Selene's world exploded in a sharp, disorienting jerk, a scream tearing from her throat before she was even fully conscious. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, fought to register the reality of her surroundings, battling against the lingering terror of the dream. The candlelight in the room flickered, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock her fragile hold on composure.
Her fingers instinctively clawed at the bedsheets, knotting them into tight ropes, while her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, showing pure panic.
Her gaze darted wildly, skimming over the familiar, yet strangely alien, objects in the room before it snagged on the figure now standing in the doorway.
It was Isolde, her hands clutching a tray so tightly her knuckles were white, her eyes wide with alarm at the sight of Selene's distress. The immediate shift from the nightmare's horror to the concerned gaze of her friend was a jarring transition,.
