Page 75 of Whisper of Nightmares

Gathering her skirts, Euphemia spins around and runs. Across the meadow, wide and yawning. Rocks slice her feet. The nightmare’s guttural war cry bellows after her.

She rips through the thick fog, a sea of grey parting for her.

On the other side, everything withers. The vibrant hills disappear, giving way to a brackish marsh, hungry and noxious.

And drawing near, the palatial castle of bone still stands, inviting and ominous.

She should not enter.

Only danger awaits inside.

But danger lies out here too. The reverberation of it gallops behind her. A drumming beat signaling her impending demise.

The nightmare will soon reach her. Its flames, she will not survive again. She cannot outrun it forever—she’s not even sure she can outrun it for much longer.

“Help!” Euphemia shouts, her words made of tears. A fist of fear clenches her throat. “Ash! Where are you?”

But why does she call his name?

He is not here to save her.

No one is.

No one was there to save her father either.

Euphemia is alone. Always alone.

The only things she can rely on are her own two legs.

She’s had less before.

A lifetime of struggle flashes before her mind’s eye. Before her family opened the tavern. Years of harsh winters freezing her to the bone. Hunger that twisted her gut like sharpened claws. She had survived then through sheer will alone. And the night she’d been barefoot in a meadow with nowhere to run, helplessly watching her father become cinders and dust, it was Euphemia who had saved herself. Euphemia who had run as fast as she could, as far away from the beast as her legs would carry her.

As hard as life has been, Euphemia is not ready to give up now.

With renewed determination, she bounds across the meadow with fervor. Every piece of resilience forges into the armor she needs to survive.

Hoof beats grow louder.

The steps to the bone palace draw nearer.

And the moment her foot touches the porous perron, the onslaught of galloping hooves dissipates. Not that she notices.

Euphemia throws herself across the threshold of Náströnd and slams the door shut behind her.

Her legs finally give out. Euphemia collapses against the door and sobs.

It’s not until her tears dry that Euphemia realizes the world around her is entombed in silence. Only a steady dripping echoing from deep within the bone palace accompanies her. The air is rancid and quiet in a way that reminds her of death.

Euphemia has traded one danger for another. Entombed herself in the very place that filled a beast of a man with dread.

She forces herself to her feet.

Presses her back against the door.

Scans her surroundings like she is so trained now to do.

Before her, ribcage corridors stretch in every direction. Spinal columns line the walls, and fibrous sinew stretches across the floor like cobwebs meant to ensnare.