"Iris,"she responds, the name resonating through the non-space with harmonics that make my teeth ache pleasantly."Though names are just convenient labels for things too complex for simple words."
Her voice is exactly as I remember from underwater—clear despite no medium for sound, heard in the bones rather than the ears.
"Are you here to take me away?"
The question emerges from child-fear that I didn't know I carried.
Being taken, stolen, removed—these are the nightmares that plague young minds when the world proves it contains real monsters.
And I've met enough monsters to know they sometimes wear beautiful faces.
Her smile softens, white hair shifting to frame her face with deliberate gentleness. She shakes her head, the denial carrying more weight than words.
"No, little heir. I'm but a bridge, meant to help you reclaim what's destined for you."
Bridge. Not guide or guardian but bridge—a means of crossing between states. The metaphor feels deliberately chosen, each word weighted with meaning I'm not equipped to fully parse.
"Why will you help me?" I ask, suspicion coloring my tone despite the dream-soft edges of this encounter. "No one aids one another in Wicked Academy."
It's truth learned through blood and betrayal. The Academy teaches competition, not cooperation. Every kindness hides a blade. Every alliance exists only until something better comes along.
Even my bonds with Cassius, Atticus, Nikolai—they were forged in mutual need rather than pure altruism.
Iris tilts her head, considering my cynicism with something approaching approval.
"Those men are dedicated to you,"she counters, each word precise as a scalpel."If that wasn't the case, that Fae wouldn't have shifted to her true form to save you."
The observation lands with unexpected weight. She's right—Nikolai chose to become Nikki, embracing the form that causes such internal conflict, just to save me.Not because bonds demanded it or survival required it, but because I called and she answered.
"You mean Nikki," I whisper, the name feeling important in this space where words carry more than sound.
Iris nods slowly, and when she speaks again, her voice carries the particular sadness of those who see too much.
"Destined to be great, only to be plagued by those who should have protected her."
The words paint a picture I don't want to see—Nikki's potential twisted by parents who wanted a son, a court thatdemanded perfection, a prophecy that condemned before she could walk. How much greatness has been lost to the plague of others' expectations?
"How do you know all of this?" I ask, needing to understand the source of her impossible knowledge.
She moves for the first time, not walking but simply being closer, the space between us collapsing without either of us taking a step. When she speaks, her breath smells of spring water and starlight.
"I'm a Seer. And this—"she gestures to the non-space around us,"—is how I train my powers. By helping those in the realms of rest."
I pout, lower lip extending as my head tilts with the particular curiosity of youth processing complex information.
"Like in dreams?"
The simplification makes her smile widen, revealing teeth that seem to contain constellations.
"Exactly. I'm a student like you, down a different path that's filled with its own set of challenges and secrets."
A student. Not some ancient power but someone still learning, still growing. The humanization makes her less threatening and somehow more interesting. She continues, voice taking on the cadence of someone sharing secrets.
"During the day, I survive the plague of such. But at night, when exhaustion takes me deeper into the realms of REM, I'm able to tap into these abilities. With them, I gain what I need to help others."
The explanation raises more questions than it answers.
Surviving plague during the day—metaphorical or literal? The realms of REM—are there multiple? And help others toward what end?
