The beach stretches on to both my left and right. The grey colour of the sand and sky immediately alert me that I am dreaming: the real thing is gold and full of sunlight. My dreams and thoughts are murky and unpleasant in comparison.

The steely ocean reaches the horison, where it melts into the colourless sky. The waves hitting my calves almost let me topple over, until I bury my feet into the grainy wet sand. Their force echoes through me as they break behind me.

The lonely caw of a seagull comforts me with the knowledge that, this time at least, I am not alone.

The salt in the air clings to the tip of my tongue. For a moment, despite the knowledge of the turn this dream will soon take, the incessant storm raging inside me is calmed.

I see her standing in the curve of the beach to my right. As the wind picks up, grains of sand start to kiss my cheeks and the back of my calves. It also plays with her white dress, offering me teases if her perfectly-formed legs.

I tread through the water towards her.

With her back towards me, she is completely unaware that I am approaching. Careful not to startle her, I take a moment to appreciate her beauty.

Her exposed back immediately stirs up memories of how all of her, exposed and tangled with my exposed skin felt. The complete electricity I felt whenever I looked at her bubbles to the surface.

Her curls, the colour of a pale winter sun, form a storm in the wind.

I resume my urgent plea to reach her. If I could see her face this time, it might all be worth it. The distance between us shrinks and the wind grows stronger, necessitating me to shield my eyes from the violent sand with my arm.

Another sound permeates through that of the crashing waves. As her stifled sobs tear through me, I only want to comfort her, even though I know I am the cause of her heartbreak. I want to fold her into my arms and shield her from her ache. I want to kiss her tears away.

She spins around when I touch her shoulder. My eyes are immediately transfixed by, not her face, but the pool of blood on her dress.

Two lines of blood stream down the dress, turning the water around her feet red and sticky.

I look out to the crimson ocean radiating out from us. The sky turns pink. My chest constricts, and I know that I have to get away.

The warm blood's pull is stronger than I would've imagined it to be. I’ve drawn more than a few lifetimes’ worth of blood, but its warmth against my own skin still feels unnatural.

Bloody arms reach out of the water. They grab the hem of my shirt; my hair; my shoulders; my arms; my hands. The arms pull me in and push me down.

I’m not afraid of water, but I am afraid of drowning in the blood. A hollow laugh echoes up as I desperately gulp for my last breath of air. I close my eyes as the blood forces itself into my lungs. I try to gag, but the force is too strong.

I wake up. After untanglibg myself from the sweaty sheets and solashing cold water in my face, I immediately make my way to the Library that has always held a sense of security for me. Especially recently.

After hours of moping in the dark, I hear shuffling footsteps echoeing towards me.

Atarah of the Ancients, with violet eyes and an indigo robe, approaches me with two mugs. The smell of warm milk fills up the room.

We are acquainted from the endless meeting my family and hers had before we took control of Ligtland, but that is where our bond ends.

Sensing that my precious solitude has been interrupted, I stand up. “I was just leaving,” I tell her apologetically.

“You are in need of a friend, Khairrim Cadeyrn.” She walks closer and holds out the mug. Sensing my reluctance, she prompts me. “I made it for you.”

Indecision and surprise hold me hostage.

“Just take the mug. I really want to drink my milk. I can’t do it with only one hand.”

Her argument isn’t valid, but, not wanting to offend her, I take the mug.

“Now sit down and drink it.”

I remain standing.

“Khairrim Cadeyrn, I am trying to show you a kindness and you are in my home. You should do what pleases me.”

We have given Atarah the title of Keeper of knowledge. That means that she is in charge of the Lost Library - among other things. Of all the Ancients, she holds the most power. Not wishing to offend her any further, I sit down on the ground.

“Good,” she says approvingly and sits down opposite me. “I have noticed that you come here quite a lot.”

“I have never seen you.”

“I am sure you can also choose to be seen and choose not to be seen.”

I nod.

“You don’t have a library of your own.” She takes a slow sip from the mug.

“No.”

“I can help you to build one. I think you need something to focus on, other than whatever is obviously haunting you.” Another pause follows when she gulps down the rest if her milk. “Sometimes I wish that things between our people could be different. I think we can learn a lot from each other. And we could have some friends who won’t die before us.”

My laugh fills up the room. “I can do with a friend like that.”