So. April of 2020, I told you that I was going to be taking a break to work on the second part of In My Dreams, In My Realities and another original project. Welp. I started doing both of those things, and then I got deathly ill. Like . . . I almost died a few times (Please don't ask if I'm okay because being brutally honest, I am not okay, and it will be years before I am fully recovered from what has happened—if I'm ever able to recover from it).
I had every intention of finishing the In My Dreams series. I really did. But after getting as sick as I did, I wanted to put my energy into something that would outlast me—something that I could put on bookshelves all around the world (a little ambitious I know, but I have been sorted into Slytherin many times). I think it was because of my intent to finish In My Dreams that Dreams of Time came about.
I wanted to put In My Dreams in its own world and when I did, it took on a life of its own, as you'll see if you decide to stick around (please stick around. I'm begging). These characters—who started out as the characters you know and love (or hate, not judging (only a little bit))—have grown and become their own little people, and I love them dearly and I hope you're all able to come to love them as much as I have.
I will be posting the prologue here, but I will also start posting it in its own separate thing under the name of Dreams of Time. For those on FanFiction, I will be posting it on FictionPress, Wattpad, and AO3.
Jandaln 6, 766
Ancestral Manor of the Thorn Family
She tried to remember what happened, she really, truly did. It seemed as if the moment she'd grab onto a memory, it would slip away from her, like an oily fish.
Seraph tried to breathe from under the weight of her family's bodies and fought to hold on to the memories. She remembered coming home from picking Leif up from school, saying goodbye to Sparkles . . .
There was a strange man—who had been vaguely familiar—in their Receiving Room when they got home. Her parents had been . . . cautious . . . of him, but they had been willing to hear him out until he said . . . something.
Something about . . .
Something.
What was it?
She closed her eyes and dug her nails into her palms. Her eyes snapped open as the memory hit her with a vicious clarity.
It had been about her.
"We all know that Axel won't get the proper training that she requires before school under the two of you. Let her come with me. Let me train her and her . . . Give her to me."
Her mouth began to water as her stomach churned. She squirmed out from under the dead weight of her father, mother, and brother, and looked around at the broken family room.
She didn't remember going there.
The once magnificent floor to ceiling windows were shattered out onto the balcony, and the sun was setting in the distance. Light reflected off of the lake and into her eyes. The glass and wood from broken picture frames was scattered across the floor and various pieces of furniture cut into her hands and knees as she successfully extracted herself from the bottom of the pile.
Black charred the walls and floor where Seraph and the man—General Ássvárnir, her mind suddenly supplied—had been standing.
No, stop. Please, I beg of you, General. Don't take my daughter.
The memory of her mother's screams as she stood in front of Seraph hit her mind like a hot knife. Her stomach heaved, and she vomited onto bloody glass. She sat up and wiped at her mouth and met the glassy dark blue eyes of her father. Her stomach rolled again, and loud sobs echoed around the room as she vomited.
Give it back, you ungrateful witch!
It's not me! I Promise!
Glass crunched under uneven footsteps before there was a dull thud next to her. Hands held her hair away from her face and rubbed her back until her body calmed down minutes later. She wiped at her mouth and eyes, careful to avoid the still bodies of her parents.
She turned—a part of her expected the General to be next to her. It was Leif. She cried and wrapped her arms around him. "What happened?" she wept.
He pulled away and stared at her with furrowed brows. "You . . . you don't remember?" he asked weakly.
She shook her head. "No. Only . . . only bits and pieces. They make no sense."
His expression saddened to encase the sorrow of a thousand dying men before it hardened. "The General tried to take you from us. He claimed you were some special Core type. He wanted to train you—to turn you into his protégé. Mother and father wouldn't let him." His jaw clenched as he pulled her into his lap and began to rock her side to side. "He . . . he didn't like being told no."
She could tell her brother wasn't telling her something. No matter how much she poked and prodded at him, he refused to tell her anymore of what had happened.
In the end, she stopped. After all, what he had told her was enough.
It was enough to ignite a hatred so foul within her that if Ássvárnir wasn't dead—like she prayed—she would kill him herself or die trying.
