(A Dream — Somewhere Between Memory and Madness)
Dantes stood in a place too still to be real.
A shoreline of white stone stretched endlessly. No sea. No wind. Only fog—endless and soundless—wrapped around his boots like waiting hands.
He turned.
The silence followed.
Then—he felt it.
Not a sound.
A presence.
Like the pause between thunder and lightning.
"You've come farther than I expected."
The voice didn't echo—it bloomed inside him. Low, smooth, strangely warm.
Dantes' breath caught.
A man stepped through the mist—barefoot, robed in pale white like a priest or mourner. His golden eyes were too calm, too ancient. No crown. No weapons.
Just a smile.
"Still pretending you're not afraid," the man said, approaching.
Dantes didn't speak, fists clenched at his sides.
"That name you carry—Dantes. How many times have you said it now?"
"Do you even believe it anymore?"
"Who are you?" Dantes asked.
The man's smile widened.
"A better question: who are you?"
"Edmund?" he offered, voice silk.
"Dantes? A prince? A sword? A ghost?"
"You were betrayed. Killed. Buried. Forgotten."
He stepped closer. His tone lowered.
"And yet... you lived."
He gestured to the fog.
Images stirred like ghosts in smoke:
Conrad on a throne.
Alberta in firelight, reaching for him.
Francesca laughing—then looking away.
Cornelius, eyes cold, voice flat:
'You should've stayed dead.'
Dantes flinched.
Not because of the words—
Because part of him agreed.
The man's smile sharpened.
"You want justice. But you want it clean—surgical. Righteous."
He leaned in.
"But the world that killed you?"
"It isn't clean. It never was."
The pressure in Dantes' chest deepened.
"Leave."
"You hesitate," the man whispered.
"You ache. And the truth is... you don't know if you're better than the monsters who made you."
He raised a hand.
The fog twisted.
Duke Aslac, kneeling.
Mercedes crying out.
Cornelius watching him.
Francesca holding Alberta's hand, whispering something he couldn't hear.
All of them…
walking forward.
Leaving him behind.
"They'll always leave you," the man said softly.
"Even if they love you, they will choose their world over you."
"But I won't."
He extended his hand.
"Let me give you what they never could—certainty. Purpose. Power without guilt."
"Let me help you finish what they were too weak to do."
Dantes said nothing.
He looked at the hand.
At those golden eyes.
And then—
He remembered Cornelius.
Not offering kindness.
Not even trust.
Just staying.
Watching.
Not believing in Dantes fully—
But refusing to walk away.
That, somehow, felt more honest than any promise.
Dantes exhaled.
Then turned his back.
"Tempting," he muttered.
"But I've already got someone doubting me. I don't need another."
The man's smile didn't falter.
Only the fog recoiled—
like the world was holding its breath.
"We'll speak again," he said.
"Because no matter how far you run, Edmund... you're still mine."
Dantes woke with a jolt.
Heart pounding.
The ship rocked gently beneath him.
Snoring. Wood creaking. Salt in the air.
He was back.
But his palm still tingled—
like a hand had tried to hold his even after waking.
He sat at the edge of the bunk, elbows on his knees, breathing slow but uneven.
The dream clung to him like sea mist—thin, but heavy.
The kind of silence that doesn't belong in the waking world.
A soft rustle behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Francesca.
Barefoot, hair a tangled halo, eyes half-lidded with sleep. She stood in the doorway, wrapped in a shawl.
"You're awake," she murmured.
Dantes didn't respond.
She didn't ask.
She just crossed the floor quietly and sat beside him.
They sat in silence.
The ship creaked.
Somewhere below, Alberta stirred.
Francesca glanced at his hand—still curled, faintly trembling.
"Bad dream?" she asked.
"Something like that."
"You looked… angry," she said softly. "But also sad."
He smirked. It didn't reach his eyes.
"That's my usual state."
She didn't laugh.
Just leaned her shoulder gently against his arm.
"You don't have to say anything," she whispered.
"But you're not alone. Even if you think you are."
Dantes blinked slowly.
Then looked at her—just for a moment.
She meant it.
She didn't fully trust him. Not yet.
But she was still here.
And after everything Ias had whispered—
that mattered more than belief.
"I know," he said.
Then stood.
"Go back to sleep, Francesca. I'll take the next watch."
She didn't argue.
Just gave him one last glance—soft, but sharp—and turned to go.
After she was gone, Dantes looked down at his hand again.
The mark was gone.
But the echo wasn't.