The Shadows of Nightmares

  Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the royal bedchamber, casting multicolored patterns across sumptuous furnishings that spoke of divine craftsmanship. The room itself bore Permeus’ artistic touch in every detail—tapestries depicting hunting scenes adorned stone walls, thick carpets from distant realms covered marble floors, and a massive four-poster bed dominated the center of the space.

  Gold thread wove intricate patterns on the bed’s canopy, narrating Titania’s creation story, with each stitch murmuring a legend of the land’s birth under his divine hands.

  Seated beside the bed in a carved wooden chair, Permeus fought to keep his hands steady as he worked. His slightly dark skin—unusual among Titania’s predominantly silver-skinned denizens—caught the morning light with an inner warmth, as if the sun itself had blessed him.

  His curly light-brown hair fell in carefully arranged disarray around handsome features that poets throughout his realm had described as divinely sculpted, though he’d been the one to shape both his face and those poets. Despite wearing only sleep attire—a loose white linen shirt open at the neck and comfortable trousers—there was no mistaking his regal bearing or the power that radiated from him like heat from banked coals.

  His blue eyes moved constantly between the parchment on his lap and the sleeping figure on the bed, but beneath his concentration lurked something darker. The nightmare still clung to him like smoke, refusing to dissipate in daylight’s embrace.

  Darkness. Infinite swallowing darkness.

  The memory hit him without warning, causing his charcoal to skip across the parchment. In his mind’s eye, he saw them again—Imara and the twins standing impossibly far ahead, their figures small and fragile against an endless void. Their voices had torn through the emptiness, not calling for help but screaming with raw, primal terror that made his heart clench.

  He had run faster than he had ever moved in his immortal existence, his feet pounding against nothingness, yet the distance between them never closed. The harder he ran, the further they seemed to drift. Then, just as his fingers nearly brushed Imara’s outstretched hand, white fire had erupted around them.

  Not the warm, life-giving white of his own magic, but something colder, hungrier—flames that burned not to purify but to devour. Their faces had twisted in agony, mouths open in screams he could feel in his bones, and then—

  Nothing.

  Only silence, and the acrid scent of burning that seemed to fill his nostrils even now.

  But worst of all had been the ending—two enormous red eyes opening in the darkness's heart, ancient beyond measure, fixing upon him with malevolent recognition. Those eyes had known him, had always known him, and they promised that this was only the beginning.

  Permeus blinked hard, forcing the memory away.

  A dream, nothing more.

  He at least thought it was. The Origins didn’t receive prophetic visions unless Adelia or Desia willed it, and neither of his sisters would weave such horror into his sleep.

  Would they?

  The thought sent an uncomfortable chill through him. Sweet Adelia was indeed a prankster, but never with such cruelty. And Desia... Desia had been distant lately, preoccupied with her own concerns. Still, he’d have to confront them both later, demand to know if either had tampered with his dreams.

  But not today. Today, the sunlight was too bright, Imara’s face too peacefully alive, for him to entertain shadows.

  On the bed lay his wife, still lost in slumber’s embrace. Her pale skin formed a luminous contrast against the dark red bedsheets. Her dark hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink, catching and reflecting light in ways that continued to fascinate him even after a decade together.

  Even in sleep, elegance marked her features—high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, full lips curved in the slightest smile as if her dreams brought her joy. The sight brought him peace. His hand moved with practiced precision across the parchment, charcoal leaving bold strokes that captured not just Imara’s physical beauty but the essence of her serenity.

  So absorbed was he in his artistry that he didn’t notice when Imara’s eyes fluttered open. Her light green eyes—reminiscent of new spring growth—observed him silently, taking in his intense concentration, the slight furrow between his brows, the way he bit his lower lip when working on particularly challenging details.

  “How long have you been drawing me this time?” she asked finally, her voice still husky with sleep.

  Permeus looked up, startled, then managed what he hoped was his usual radiant smile.

  “Since moonset Ima,” he admitted, though he didn’t mention what had driven him from sleep. “The light was too perfect to resist. I simply knew there an then that I needed a canvas in my hand to draw the masterpiece that is you.”

  Imara stretched languidly, the movement causing fine linen to shift across her form in ways that always captivated him.

  “You could have woken me,” she said, sitting up against the pillows. “I would have posed properly.”

  “And deprive myself of capturing you in natural repose? Never.” He added a final stroke to his drawing. “Besides, you’re a most beautiful specimen when unaware of observation.”

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  “A dubious compliment,” Imara noted, raising an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I’m less beautiful when conscious?”

  Permeus laughed.

  “I’m suggesting there’s a vulnerability in sleep that disappears the moment you awaken and don your queenly armor.”

  “I do not have ‘queenly armor,’” she protested.

  “Of course you do, Ima” he replied.

  “The moment you leave this chamber, you become Queen Imara of Titania—regal, composed, always aware of every eye upon you. It’s necessary, but here...” He gestured to the drawing. “Here I can capture Imara the woman, not just the queen.”

  She studied him for a moment, and he saw questions forming in her intelligent eyes.

  “Let me see,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Permeus handed over the parchment, observing her face as she examined his work. The likeness was remarkable—he had captured not just her features but the peaceful contentment of deep sleep, the slight smile, even the way one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

  “It’s beautiful,” she admitted, genuine appreciation warming her voice. Then her eyes sharpened as she looked up at him. “But you still haven’t told me why. Why draw me while I sleep instead of enjoying your own rest? And don’t tell me it was just the light.”

  For the briefest moment, Permeus’ carefully maintained fa?ade faltered. The nightmare pressed against his consciousness like a physical weight, those red eyes burning in his memory. He saw again Imara’s face twisted in agony, heard her screams echoing in the void.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

  It might not have been the complete truth, but it was true enough a reason.

  “The charcoal and canvas called to me” He added

  “Why?” she asked.

  “You know I am an artist, Ima” Permeus answered, “Charcoal and canvas always call to me especially when there is a beautiful specimen to capture”

  “No you idiot” Imara clarified, “Why couldn’t you sleep”

  Permeus felt trapped between truth and protection. How could he tell her about the nightmare without planting seeds of fear? How could he describe watching her burn without making her feel the terror that had driven him from sleep? He had always known his wife to overthink and he did not want her making a mountain out of this molehill, especially with the Union of Origins meeting coming up.

  “Bad dreams,” he said, attempting to sound casual. “Nothing more.”

  “Are you sure?” Imara asked

  “It was nothing more than a phantom and like most phantoms, it dissolved in sunlight” Permeus elaborated, “Why do you think Darkeus’ realm of ghosts is in the underworld. Forever hidden from the sun’s golden rays”

  “What kind of bad dreams?” she pressed, refusing to release the subject and setting the drawing aside to focus on him completely.

  The question hung between them.

  “The kind that fade in daylight,” he said, forcing levity into his voice. “Nothing worth troubling yourself over.”

  But Imara’s expression had shifted, her green eyes narrowing.

  “Permeus,” she said, her voice carrying a warning. “Don’t."

  “Don’t what?” He asked, feigning confusion.

  “Don’t treat me like a child. I don’t need protection from hard truths.”

  Her tone sharpened with hurt and frustration. “We’ve been married for ten years. When have you ever known me too fragile for honesty?”

  “This is nothing Ima, I promise” he said weakly.

  “Then why aren’t you telling me?” She leaned forward, studying his face. “You always tell me when you have nothing on your mind. "

  “This time is different.”

  “How is it different, Permeus? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Before he could answer, the persistent knocking at their chamber door shattered the tension between them.

  “Papa! Mama!” Two small but determined voices called out in unison, accompanied by tiny fists pounding against ancient wood. “Are you awake?!”

  Permeus felt relief flood through him at the interruption, though he caught the flash of frustration that crossed Imara’s features before she masked it.

  “The timing of our daughters is impeccable as always,” he noted, grateful for the reprieve.

  “I suppose your five-year-old daughters require an audience with the great Origin of Immortality,” Imara said, but her tone carried an edge that suggested their conversation was far from over.

  “PAPA!” The knocking grew more insistent. “We know you’re in there! We can hear you!”

  Permeus sighed, reaching for his royal robe while tossing another to Imara.

  “One moment, my little ones!” he called out, noting how Imara’s movements carried stiff precision that spoke of controlled anger.

  “Do not leave your princesses waiting!” Amara demanded through the door, her imperious tone causing Imara to crack despite her frustration.

  “You know they sound more royal than you do,” she whispered, hastily tying her robe.

  “They learned from the best,” he replied, nodding toward her while hoping to recapture some of their earlier intimacy.

  But even as they prepared to greet their daughters, Permeus could feel the weight of Imara’s unspoken questions pressing against him. With shared looks that carried unresolved tension, they moved toward the doors, ready to welcome the whirlwind that was their twin daughters while unfinished business hung uncomfortably between them.

  The moment they opened the doors, two tiny figures burst through with unleashed energy, golden curls bouncing as they skidded to a halt. Amara, the more outspoken twin, planted her hands on her hips in perfect imitation of her mother’s regal stance.

  “You took forever!” she declared with righteous indignation.

  “We have been waiting ages,” Kara added.

  “Ages, you say?” Permeus asked. “That’s quite an exaggeration.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Amara replied.

  “Yes, it was,” Permeus responded with similar fervor.

  “It felt like ages,” the little girl insisted. “And you promised we could go to the city square today to see the harvest!”

  “Shouldn’t you already be there assisting Germaine?” Imara asked.

  “Germaine is High Steward for a reason,” Permeus replied. “He can handle the preparations for me.”

  “You mean he always handles preparations without you,” Imara corrected.

  “But we cannot handle waiting any longer!” Kara interjected, tugging at his sleeve with five-year-old urgency.

  Permeus scooped both girls into his arms, earning twin squeals of delight that temporarily drowned out the tension between their parents.

  “Very well, my little tyrants. You shall have your expedition. Go prepare yourselves—we leave in an hour.”

  The girls cheered, wriggling free and darting down the corridor, their excited chatter echoing behind them. In their absence, the uncomfortable silence returned.

  Imara crossed her arms, fixing him with a look that promised their earlier conversation wasn’t forgotten.

  “Now you’ve left me to prepare them while you lounge about.”

  “I have greater duties to attend to,” he said, attempting his usual playfulness.

  “Name one,” she challenged.

  “I must oversee the kingdom?” he replied weakly.

  “You haven’t ‘overseen’ anything in weeks,” she pointed out with cutting accuracy.

  Permeus stepped closer, hoping physical proximity might bridge the growing distance between them.

  “Then perhaps I shall attend to you instead,” he murmured, letting his voice drop to what he hoped was a seductive tone as his fingers traced her waist.

  Imara stepped back, avoiding his touch—a rejection that stung more than he expected. “You’ll have to wait.”

  “For how long?” he asked

  “Until you decide to trust your wife with whatever’s troubling you,” she said, her green eyes flashing with hurt and determination.

  The words hit him like cold water. She turned on her heel and strode after their daughters, leaving him alone with his secrets and the lingering memory of red eyes burning in darkness.

  As her footsteps faded down the corridor, Permeus stared at the drawing he’d made—Imara’s peaceful face captured in charcoal and love. In the artwork, she looked serene, untouchable by the horrors that plagued his dreams. He only hoped that their current strife would be the most severe after-effects of his horrid nightmare.