"My lady, wake up! Wake up, it's just a dream!" 

Evanthe screamed, clutching her throat. She barely registered her nanny pulling the covers away, coaxing her. 

But she continued to thrash and twist, her raven hair unkempt, expression glassy and wild. Tears spilt down her cheeks, face contorted in pain. A few other servants rushed in to help with the young lady's temperament but were interrupted when their master barged in, his hair a mess, his nightshirt crumpled from sleep. 

"What happened?" Count Cernat demanded, his eyes bloodshot.

"I-I'm not sure," Nanny Pagna stammered as she spoke. She was wrestling Evanthe's hands away from her face, but the Count pushed her aside, grabbing Evanthe by the arms and cradled her. 

Eomer and Eugen peeked behind the opened double doors of their sister's room looking distressed, signs of sleep still etched on their faces. 

Count Cernat continued to hold her as she flailed, not dodging his daughter's hands that continuously hit him. Her body felt icy cold to the touch. 

"Evanthe, it's me. Wake up, it's your father," He spoke as he gently caressed her face. 

Evanthe's eyes flew open when she heard her father's voice and felt the warm touch of his hand. 

"P-papa? Papa! Papa..." Evanthe sobbed as she hugged her father's figure tightly. Evanthe steadied her breathing and her cries became muffled sobs. She clung to his nightshirt, unwilling to let go. The servants stood by the side unsure what to do. It was the first time the young lady had a terrible nightmare which the servants couldn't control.

"Bring my sons back to their rooms. I will stay," Count Cernat ordered.

Nanny Pagna nodded and instructed everyone to leave the room, ushering the young masters back to their quarters. As they were leaving, Eugen called out.

"Is Evanthe going to be alright?" 

Eamon turned to look at his son, still holding Evanthe in his arms.

"She will be," he softly said, as the doors closed leaving the two behind.

Evanthe stayed in bed for a week.

After the panic episode, her father often visited her but she refused to tell him anything. Her brothers were barred from entering-- she didn't want to see them-- their faces a reminder of their lifeless bodies in the Vlacor plains. She stopped talking or listening to the advice of her maids. They eventually left her alone. She curled herself into a ball, willing herself to shut her eyes and sleep. 

But sleeping brought her constant nightmares; nightmares of what was to occur. The still and stifling darkness slowly came-- and then images of the bloodied scene flashed through her mind whenever she closed her eyes. It couldn't be real, she thought to herself. But it was so vivid. It had to be. Why would she have dreamt of her family's deaths? But why do people dream what they dreamt about anyway?

She touched her chest where she impaled herself in the nightmare. The pain wasn't there but a dull ache still existed. She looked at her hands. They were hands of a toddler. She cupped her face.

What year was this?

She rushed to the mirror and stared at herself. There stood a girl in a white nightgown who looked barely 8. Her face was puffy, eyes ringed with dark circles, hollow. Her long sable hair was oily and lacked lustre-- she hadn't let the maids touch her, let alone bathe her. It splayed in all directions giving her a wild appearance. She looked exhausted, but there was no mistaking it, she was still a child. 

She slumped down to the ground and leaned against the mirror, hugging her knees close to her chest. Her eyes were downcast. 

"Everyone will die," she muttered to herself. What was she going to do? What can a 5-year-old possibly do? She was a lady, brought up sheltered and groomed until she was of age to be married. She remembered how weak she was when facing Viscount Cercel and his guards. She couldn't do anything. She couldn't save her father. Even when she tried, she endangered him more than she aided him. What can a powerless young lady do?

"Evanthe," 

Someone called out to her. She looked up. It was Eamon. Her father walked towards the curled up child and crouched down, his flaxen eyes meeting Evanthe's.

They mirrored her own.

She stared at them, and for the first time, she noticed how similar they looked. Evanthe had never taken the time to study her father's expression: his tired eyes, the etched frown above his brows, the permanent grimness that stuck to his disposition due to the years of hard military training. This was aggravated by the duties of the Count and the governing of his territory. Handling aristocratic matters and weaving his way through crooked nobility further made who he was today. And then the death of his wife sealed him off as a person capable of having emotions completely. 

In the past, she thought he was strict. She tried her best to avoid him whenever she could in the Cernat estate. She would complain to her brothers the lessons he planned for her, the hours her tutors grilled her due to her lack of motivation. She dreaded the evenings where the whole family would dine for dinner and the conversations they would engage in. It bore her. Her father would often chastise her when he found her lacking. They would often get into disagreements and Evanthe would stomp to her room, abruptly ending the conversation they had. The rift between father and daughter grew.

But all this will be lost in the future. There won't be a future for them if she didn't do anything. Not if she moved. Evanthe didn't know what she had to do but she will learn. She had to protect the House of Cernat. She had to protect her family. She won't be some mindless pawn for the Somneri to use. She will fight. 

"Are you alright? I knocked on the door but you didn't answer," 

"I will be," She quietly thought to herself as she reached out and hugged her father, pulling him close. He stumbled, surprised to see his daughter displaying affection.

Evanthe would normally shrink in fright whenever the Count approached her. She secluded herself to her nanny and maids, rarely speaking to him and only spoke when spoken to. He found it odd that she called him papa that night. It had been a very long time since she uttered that word. It was during the time when all was well; when everyone was happy, before his wife, Countess Vaelthe died.

His hands hovered in the air for a while before he reciprocated, enveloping his arms around her.

She felt safe in his embrace, but this too will disappear. She strengthened her resolve, burning the memory of the dream inside her mind, the hatred for the royal family, for Haemon Cercel, for everyone who wronged the Cernat family, growing. 

"I was afraid before but I'm not anymore," Evanthe said.

She will fight. She killed herself once, she was not afraid of death. 

"For my family," she gritted her teeth and sank into the depths of her father's warmth, willing this to last forever.