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In your dream, you stand near a precipice of your own making.
You are the one they fear, the one they avoid. Your office is your throne room, your sanctuary. You sit on your throne and wield your authority like you send your spells: precisely and unforgivingly. You smash dissent. You quash hope. Your squad members scuttle past your door, head down. They don’t knock, they don’t ask for anything. You don’t want them to, and they’ve long learned their lesson.
You don’t think about the captain before you, how compassionate and strong she was, how much better at everything The Steel Princess was.
You can only do what you can, and you know it’s not enough. But you tell yourself this is captaining. This is how it must be. A captain doesn’t have to be liked— no. He has to be feared, respected. It’s not hard for you to put the mask on: stern expression, unyielding gaze, pressure, pressure, pressure everywhere you go. This is the price of power. You have long forgotten how it feels to hear a heart beat.
And then you go home.
In your dream, the four of you live together, but there is an invisible barrier, one that you put up yourself. Your home feels more like just another squad you have to lead. It’s not a family. It’s a House.
At home, you see all three of them. They are your siblings, the ones you’ve sworn to protect. And protect them, you have. They are alive. That’s all that matters, right? They live. You convince yourself you did alright. You order and they flinch, but they obey. They might tremble in your presence, but they live. They live.
You couldn’t bear anything less.
Why? You keep asking yourself the questions. Why don’t you talk to them. Why don’t you let them in. Why don’t you reach out to them, hug them tight, apologize, and pour every tear you’ve held for decades. But then you remember. The answer isn’t hard— it’s all about honor. It’s all about tradition. It’s about upholding the House. Unspoken expectations feel like a noose around your neck, and you’ll never be free of them.
For House Silva, you mutter. For House Silva. It’s a mantra, a plea, but mostly a justification of actions you take that feel like you’re murdering her all over again, the one who was better, who was everything she needed to be, the one who left you with all these responsibilities and a cracked boat to sail. The honor of your bloodline rests squarely on your shoulders and you feel like there has been a mistake. It can’t be you. It simply can’t.
Fifteen years, and you still haven’t understood how she could leave you. Fifteen years, and you still don’t remember how to breathe.
So, you break them, your siblings. Their laughter is silenced and your harsh glare slice through every misconduct, anything that feels less than royal. You see the fear in their eyes. But you tell yourself it’s for their own good. They won’t thank you, you know it. But it’s for their own good.
They live. You need them to.
Deep down, you’re broken too. The terror in their eyes feels like a bullet straight to your heart, one that coils, lingers, and burns. You remember how they used to giggle and cling to your leg when you were all younger.
You don’t think about how your siblings came to life when she was here. When she cuddled with them and squeezed your hand reassuringly as if to say that everything would be fine if she was here.
Fifteen years…
Defeated, you glance at the mirror and for a second you see your father. But the cold, dark gaze is your own.
At last, you wake. Gasping, drenched in sweat, you find yourself back in your bed. You can still feel the burn from your own gaze, the relentless pain at the back of your head, and the never ending shivers wracking your body.
It wasn’t real. I'm just sick. It wasn’t real. This isn’t who I am.
You shake long after you’ve woken up. The mantra doesn’t help. Deep down, you know that nightmare could have been your reality. Deep down, you’re not sure you avoided it at all. The nightmare will cling to you, follow you everywhere you go today and long after that.
You go about your day and pray for the night to never come.