Alma's Dreams (are Default) [An Eldritch Thriller]

Zulema blinked slowly, suddenly turning back to Alma. The priestess had almost given in, but something had been gnawing at her the entire time she was talking to her sister. Her gaze fixed on the gleaming curve of the scythe as it loomed above her. The murky reflection in its blade had shifted—no longer the sister she missed dearly, but the golden mask of the Sister she once had faith in. A flicker of ceremonial glory: the laurel, the runes, the veil falling around vivid red hair like mourning flame.

"Marie…" she whispered, the name catching on her breath. The memories came flooding back. Alma was never here, and even in her worst moments, was never that much of a bitch to her. She realized now. This was one of Marie's mindgames, and her only option now was to find a way to escape lest she stay trapped forever. Zulema moved without thinking. Her hands, still trembling, erupted with cold.

The shadow of Alma had swung the scythe down, only to clash against a newfound will to live.

Frost bloomed across her arms in delicate veins of silver-blue. Ice hardened into form at her fingertips, twin sickles glimmering into being. The clash rang through the warped chamber, echoing along with the sudden church bells ringing in the distance.

The illusion staggered back, no longer smiling.

Zulema rose slowly. Her crimson veil had vanished. Her black robes, once tight and proper, melted into mist and replaced by an ivory dress of snow-white silk and frost, flowing and alive, shaped by her own will. The mangle of bandages once again wrapped her head, hiding the emptiness where her eye had once sparkled with devotion. Her hair spilled out in waves of black, tainted by a streak of white.

"You don't have to do this," she said, voice cracking.

The shade didn't answer. She simply adjusted her stance, scythe gripped tight, and lunged.

Zulema parried. Glacial ice burst from her blades with each strike, the cold thickening around them like an icy breath. The chamber throbbed and twisted with each movement, as if the illusion was struggling to maintain its hold against her sudden retaliation. The room was familiar, certainly, but it felt out of place. Like a memory being remembered wrong. She couldn't let herself lose against the mental intrusion.

The fake Alma swung, only to miss the priestess by a hair.

Zula had ducked her slash and rolled to the side, slicing at the illusion's leg. But instead of meeting flesh, her blade had met armor, sparking off a familiar runic gold. Marie's golden greaves shimmered like the sparks of a mad doctrine.

The Scarlet Sister pushed away, while Zulema pushed forward.

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"You've saved me more times than I can count. When I faltered, you carried me. Watched over me. When one of us bled, the other would stay and pray beside them. You taught me so much. You showed me what it was to be a Scarlet priestess. You're like a sister to me. Please, Marie. Don't do this."

Marie twisted, catching Zulema's arm with the shaft of her scythe and flinging her back against a broken altar. Her movements were clean, almost mechanical. But something seemed off.

Zulema breathed hard, trying to ignore the ringing in her ears. She watched as Marie advanced once more. As thoughts came to her, her own voice echoed through the chamber.

Something's wrong. This can't be the Marie I know. Is it my own mind twisting my memory of Marie and creating this distorted vision of her?

The Marie she knew was never this cruel. Unbending, yes. Stern, cold, calculating—but the mercy she bestowed her enemies always had purpose. It wore her form, her movements, her voice, but there was no passion behind them. The spark of madness that usually followed her was strangely dim. This illusion did not feel, did not believe. It only echoed.

Their weapons clashed again. The scythe was heavier now, Marie's swings more erratic. Uncertain.

"I do not wish to raise my blade against a fellow Sister! Not for the sake of rebellion. Not for him. Not even for the world. But I will defend myself from this madness!" She pushed Marie back, a storm of snow spiraling outward. Her sickles glowed brighter with each clash, faster, colder. Yet she couldn't help but hold back. Hope for her fellow Sister had not left her.

The false Marie lunged, but the illusion of her form had stuttered for a brief instant.

Zulema realized something then. This wasn't just a battle against an illusion created by Marie. It was the personification of the inner conflict that had been running amok in her head for days. Weeks, even. This wasn't a battle to be won by force. This was a battle of understanding. Of faith. And if she had anything left, it was faith. She had worshipped madness her whole life. Drunk its riddles. Danced in its rituals. Bled in its name. Who better to defy its shadows than the one who knew its shape intimately?

The solemn priestess closed her eyes. In that small instant before Marie could close the gap, her sickles pulsed with sudden energy before pulling together. Ice as sharp as steel folding and growing. The twin blades kissed at their ends and formed anew. A twin-headed scythe, whispering a song of ice.

Marie's grip faltered as her blade came into contact with this new weapon, forcing her to back away.

Zulema held her weapon with renewed resolve, twirling it in wide arcs that glistened with frostfire. Her strikes came faster than Marie could mirror. Too fast. Too precise. They weren't just fighting anymore. Zulema was leading. It seemed all that training with Derleth had paid off.

Each swing broke through her defense like nothing. One, two, three lashes of the blade. The illusion could no longer keep up, until a final swing came swift and upward, slicing directly across her glimmering golden mask, splitting down the center with a flash of glacial light. The false Marie halted, scythe dropping to her side. Her veil fluttered, revealing nothing but a pitch-dark void of fading memory where her face should be. The illusion unraveled.

Light returned to Zulema's opened eye. The familiar snowy forest of the Akhlut Mountains surrounded her. In her hand was a fruit-shaped crimson gem with a crack running down the middle.