Zarius jerked awake with a sharp gasp.
He didn't move. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
The dream hadn't let go of him yet. It lingered stubbornly in the corners of his mind, so vivid he could almost believe he was still standing in that silent chapel. He could still see the dim chapel lit by dying candles, smell the faint scent of melting wax lingering in the air, and hear the sound of a silver-haired boy weeping before the statue.
The chapel.
Zarius rubbed a hand over his face. He had casually, completely forgotten about that night because, at the time, it had served absolutely no purpose to him. Back then, his entire existence had been consumed by a desperate, tearing panic.
