I walk alone through a dark forest. Moonlight shines through the leaves, dappling the ground. I turn around. The wall is behind me. I turn back to the forest and continue forward. I brush past brush and trees and other plants. I am barefoot and wearing a normal day dress. It is white and simple. My dark hair falls to my waist, somehow not getting tangled in all the flora and fauna I am walking through. I hear a twig snap behind me. Startled, I whip around. I lock eyes with an enormous black wolf with oddly human brown eyes. It growls and lunges at me. I scream, whirl back around, and break into a run, my heart pounding. My dress gets snagged on everything as I run through seemingly endless undergrowth. I keep running as it tears. Branches whip my face and neck and arms, but pure adrenaline has my whole system going too fast to feel anything. I suddenly trip and fall to the ground. I try to get to my feet, but a huge paw slams into my back and pushes me back down. Enormous claws dig into my back and I scream. I twist around, a rock in hand in an attempt to defend myself. The beast sinks its enormous fangs into my throat as I open my mouth to scream. My scream is cut off by a sudden rush of hot, thick blood, my own blood, flooding my mouth.

I bolted up in bed, blood hot in my veins, sweat soaking the bodice of my thin nightgown, heart hammering in my chest. I gazed round the room, reminding myself that I was safe. There was no wolf. I was not in the woods. I was in my bedroom, hopelessly ensnared in my blankets. There was one large window framed with lace curtains. The walls were a light blue color. The floor was heavily carpeted with cream-colored wool from our sheep, woven by my mother. My bed was a rather plush one, with a rose-colored comforter stuffed with down. The sheets were the same color as the carpeting, and the pillows as well. My dresser, wardrobe, and bookshelf were made of the same light-colored birch wood. The top of my dresser was covered with photos of my family. My deceased father and three older sisters, along with my mother and myself. One of my sisters and I laughing, one of my parents kissing, one of our whole family. And of course the one picture of my childhood friend Sawyer Irving and I at age six, arms wrapped around each other as we were lying in a clump of wildflowers. Both of us were laughing. I felt myself relax as happy memories with him flooded my mind.

Until I felt a familiar pang of grief in my chest from the loss of my sisters and father. I squirmed out of the sheets and, with a thump, ended up on my backside on the floor. I quietly swore and got back to my feet, sitting down on my bed and shaking all over, still in shambles from my nightmare. I dragged a pillow off of my bed and hugged it to my chest as I tiptoed to the open window for a breath of fresh air. I gazed out at the dark village, filled with identical houses with the exception of several shops. And the burning stake in the center. I shuddered, recalling the last burning I had seen.

It had been poor Sawyer's father, who had been falsely accused of theft. Sawyer had been distraught but had to stay strong and be there for his five-year-old sister Violet, who had screamed herself hoarse. I had done my best to help them through it, as had the rest of the village. The other villagers held a soft spot for Violet; ever since he had learned to walk, she had been randomly delivering bouquets of wildflowers she had gathered from the edge of the woods to villagers. Everyone found her kindness endearing, but her spontaneous disappearances had made Sawyer and his father frantic with worry. Luckily, Violet was always walked back to her home by whomever she had delivered flowers to. So the villagers offered the siblings flowers, meals, sympathy, and shoulders to cry on. Sawyer, being a stubbornly independent ass, had kindly but firmly turned everyone's offerings down. Except for the flowers, which Violet had placed all over their home. But no one could say no to Violet.

I spotted the Irving home across the cobblestone road and three houses down from ours. The windows were dark. So were the windows of all the other homes. At least the rest of the village was soundly asleep. I crept back to my bed and laid back down on the plush pillows with my eyes turned to the light blue ceiling, too apprehensive to sleep. I had no desire for a rehashing of my nightmare.

From my house, I could see the tiny silhouette of Mayor Thatcher's estate on the horizon, in the center of the state. If the state was any smaller, I reckon I would be able to see the gated entrances to Western, Northern, and Southern Senpiproso. Senpiproso was Yumanthi's smallest state, as well as Yumanthi's smallest minded state. Sighing, I rolled over and fetched my dream journal, an ink cup, and a pen made out of an eagle feather that had belonged to my father. Opening the journal, I began to write.