. It’s what you feel while it happens. If you get attached... she wins."
Maggie picked up her axe again, testing the edge against her glove.
"Then we’ll have to drive her out. Or face her."
Dylan didn’t answer.
Because deep down, he already knew:
It wasn’t that simple.
And the word "face" didn’t sound quite right.
Because you don’t fight what you’re already becoming.
Dylan still didn’t answer.
He kept his eyes lowered, lips pressed tight, as if even a single word might betray him.
He hated the feeling. That inner pull. That creeping doubt. It was like wearing armor lined with thorns — every move reminded him that sothing inside him was... changing.
He inhaled slowly, then finally lifted his eyes to Maggie.
"How do you fight sothing that already lives inside you?" he asked. His voice was rough, but not angry. Just... worn.
Maggie, true to herself, didn’t reply right away. She stared at the overcast sky for a mont, then looked down at him.
"You don’t fight a beast by watching it," she said. "You starve it. Wear it down. Until it claws to get out."
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "And then?"
"You slit its throat," she answered, without flinching.
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