Prologue
She moved through the carnage like a solitary flame in a world reduced to ash untouched by the blood that churned the earth to mud beneath her bare feet. Her hair, a river of obsidian, streamed behind her, whipped by an acrid wind that carried the stench of death on every current. The battlefield stretched to every horizon, a charnel house of mortal folly, littered with the shattered remains of men and beasts who had once believed their cause worth dying for.
Smoke stung her eyes, but she did not blink. She could not blink. Her gaze moved desperately across the sea of fallen, searching, always searching, while carrion crows cawed their grim hymns overhead and wild dogs feasted on the unwanted meat of heroes and cowards alike. They did not approach her. Nothing ever did.
I need to find him.
The thought was a scream trapped in the silent, ancient vault of her mind—a mantra of desperation that had echoed across centuries until its edges had worn smooth as river stones. It had become part of her, this searching. As essential as breathing, as automatic as a heartbeat.
Where are you? My love. Where are you?
The promise was a blade in her own heart, twisted with every step she took through the slaughter. It was always like this—the frantic search, the dawning dread, the cruel twist of fate that always, always snatched him away at the very precipice of their reunion. She had lost count of how many times she had walked through fields like this one, through plague-ridden cities, through burning villages and sinking ships. Each time, the same desperate hope. Each time, the same hollow ending.
A shadow fell over the sun.
Not from the smoke, which boiled upward in greasy columns. Not from the wings of carrion birds, which circled in patient spirals above. This shadow came from within—from the place where hope finally died and left only the cold certainty of failure behind.
The world swam. The cacophony of death—the groans of the dying, the distant clash of remaining combatants, the wet sounds of feeding animals—faded to a dull roar, and then to nothing at all.
The world blacked out.
She woke with a gasp, her body arching off the bed as if electrocuted, her hands reaching for something—someone—who wasn’t there. The dream dissolved like morning frost, but the feeling of it lingered: the desperation, the searching, the endless, hopeless pursuit of a love that always slipped through her fingers.
The ceiling above her was white and familiar. It was the ceiling of her apartment. Her modern apartment. The one with the IKEA furniture and the reliable Wi-Fi and the complete absence of blood-soaked battlefields.
Just a dream, she told herself, though the word felt inadequate. It was always just a dream. But it was also always the same dream, the same desperate search, the same cold dread, always the same.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, and she grabbed it like a lifeline.
Apple: G! Coffee at The Grind in an hour. Don’t you dare bail! I have NEWS and it involves a certain philosophy, who shall remain nameless but whose cheekbones deserve their own Instagram account. BE THERE OR BE SQUARE ❤️❤️❤️
Giana let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Apple’s chaos was exactly what she needed—something normal, something mundane, something that had nothing to do with dreams of ancient battlefields or the ghosts of lovers long dead.
She typed back: I’ll be there. But if this is another “he looked at me” situation, I reserve the right to mock you mercilessly.
Apple: MOCK ALL YOU WANT. HIS CHEEKBONES. HIS EYES. HIS—actually I’ll save it for in person because some things are too sacred for text. ONE HOUR. DON’T BE LATE.
Giana smiled despite herself and swung her legs out of bed. The dream was already fading, as dreams always did, leaving behind only the emotional residue—a heaviness in her chest, a sense of loss that had no object, no focus. She had learned to live with that residue centuries ago. It was as familiar as her own reflection.
She just wished, sometimes, that the dreams would let her rest.
The pacing here is strong, especially the way you ended the chapter. It definitely makes me want to keep reading.
There’s a clear strength here: you know exactly what emotional note you’re aiming for, longing stretched across time, and it lands. The idea of a love that keeps slipping away across lifetimes is compelling, and the battlefield opening gives it weight.
Where this starts to slip a bit is intensity overload. Almost every line is operating at maximum dramatic pressure (ash, blood, death, centuries, desperation, etc.). When everything is heightened, nothing stands out as the moment. You could get more impact by letting a few lines breathe, pulling back so the sharpest images hit harder.
The repetition (“searching,” “always,” “same”) works thematically, but it’s used so often that it begins to feel stated rather than felt. Trust the reader to pick up on the pattern without reinforcing it quite as much.
The shift to modern life is a smart move, and honestly, it’s what makes the prologue work, but the tonal jump is almost too clean. Consider letting a fragment of the dream linger physically or psychologically a beat longer before the humor of Apple’s text fully resets the mood.
Apple’s message does its job (grounding, contrast, personality), but trimming it slightly would keep the pacing tight right after such a heavy opening.
If you’d like, I can go deeper with more detailed feedback on where to trim for stronger pacing, how to balance high-intensity imagery, refining repetition without losing theme, sharpening the emotional arc of the prologue, and strengthening the transition between past and present. Let me know your thoughts on this.
Nice opening chapter! I really liked how you used the nightmare as a flashback to tell of the repeated tragedies before pulling us back to the present as she wakes up.
The final few parts of the dream, where the shadow falls over the sun, were especially eerie and intriguing. You've definitely piqued my curiosity 😁👍