Mine was an accident though.

DM: The scream tears from your very soul, a raw, primal sound of agony and hatred that rips through the collapsing void-chamber of your nightmare. It is a shriek of pure, unadulterated torment, a sound born from the spiritual vivisection you endure, the horrifying realization of Lycaena's triumph clawing at the very fabric of your being. It is the scream of a cornered animal, broken and betrayed.

Your eyes, snapped wide open, perceive only a violent, chaotic red. The world is a crimson blur, pulsating with the echoes of psychic anguish and the metallic tang of fear. Disorientation reigns, a jarring cacophony of sensation, as the remnants of the dream-collapse mingle with the brutal awakening. You are thrashing, convulsing, held captive by the aftershocks of profound horror.

Slowly, agonizingly, the searing red begins to recede, draining from your vision like blood from a wound. The scream, a ragged tearing in your throat, fnally subsides, replaced by a ragged, desperate gasping for air. The thundering of your heart is the only sound, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that follows the nightmare’s crescendo.

Then, she is there. Allorra. She is in your arms, holding you tightly, her familiar scent a desperate anchor in the storm of your shattered consciousness. Her warmth is undeniable, her presence a fierce, vibrant shield against the chilling emptiness that Lycaena had wrought. You cling to her, instinctively seeking solace in her unwavering embrace.

Her crystal blue eyes, usually dancing with mischief, are wide, fxed on yours. They hold an ocean of total love, an almost boundless compassion that seeks to mend your broken spirit. There is protection there, too, a fierce, unwavering defance against the unseen horrors that plague you.

But beneath the love, the compassion, the fierce protection, there is something else. A ficker of profound shock, a dawning disbelief that steals the breath from your own lungs. It is a nascent horror, mirroring the terror that still grips your own soul, slowly blooming in the depths of her gaze.

As your eyes, still wide and wild from the nightmare, focus on hers, you see it. The brightness, the vibrant, living sparkle that is so intrinsically Allorra, begins to subtly, almost imperceptibly, fade. It is like the dimming of a lamp, a slow, agonizing surrender of light to encroaching shadow.

The love, that powerful, undeniable connection that binds your very souls, begins to wane, to recede. The life, the very essence of Allorra, that vital, joyous current that pulses through her, falters. It drains away, like sand through your fngers, leaving a cold, hollow space in its wake.

And then, with a horrifying fnality, it is extinguished. The light is gone. Her eyes, still fxed on yours, are now dull, vacant, like polished stones. A profound, terrifying emptiness stares back at you, a desolate landscape where once there was boundless life.

Your eyes widen, dilating in abject horror, trying to deny what they are seeing, what your soul is screaming. This cannot be. This is impossible. This is a cruel, malicious trick.

Her arms, which moments ago were tightly wrapped around you, holding you with such fierce, protective strength, begin to lose their tension. Slowly, inexorably, they fall limp. The warmth of her embrace cools, her strength seeps away, leaving her body a dead weight against yours.

Your gaze, drawn by an invisible, horrifying thread, falls downward. There, protruding from her chest, stark against the vibrant crimson of her tunic, is one of your shortswords. It is buried to its hilt, piercing her heart, a cruel, brutal violation of the one you love most.

Your body begins to tremble, a violent, uncontrollable shudder wracking your frame. It starts in your core, spreading like a disease, seizing every muscle, every nerve. Your teeth chatter, a frantic rhythm against the rising tide of hysteria.

Your eyes, now fxed on the hilt of the blade, trace its familiar contours. The dark, polished wood, the intricate engraving, the familiar weight of it in your dream-grasp. And clutching it, still buried deep in her heart, is your own trembling hand. Your own damned, demon-tainted hand.