The whispering started just past midnight.
Elias woke to it, heart hammering before he even knew why, hand instinctively reaching beneath the pillow for the dagger he hadn't sharpened in three months. The room was steeped in darkness, save for a single shaft of moonlight stretching across the wooden floorboards. The wind stirred the thin curtains, making them dance like ghosts. The little apartment above the alchemist's shop was quiet. Still.
Except for the voice.
It was soft, like someone murmuring secrets to the shadows. Not quite chanting. Not quite speaking. Just… whispering.
Elias sat up slowly, breath shallow. He could hear it more clearly now—coming from the room across the hall.
Rhea.
Throwing off the blanket, he rose, padding barefoot toward her door. The creaky wood floor complained with every step. He pushed the door open gently, careful not to startle her.
She was sitting upright in bed, her small figure wrapped in a nest of blankets. Her eyes were wide open but unfocused, staring past the far wall as though it weren't there at all. A faint red glow shimmered in her gaze.
Elias's stomach turned.
"Rhea?" he said quietly, stepping into the room.
She didn't blink. Didn't flinch. She sat there, her voice barely audible as she whispered, "...not fire. Not again. I won't burn it this time…"
He crossed the room in a flash, crouching beside the bed and touching her shoulder.
"Hey," he said, gently but firmly. "You're dreaming again. Rhea."
Her eyelids fluttered. The glow didn't vanish—it sharpened.
Then her head turned, too fast.
Her eyes locked onto his.
And for just a moment, Elias forgot how to breathe.
They weren't the eyes of a six-year-old girl. They were older—centuries older. Furious and hollow. A storm behind glass.
"Don't let me out," she whispered.
Then her eyes blinked once. Twice. The glow dimmed. Her expression softened, confusion blooming across her features.
"Uncle Elias?" she asked, voice small and hoarse. "I… I was talking to her again."
Elias exhaled, a long, quiet breath of relief and dread all mixed together. He sat on the edge of her bed, reaching for the cup of water he kept nearby and handing it to her.
"She who?" he asked.
"The other me," Rhea murmured, pulling her knees to her chest. "She comes when I'm almost asleep. Or when the dreams go strange. She says she's… me. But older."
His fingers curled around the edge of the mattress. "Older how?"
"She looks like me. But big. And scary. She has really long hair, and twisty horns, and her eyes are like mine but… cracked. And she's always in chains. Even in dreams."
Elias rubbed his face with both hands. Of course it couldn't just be sleep-talking. No, it had to be dream-echoes of a chained future demon self.
"Okay," he said, trying to sound casual and failing. "Let's start simple. You're not possessed, right?"
Rhea tilted her head. "What's 'possessed' mean?"
"It's like… someone else driving your soul-car."
She squinted. "What's a soul-car?"
"Forget I said anything. Did she ever try to take over? Like, control your body?"
"No. She just talks. She's actually kind of… nice? But also scary. Like when you yell at the guy who tries to charge extra for turnips because of my horns."
Elias grunted. "He deserves yelling. Everyone knows turnips are supposed to be cheap."
"She calls herself 'the Real Me,'" Rhea continued, voice quieter now. "And she says she's waiting for the chains to break."
The words dropped like a stone in his gut. He straightened a little.
"Did she say why she's in chains?"
"She put herself there," Rhea said. "To sleep. So she wouldn't burn everything again."
The room seemed colder now. Elias leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You're sure it's… you? This version of you?"
"She has my voice," Rhea said. "But deeper. Like you after too much tea."
"Hm."
"And she said something weird last night. She said… 'When I wake up, even the stars will scream.'"
Elias blinked. Then rubbed his eyes. "New rule," he muttered. "No more apocalyptic bedtime poetry."
Rhea giggled, curling closer against his arm.
"I'm sorry."
Despite everything, he smiled.
Gods, she was technically a little hellspawn, and yet somehow she'd become the single most important part of his life. And there she was—warm, small, eyes dim now but bright with mischief.
He tucked the blanket up around her shoulders. "Try to sleep. Think about frogs."
"Frogs?"
"Dancing frogs. With hats. Top hats."
She yawned. "The imaginary me doesn't like frogs."
"Well," he said, standing and pulling the chair close to her bed, "that proves she's not completely real. You love frogs."
Rhea's eyes drifted shut. "You're staying, right?"
"All night," he said, settling into the chair.
He sat in silence, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing as the glow in her eyes faded completely. Then, almost to himself, he whispered,
"If you're listening, tall chained demon Rhea… don't hurt her. I'll deal with you if you do."
For a moment, the air in the room changed.
Something rumbled—not loud, not angry.
A sound like laughter.
Worn, weathered, distant.
"Protect her well."
Then silence returned.
Elias woke late the next morning to the scent of something charred and the unmistakable sound of off-key singing—in Infernal.
He scrambled out of the chair and bolted to the kitchen.
There stood Rhea on a stool, apron dusted with flour, flipping eggs with terrifying confidence. Flames—pink, no less—danced gently around the pan.
"Hey!" Elias shouted. "What did I say about using the stove alone?"
"I'm using non-flammable fire this time!" Rhea announced proudly.
"There's no such thing!"
"There is now!" she said, holding up a wooden spoon glowing with a harmless rosy flame.
Elias stared at it.
"Is that… did you make a soul-woven flame conduit?"
She blinked innocently. "Maybe?"
He closed his eyes. "We need… so many new kitchen rules."
"But I made eggs!" she said brightly.
The eggs were blackened on the edges and glistened with mystery oils, but they were eggs.
And when she handed him a plate, beaming, he didn't hesitate. He sat down and took a bite. Chewy. Possibly sentient. But hers.
"Thanks, firebug," he murmured.
Rhea munched toast beside him, crumbs everywhere, looking more like a gremlin than usual.
"So," Elias said between cautious bites, "any dreams last night?"
She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "No chains this time. Just a mirror. She was inside it."
Elias paused mid-bite. "What did she say?"
"She said the chains are part of me. And that I'll have to decide when to let them break."
His heart skipped.
"And what did you say?"
"I said I don't want to break anything."
He reached out, touching her hand. "You keep telling her that. Every time."
Rhea nodded solemnly. Then added, "But I did like her dress. It had fire patterns and was made of shadow silk. I want one."
Elias sighed. "We're doomed."
Later that day, while Rhea was at her tutoring session, Elias made his way to the old southern library.
The place looked like it might collapse in the next breeze. Its guardian—a spectral owl named Marnie—shushed him the moment he stepped through the door, even though he wasn't talking.
He spent hours poring over tomes, half-burnt manuscripts, and magical theory. Eventually, he found three notes scrawled in the margins of a forgotten dream-magic volume:
1. Bound selves may reflect through dreams in times of spiritual flux.
2. Never touch a dream chain unless you're fond of screams.
3. Do not trust mirror beings. Especially if they smile.
Wonderful.
When he returned home, Rhea had already finished her assignments—using enchanted jam to write glowing math runes all over the table.
"See?" she said proudly. "Math tastes better now!"
Elias stared at the sticky mess. He gave up trying to argue.
That night, as the moon returned to its perch in the sky, Elias tucked her in once again.
Just as he turned to go, her voice stopped him.
"Uncle Elias?"
He looked back. "Yeah?"
"What if the me in the dream isn't bad?" she asked softly. "What if she's just… sad? And lonely?"
He sat back down, taking her small hand in his.
"Then we help her," he said. "Like you helped me. Even if she's scary."
Her face relaxed. She nodded.
"You're not scared of her?"
"I'm scared of a lot of things," Elias admitted. "Soup. Being late to rent. Birds that look at me funny. But fear's not the same as giving up."
Rhea smiled.
He sat with her until her eyes closed again, until her breathing deepened.
And somewhere far away—or perhaps buried within—an older Rhea sat alone on a throne of black stone, wrapped in chains that shimmered with memory and magic.
Her eyes, filled with weary fire, closed.
And in the darkness, she whispered:
"Don't break, little me. Not yet."
To be continued…