The Book of Dreams

The room glowed with the warm light emanating from the fireplace and a nearby lamp. Across the room are few small boxes adorned with ribbons.

Ingrid had completely overlooked the fact that today marked her 23rd birthday. While she had forgotten, her personal maids Jaquelyn and Lorraine appeared to have anticipated the occasion, making preparations in advance with the other servants. 

This birthday felt notably different for Ingrid, as it was the first time she celebrated without her personal maids, as well as the late Princess Katarina and her maid Tara.

"Their gifts are present, yet none of them are," Ingrid mused as she handed the glass of water to Christine, her newly appointed maid.

"Your Highness, is there anything else you require?" Christine inquired.

"No, thank you. You may leave," Ingrid responded with a gracious smile.

Christine bowed. "Then please excuse me, Your Highness. Call me if you need anything," she said.

The hushed room was filled with the soft sounds of Christine's footsteps and the crackling of the fireplace. Once Christine had closed the door, Ingrid picked up the book on her lap and reclined against her bedrest.

She began reading the first paragraph of the 16th page.

Some scholars posit that dreams are divine messages, sent by higher powers to convey insights or warnings. Others, however, argue that such divine influence is mere superstition, attributing dreams to the wandering thoughts of the dreaming mind.

Delving into the recesses of the mind, some speculate that dreams are manifestations of suppressed desires, fears, or unfulfilled wishes. The subconscious, they argue, takes advantage of the slumbering state to weave these hidden thoughts into bizarre and often symbolic narratives.

Adding a layer of mystique to the discourse, some proponents propose that dreams might transcend the mere workings of the mind, serving as omens or prophetic visions. In this intriguing hypothesis, the dormant mind, unshackled from the constraints of the waking world, is believed to tap into the ethereal threads of fate. Like an ancient oracle, the dreaming mind becomes a conduit for glimpses into the yet-unwritten chapters of the future, offering a tantalizing possibility that the nocturnal realm might hold keys to unraveling the mysteries of what lies ahead.

Ingrid put the book down with a sigh. "All of these are nothing more than speculations and arguments," she murmured. "Perhaps I should seek out another book. Or maybe I need to abandon this ridiculous curiosity."

Closing her book, Ingrid gently laid it on her bedside table. She then reclined on her side, cocooning herself in the warmth of a soft blanket, leaving only her head visible.

"The night feels unusually cold," she whispered to herself.

While Ingrid developed a close connection with the late Princess Katarina, their relationship leaned more towards mentorship than a familial bond. Despite the affection Princess Katarina had for her, a barrier seemed to exist, hindering Ingrid from fully relying on others.

Ingrid had cultivated a tendency to be calculating, veiling her true thoughts behind kind and warm smiles.

So even though no one was forthcoming with details about the transpiring events, Ingrid had already surmised that the dressmaker, despite her appearance, was likely an assassin.

"But I don't understand why they would try to kill a princess that's an empty vessel," she murmured, closing her eyes. 

Ingrid's eyes fluttered open to a world that seemed both familiar and alien. The warmth of her bed and the soft glow of the fireplace had been replaced by the intense heat of flames and the ominous red hue of a burning palace. The air was thick with smoke, and distant screams echoed through the chaos.

She found herself in the arms of an unfamiliar knight, his armor gleaming in the fiery glow. Ingrid's heart raced, and she began to cry out.

"No! We have to go back! There are still servants inside! We have to go back!" she pleaded, her voice desperate and frantic. She fought against the knight's firm hold, determined to return to the engulfed palace.

"I apologize, Your Highness, but we must put you to safety first!" the knight shouted above the tumult of the burning palace. Despite his efforts to reassure her, Ingrid's resolve only intensified. With a burst of strength, she managed to free herself from the knight's grasp and sprinted towards the flames, her silhouette outlined by the roaring fire.

However, before she could come near the raging inferno, a strong hand firmly gripped her hand, halting her in her tracks. Ingrid turned around from the sudden yank and saw the imposing figure of Grand Commander Fairburne, his stoic expression etched with concern.

"G-Grand Commander," she stammered, tears streaming down her face. The burning palace behind them reflected in his stern eyes.

"What can you do if you rush in there? Do you think you can carry a person with your feeble arms?" Caym growled, his brows furrowed deeply.

The flames roared, casting an eerie glow on the Grand Commander's stern face. Ingrid's breath caught as she stared into his intense, amber eyes. 

"I don't see at least three of the servants here. There's a small room with a door that can only be opened from the kitchen on the west side. The servants often stay there during their free time. If they're still inside, they won't be able to notice the fire. The fire is spreading too fast, and—"

"I'll go."

"What?" Ingrid asked, her brows raised in confusion.

Caym turned to the nearby knights. "Dame Xavier, bring the princess to the barracks. Don't let her out of your sight," he commanded.

"Yes, Sir!" the female knight responded and approached Ingrid.

"Wait—"

Ingrid's eyes snapped open, the remnants of the dream still haunting her thoughts. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the fireplace, and she felt the warmth of the blanket wrapped around her. The distant crackling of the flames in her dream seemed to echo in the quiet chamber.

Breathing heavily, Ingrid tried to shake off the lingering unease. The vivid images of the burning palace and Caym's determined gaze clung to her consciousness.

"It was just a dream," she whispered to herself, attempting to dispel the residual anxiety.

As she gathered her composure, Ingrid noticed the open book on her bedside table, its pages rustling slightly in the gentle night breeze. The words about dreams and their mysteries resonated with her in an uncanny way.

"Ah. Is this why Her Highness used to warn me against reading scary stories before bedtime?" she thought. "I... don't want to go to sleep."