Dreams of the Drowned Star

Ch 1

My first story :3

Have you ever felt fire creep along your skin, slow and deliberate, like a beast savoring its meal?

 Not the sudden snap of a stray ember or the sharp nip of candle flame, but the true hunger of it—heat curling inward, devouring, unmaking you thread by thread. Have you ever breathed smoke so thick, so absolute, that it wove itself into your breath, into your bones, until you became part of the ruin itself? Until there was nothing left but the choked silence of your own burning?

I have. Many times. And it always smells the same.

The first thing I feel is warmth. A gentle touch, almost kind. A liar's comfort before the pain sets in. The air is thick, heavy with the acrid bite of charred wood, the brittle snap of splitting beams. A sound as familiar as my own name. Smoke presses into my lungs, wrapping tight, a vice of unseen fingers, ruthless in their hold. My body jerks, a marionette pulled by old strings. My throat tightens. The past reaches forward, eager to claim me again.

Beneath me, my mother's arms curl strong and desperate, her fingers clutching as if love alone could keep me tethered to this world. Her voice hums—low, insistent—a song older than the stars, older than the gods. A lullaby of the Old Ways, whispered in a language forgotten by all but fire and stone. It is the last thing of hers I have, this ember of memory, this flicker of warmth that reminds me only of all that was lost. It haunts me, night after night, dragging me from sleep into the cold wreckage of wakefulness.
And this morning is no different.

The weight of it lingers even as I stir, my skin damp, my breath uneven. I shove a tangle of curls from my forehead and rise, sluggish, reluctant. The sheets cling, hot and sodden, and I peel them away with frustration, casting them aside. The sun spills through the window, cruel in its clarity, gilding the room in gold too bright to be anything but mocking. I swing my legs over the bed's edge, the floor cool against my bare feet. My reflection catches my eye, and I falter.
The scars along my throat have faded, turned pale, silvery things, but they remain—ghosts of an old war waged against my skin. My complexion, kissed bronze by the sun, makes them stand out in cruel contrast. My tail flicks, betraying my irritation, an instinct I have never been able to master. Another inheritance from my father. His blood written into my bones, stitched into my very skin. A birthright I never asked for.

I reach for my brush, dragging it through the tangled wilderness of my hair, patience worn thin. No matter my strength, no matter the power in my limbs, this remains my greatest adversary. The mirror offers no comfort, only truth. My mother's lineage lingers in the fineness of my features, the cut of my cheekbones, the delicate shape of my hands. But it does little to temper the weight of my father's blood. I am caught between them, belonging to neither, claimed by none.

My stomach knots, twisting tight, appetite stolen before it can form. Another day spent in this skin, in this place, and already I am raw at the thought. The temptation of retreat curls around me—of burrowing back beneath my sheets, of letting the world turn without me—but I know better. The world does not wait for cowards. It swallows them whole.
I push the thought aside like an old mutt nosing away a bitter bone and turn instead to the wardrobe. The hulking thing groans on its hinges as I tear through its contents with the urgency of someone escaping a fate of her own making. Garments spill forth, draped over the bed, the chair, the floor, each one judged and discarded in a flurry of sighs and half-muttered curses. A woolen tunic, too stiff at the collar. A vest embroidered in gold that makes me look like a decorative plate. A blouse so starched it could cut my skin before any enemy had the chance. Nothing fits. Nothing settles. Nothing feels like it belongs to me.

Eventually, I surrender. Not because I am satisfied, but because there is no other choice. A linen chemise, soft with years of wear, its threads whispering with old magic, the kind that lingers in well-loved things. A green dress, vyshyvanka embroidery winding up its sleeves in patterns that speak of forest spirits and river nymphs. Trousers, loose and practical. For a woman who prefers both feet on the ground, even when the world tries to drag her under.