Page 81 of Dark Awakening

I rush to the sink, icy water gushing as I squeeze my eyes shut tight in forced calm. Just breathe... I repeat it like a mantra, coaxing back self-control.

But my mind spirals with questions in the aftermath. What the actual fuck is happening to me? What am I becoming? I'm utterly lost, adrift in this supernatural shitstorm! And with Rhyland bolting unexpectedly, I have nobody left to help me rein in these emerging abilities. Nobody else I remotely trust, anyway.

Fear sinks its claws in deeper as I imagine the fate of some lab experiment, detained and subjected to endless ruthless tests if my volatile secret got exposed.

Fuck no! These strange gifts cannot become public knowledge.

I think back to that pivotal day—when I confronted my adoptive parents, desperate for any scrap about my cloudy origins. My simmering need for identity ultimately boiled over, too hungry to be denied any longer...

But their vague excuses and platitudes failed to satisfy, the palpable tension confirming sinister secrets lurked beneath their omissions. I recall the streak of rebellion, the defiance and hurt swirling out of control, much like today...

"We've told you everything we know, Dani," he said gently, though regret tinged his words. "You were left at the hospital just days old. There was a note left with your name."

Mixed emotions swirled within—surprise, curiosity, and a glimmer of long-sought connection. A note, a thread binding me to unknown origins!

"Was there anything else written?" I asked, voice trembling with fragile hope.

My mother hesitated. "Yes," she finally said softly. "One other word remained. D'larayn."

The foreign syllables resonated with me. "D'larayn?" I echoed. "What does it mean?" But their tense silence only amplified the denial plaguing me.

I blink, returning abruptly to the present. My skin still steams from the now-vanished ivory flames. How long had I stood frozen at the sink, lost in memories? The taps rush on full blast, excess water swirling down the drain.

Shutting them off, I grab a towel to dry my tingling hands. D'larayn...the strange word teases significance now just beyond my grasp. I curse myself for not deciphering its meaning then in my quest for identity. But my adoptive parents overlooked the mystery in their yearning for a child.

Frustration wars with sentimentality. I know firsthand how all-consuming the desire for family can be. But at what cost comes denial? What unsettling truths have I ignored all these years that might now unlock my destiny?

I urgently grab my laptop with quaking hands, desperate anticipation twisting my stomach. My jittery fingers clack the strange syllables into the search bar. Instantly, results appear, making my heart lurch wildly.

D'larayn (dee-luh-rayn)—an ethereal figure prophesied to bring salvation and retribution—to bestow protection by delivering the wicked to justice while lifting up the persecuted...a savior.

For a moment, I sit motionless, stunned into disbelief as revelations align. Rhyland's words about a prophecy, my emerging gifts, that mysterious glowing aura—how could we fail to grasp the signs until now?

It all traces back to my unknown origins cloaked in secrecy...back to this singular word etched onto paper as my cradle rested in a sterile hospital. A message across years meant solely for my eyes when the appointed hour struck fateful understanding.

I draw a slow breath, poised on a nexus of past, present, and future, all paths converging inexorably to this revelation. The salvation bringer...a savior... D'larayn. Far beyond mere coincidence, the context screams my true name, always destined for greatness!

Rhyland

42

The dim light's harsh on my eyes, but they adjust, taking in the scene like something out of a nightmare—the walls are all raw cuts and carvings, telling old, tormented tales. Rusted iron chains hang from the ceiling, waiting to bite into fresh skin. Over in the corner's a messed-up desk and a chair, just sitting there, forgotten in the filth and the rot.

The yellow bulbs up above are sick, flickering like they're on their last legs, barely pushing back the dark. The chains we are in gnash and groan, hoisting our arms up high and digging viciously into wounds that never get a chance to heal. My feet are numb on the concrete, so cold it steals the life right out of them.

Erik's not holding up any better, slumped over and beaten down next to me in this godforsaken shithole. The never-ending rattle and snap of our chains keep time in this place, a twisted sort of music for the dark. I can't keep track anymore—is it days or weeks that we've been buried alive in here?

The goddamn Brotherhood won't stop at anything, fucking us up royally to break our will, pummeling us until we're out cold, and starving us out until we're damn near losing our minds. But hell, if we're giving in that easy. We’re holding onto our sanity for dear life, memories of better times keeping us from going off the deep end.

Thoughts of Danica keep burning through the dark – that sleek hair, her scent that's like a mix of honey and spice, and those eyes, a pair of golden promises. I play those memories over and over, like a lifeline pulling me back when I can feel the darkness closing in.

For her, I've got to push through this nightmare. Once we bust out, we're bringing a storm of payback on the Brotherhood and that sick fuck leading them—no holding back.

Our bond's half-finished, and it screws me over, keeping the soothing sound of her voice just out of my reach—trying to touch her soul, to let my angel know we'll fix this mess.

Stuck in this weakened hellhole, I've been busting my ass to break through the psychic wall trapping us, to send a damn SOS to Adrian that we're still hanging on by a thread. I'm digging deep, throwing everything I've got at it to make that connection. Adrian's our one shot at guiding the cavalry here before we're utterly screwed.

Then, in the pitch-black, there's a flicker—a subtle feeling, but it's there, the old blood tie between us humming alive. It's a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but it's real—the signal's punched through. Hope hits me hard, intoxicating like a shot of the good stuff.

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