Harmony in the Storm

The air in the room was thick, almost viscous, clinging to Stina’s skin like a shroud. It had been days since the dream had fully ensnared her, days where the edges of her reality had frayed and blurred until she could no longer discern where the waking world ended and the dream began. The ornate wallpaper, once a comforting pattern of intertwined vines, now seemed to writhe with a life of its own, the emerald leaves twisting into skeletal fingers, the crimson blossoms pulsing with a faint, sickly light. She traced a pattern on the cool glass of the windowpane, the city lights below a distant, uncaring galaxy.

“They’re still here, aren’t they?” The voice, a low murmur, slithered from the shadows of her own mind. It was Seraphina, the queen of Stina’s internal court, always present, always watchful. Seraphina, who cloaked Stina’s vulnerability in a dazzling, often brutal, confidence.

Stina didn’t bother to answer aloud. A silent nod was enough. Seraphina understood. They all did, in their own fractured ways. The nine of them, a tempest trapped within a single, fragile vessel.