White.

  Pitch white.

  Everywhere I look—white.

  Not blinding light. Just… void. An endless white, stretching forever.

  I glance down. My arms, my body—they’re here. Solid. But nothing else. Just me, floating in this blank eternity.

  I pat myself down, checking if I’m still real. Then pinch my arm. Pain flares, sharp and honest—but I don’t wake.

  Not a dream. Not quite reality. Something in between.

  I turn my head, scanning. Nothing. Turn again. Nothing. Forward—still nothing. A whole world of nothing.

  Yet somehow, I feel the boundlessness pressing against me. No shadows, no walls—just the weight of infinity.

  So I walk. North, maybe. Can’t be sure when directions mean nothing here.

  My boots make no sound. My steps change nothing. So I stop.

  Look around. Nothing.

  Walk again. Same.

  Time slips—minutes, hours, days. I can’t tell anymore.

  Walk. Stop. Look. Repeat.

  The cycle blurs until my legs ache—or maybe they don’t. Until my lungs burn—or maybe I forgot to breathe.

  Eventually I drop down, cross-legged on the floor-that-isn’t. Letting the void breathe around me.

  Just me, and white.

  “Where the fuck—”

  My lips move, but nothing comes out. Silence swallows even that.

  No voice. No sound.

  Nice.

  Well, sitting here won’t help.

  I shove myself upright, legs groaning. Something’s out there—I can feel it. Calling. Demanding.

  I have to find it.

  So I walk.

  And walk.

  And walk.

  Blisters split open. Still I walk.

  Each step tears skin. Blood dots the nothing, the only color in this world.

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  My shoes peel apart, soles gone. Still I walk.

  Feet raw, flesh flayed. Dragging skinless across the white, smearing red behind me.

  Consciousness flickers. Vision frays. But I keep going.

  Walk.

  Walk.

  Walk.

  Wa—

  I collapse.

  Face-first into the ground-that-isn’t, body broken, feet ruined meat, mind delirious.

  Silence.

  Deafening silence.

  The only thing left—my heartbeat. Weak, stuttering.

  thump.

  thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  THUMP.

  THUMP.

  THUMP!

  THUMP!

  It rises, hammering louder, rattling my skull.

  THUMP!!

  THUMP!!

  THUMP!!!

  THUMP!!!

  It’s deafening—until it cuts off.

  But my heart still beats. Weak. Fragile.

  That sound wasn’t mine.

  I claw my head up, dragging the last shred of strength. Vision swims, world tilting in and out.

  And there—

  A silhouette. Blurred, but unmistakable.

  A person.

  Then nothing. My head hits the ground-that-isn’t without a sound. Darkness swallows me whole.

  ***

  I wake—already standing.

  Feet whole. Energy full. Boots snug against skin.

  The white stretches around me again. No blood trail. No stain of my collapse. Only me.

  Except—

  A figure.

  It stands in front of me.

  Dressed like I am: midnight-blue cloak threaded with golden suns. Ash-gray tunic and trousers. The same worn boots.

  Same body. Same stance.

  But no head.

  Where the neck should be, blood pours. Thick, steady. It runs down the cloak, darkening the fabric. Soaks the tunic. Drips from the boots.

  It pools at his feet—on ground-that-isn’t.

  I glance down at the pool of blood.

  The surface ripples, reflecting the figure. But in the reflection it isn’t headless. A head of shadow rests on its neck.

  I glance back towards it.

  The call I’ve been chasing pulls harder, dragging me toward it.

  I step.

  It steps.

  Each footprint left behind fills with blood. More gathers at its feet, pooling across the white that isn’t ground.

  We stand, arm’s length apart.

  The pull beckons. My body obeys.

  I lift my arms, palms open.

  It does the same.

  Our palms meet.

  Fingers interlace.

  The deafening silence—

  —pierced by a whisper.

  Something shatters, sharp as glass.

  Something I can’t see.

  The white folds away. Darkness replaces it. A pitch black I can still see through.

  The figure now has a head.

  My head.

  My face—golden eyes staring back at me.

  Startled, I yank my hands free and clutch at my own face.

  My fingers meet nothing. Just air. My hands pass clean through where my head should be.

  Panic surges. I grope frantically, searching—until I find the base of my neck. Wet. Warm.

  Ah. My head is gone.

  Across from me, the figure stares with my face. Emotionless.

  Life drains from me in a rush. The realization hollows me.

  I collapse, headless, blood pooling around my body.

  Motionless.

  ***

  I jolt awake, gasping. Chest heaving, lungs burning. Sweat soaks through shirt and sheets, dripping down my skin.

  Breath ragged. Eyes wide. Shock still twisting inside me.

  The air here is fresher, laced with the sour tang of rot.

  My tent.

  A dream?

  A nightmare.

  I sit on the cot, hands planted on my thighs, forcing breath to slow, dragging calm back piece by piece.

  What—why did I dream that?

  That was a new dream. I hadn’t dreamt that one before.

  I lay back down, forcing calm as best I can.

  It’s going to be long days from here on out. I need rest.

  I close my eyes—and to my surprise, sleep drags me under easily.

  ***

  The tent flap swings open. I step out, lightly dressed: boots, trousers, undershirt.

  The jungle air hits—fresh, but soured. With the flood creeping closer, the stink of rot thickens each day.

  Overhead, parrots squawk and wheel. Monkeys screech from the canopy. Insects swarm in clouds by the thousands. If not for the wards, I’d have bled out from bites days ago.

  We’re camped in a clearing, on the march toward the border where jungle ends and rot begins.

  My soldiers bustle around, packing gear. In the distance, Alfrick is barking orders, jawing with the other brass.

  The rest are tying off the last touches here—trenches dug, banks raised. They won’t hold long, but they’ll slow the bastards.

  The enemy can’t fight at range. The trenches are just speed bumps. The banks channel them. Herd them.

  From what I’ve heard, the creatures don’t scheme. They don’t think. They just charge—man-hungry, berserk beasts.

  That’s what they are.

  The bustle steadies me. The dream can wait. The beasts come first.

  I make my way toward Alfrick. He spots me and jogs over.

  “Sir, our preparations here are finished. Four more days until we reach the border—one day until the beasts arrive, if the scouts are right.”

  “Good.” My eyes drift up. Wildlife scatters overhead—parrots in flocks, insects in swarms, even the monkeys breaking from their trees. “Tell me, Alfrick—are they fleeing from our hungry guests?”

  He follows my gaze. “Yup. And we’re marching straight to greet them.”

  I chuckle. “Of course.”

  A pat on his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  I turn and head back toward my tent.

  Time to get dressed. The flood won’t wait.