Orion gasped awake, his body lurching upright as if wrenched from drowning depths. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, his chest aching with the phantom sensation of something tearing through it. His hands clutched at his torso, fingers curling over untouched skin, but the absence of wounds did nothing to banish the visceral certainty that he had been split apart, that he had felt the bitter finality of death again.
It lingered in him, imprinted, as though his cells had carried the trauma back with them.
The darkness of his quarters felt oppressive, pressing down on him. The steady hum of the environmental regulators buzzed in his ears. Beads of sweat clung to his skin. His heart pounded fiercely against his ribs.
This felt more real than any nightmare could ever be.
The memory was too vivid.
The thrill of battle and the savage exhilaration of taking the monster's life clashed with the horror of what he had faced.
And the pain.
A phantom agony still clung to him, rooted in his bones, pulsing in his hand and leg where he had felt his own body torn asunder.
But the vision would not leave him.
It replayed, over and over, a merciless cycle: Ingrid's severed head. His own severed limbs. The beast's twisted grin, relishing his ruin.
A fresh wave of nausea twisted in his stomach. He swallowed hard, forcing down the bile rising in his throat.
This wasn't a mere nightmare. It wasn't the distorted fabric of a half-formed dream.
It was a vision.
A glimpse of what was to come.
Or worse—what was inevitable.
He didn't know how he came up with this conclusion, but once it lodged in his mind, he couldn't refute it. No matter how much he tried to dismiss the thought, it refused to fade.
His hands trembled as he ran them through his damp hair, knotting the strands.
Why?
How had he seen that?
He needed to get a grip.
Shoving off the sweat-dampened sheets, Orion staggered toward the sink, blinking rapidly as his vision swam and blurred. The world around him seemed blurry.
He splashed cold water on his face, letting it sluice down his cheeks.
Then, lifting his gaze, he looked into the mirror.
For a second, he thought his reflection was smudged—his eyes cloudy, like misted-over glass. He leaned closer, squinting.
The pupils of his eyes looked wrong. One eye shimmered with a deep, blood-ruby glow, the other a pale, almost sickly blue, threaded with veins of gold.
What the hell…
Confusion gnawed at him. Was he still dreaming?
He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again.
The edges of the mirror twisted. His reflection blurred further.
And then, there was only darkness.
Panic clawed at his mind before he could stop it. His hand reached out instinctively around him.
His heart pounded.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again.
Still nothing.
Complete, absolute darkness swallowed him whole.
A warm wet sensation trickled down his cheeks. He touched his face with trembling fingers—and felt it.
Thick. Sticky.
He inhaled sharply—and the scent of iron hit him.
Blood.
He was crying blood.
He recoiled, almost falling back, his breath caught in his throat.
No. No, no, no—
Panic surged up, and this time he couldn't strangle it down.
His hands fumbled blindly along the walls until they found his shades—an old pair he wore sometimes to block out the sun during outside drills.
He shoved them on his face, he couldn't think of anything resembling a plan.
But he had to first understand what happened to him before anyone knew about this.
He pressed trembling fingers to his temples.
He ordered his personal AI to reach for his comms panel and call Varun.
The line connected almost instantly.
"Master Varun," Orion said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. "I…I won't be able to attend training today."
There was a pause on the other end, brief but heavy.
"Why?" Varun's voice was clipped, suspicious.
"I'm working on a…personal project," Orion lied smoothly. "I just need today to finish it. I'm tired. Been pushing too hard."
Silence stretched between them.
Varun finally grunted. "Fine. One day. But don't make a habit of this, boy."
And then the line went dead.
Orion slumped against the wall, dragging in a shaky breath.
He thought he had gotten away with it.
He hadn't counted on Ren.
Ren Reyes heard about her brother skipping training after breakfast.
Orion? Skipping a session with Varun?
Worry prickled the back of her neck, a cold, crawling unease she couldn't shake. She tried to tell herself it was nothing. That Orion was probably just being lazy for once.
But she knew him better than that.
She shoved her plate aside and made her way to his quarters, knocking on the door insistently.
No answer.
She frowned.
"Orion, open up, or I'm breaking this door," she threatened.
Still silence.
Swearing under her breath, she overrode the door lock—an trick he'd taught her himself.
The door slid open.
And there he was.
Slumped in the corner by his desk, wearing dark shades, a faint smear of blood still staining his cheekbones.
Ren's heart plummeted.
"Orion?" she breathed, stepping inside.
He turned his head toward her voice but didn't move otherwise.
The tension in the room was suffocating.
He looked broken. Small. So very unlike Orion.
"Orion?" she said carefully. There was an edge to her voice—something fragile underneath the false casualness. "What the hell happened to you?"
He tried to wave her off. "Training accident."
"Liar," she said immediately. "Take off the shades."
He hesitated.
"Orion," she said again, softer this time.
Carefully, gently, she pulled the shades off his face.
Ren gasped.
She stumbled back half a step, her hands hovering as if she didn't know whether to reach for him or protect herself.
Finally, she managed a whisper:
"Your eyes—"
One of his eyes now gleamed a molten, unnatural ruby, smoldering even in the low light. The other was a ghostly, washed-out blue, threaded with veins of gold, so pale it looked blind.
Ren stared at him for a long moment, her mouth tightening like she was swallowing glass.
A tremor ran through her lips making it clear she was fighting back tears.
Instead, she forced her mouth into a crooked grin.
"Are you by any chance a half-vampire now, little brother?" she said lightly, guiding him closer to the couch. "Because I really don't know what my poor brother can do now…"
Her voice cracked, just slightly, at the end.
Orion didn't laugh.
But the corners of his mouth twitched.
Ren dropped to a crouch next to him, poking his knee like they were just joking around.
"If you grow fangs, I'm calling dibs on who you bite first." she added.
He huffed a broken sound—a laugh twisted with a slight ache that caused Orion to wince slightly.
Ren bit her lip.
Her throat closed up.
But she smiled wider anyway.
She grabbed the shades and perched them back onto his nose.
"Well," she said cheerfully, her voice wobbling only a little. "There. You're back to looking mysterious and edgy. Perfect."
And because she couldn't stand the silence any longer, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight, fierce and almost desperate hug.
"Don't worry," she said lightly. "You look about ten times cooler now. I give you a solid nine if we get you a leather jacket."
Orion managed another faint smile.
For four days, he had to live blind.
Four days of Ren's laughter filling the void, daring the universe to try and take anything from her brother away.