Page 184 of Whisper of Nightmares

True darkness.

Not the whims of a young girl sneaking off into a field with a paramour. Not the curiosity that had her drawing nearer to the nightmare that had chosen to show itself to her. Chosen to give her company at a time when she had felt alone.

Euphemia might not be what society expects of a lady, but she would never make someone feel like they were wrong.

Ruined.

Worthy of being slain.

Over the heads of the mob—which she is realizing is only a handful of people compared to the droves that were at the assembly—she sees him.

Dagfinn’s face appears at the back of the crowd.

Fear bright in his eyes.

He stares after her as though this might be the last time.

Euphemia sees him reaching for a sword that is not there. A sword that only belonged to the dream-Dagfinn. In a place where his duty was to survive the monsters night after night.

They do not need swords now, though.

Perhaps swords have been the problem all along. For what is a sword but an extension of fear? A way to destroy that which you do not understand and are willing to accept. A blade meant to destroy instead of rebuild. Swords only create more bloodshed. More pain. More festering wounds that will become scars and haunt those who lay eyes upon them.

No, they do not need more fear.

Euphemia gives Dagfinn a small smile, one she hopes will convey that she understands now what she must do. Because it was never the nightmare that killed her father. It was his own fear. Fear of the creature. Fear of her and the path she was walking.

Euphemia turns her back to the mob of cruel men.

She faces the nightmare with new understanding in her heart.

Euphemia takes a step toward the nightmare.

It is not a curse to find beauty in darkness.

She steps again.

It is not a curse to pursue what she yearns for.

Another step.

It is not a curse to dream. And think. And desire.

She stands face to face with the nightmare, flames rolling across its body like purplish waves.

She stretches out a hand, just as she did all those months ago. She lets curiosity fill her chest. Lets it guide her. Lets the awe of beholding such a mystical beast move through her.

And as Euphemia’s scarred hand brushes the velvety softness of the nightmare’s nose, she understands something new.

Something liberating.

All this time Euphemia feared what the people would do to her if they found out who she really is. She feared their judgment. Their ostracism.

But over these past few weeks, Euphemia has faced the venomous fangs of Níðhöggr and his tortured army of souls. She has survived the Wave Maidens and the watery grave they tried dragging her down into. But before all that. Before Thorfell. Euphemia faced rumor and scrutiny. Judgment and malice. Grief and blame. And still, she persevered. She survived and faced monster after monster, stronger every time.

Perhaps it is not the helhest they should fear. Euphemia climbs onto the creature’s back, the flames like a warm welcome home.

It is her.