Rocío rubbed her eyes in desperation. This had only ever happened to her once before. 

The first time was when she was no more than sixteen years old, she’d had a waking nightmare for over a week that her older brother, who must’ve been nineteen at the time, would die in battle. At the time there hadn’t been any war and so she had assumed it was just a stubborn nightmare. However, a year later, a war broke out on the southern front of the Veridis Empire, dragging the duke and his heir into its hellish battlefield. 

Rocío begged Santiago not to go after remembering her dream, but upon his refusal of her constant her pleading, she told him that if he must leave, he needed to promise her never to lift his visor when on the frontlines. It barely satisfied her when he promised. Midway into the war, Santiago had been nearly killed as a knight plunged a lance to his face, his visor saving him from a brutal death, but not leaving him unscathed. The attack left a scar on his cheek, nothing compared to what could’ve been.

A thought slithered into her mind the more she thought about those times; could she see the future? Who was she kidding, there was no such thing as clairvoyance. She prayed this wouldn’t be their future.

“It’s not real, Rocío,” she mumbled to herself, hugging her legs and nestling her face in her knees. “It’s not real.”

The night felt endless as she stared at the window, hoping the sun would shine through the crack of her curtains. The darkness of her room was starting to eat her alive, the emptiness and silence of the night was making her paranoid at any tiny sound. 

She fell back on her bed, restless and fully awake. This time, she didn’t cry, but she still felt the dreadful pit in her stomach that churned at the thought of the burning mansion and her dead family. She stared at the canopy above her, gripping a blanket in a tight hug. She debated if she should tell her siblings about her nightmare, but she finally decided against it, it would go away on its own.

An eternity passed until finally the crack of dawn lit a sliver of her room a pink light. She slipped out of her bed and walked on the cold granite floor until she reached the curtains. Pushing aside the heavy fabric, she sighed in relief upon seeing the warm orange glow of the sun from beyond the eastern mountains.

The warm morning light was enough to calm her down. She leaned against the chaise at the foot of her bed, taking in the serene sight in front of her. She was already feeling tired again, so she crawled back into bed, hoping that the light of the sun would dispel her nightmare. She snuggled back into the blankets which were now cold. Rubbing her feet against the cold covers, she was able to warm them up even if just by a little. She shivered and she shut her eyes.

Finally, she relaxed into her bed once more, sleep lulling her into dreamland.

“—Cío. Rocío!” 

Rocío snapped out of her trance. Her mind had been on the incident with Santiago and the current nightmare. She shook her head and turned towards her younger sister, who had her dark eyebrows knitted in disappointment as she set down her teacup and saucer on the coffee table between them. 

“Hm?” Rocío blinked away the image of their burning estate. “Yes, Elena?”

Elena crossed her arms over her chest. “Have you even been listening to me?” She questioned.

“Well…” Rocío sighed, “Forgive me, Elena, I’ve just been…exhausted.”

Elena gasped and turned to the older woman next to her—their mother. The duchess had red hair, which was inherited by only their late older sister, Renata, while Elena and Rocío had dark chocolate brown hair just like their father. Santiago’s hair was mahogany, not quite the intense red of his mother’s but not the dark chocolate of his father’s. Rocío had been born with their mother’s honey eyes while her sisters had received their father’s ice-blue eyes and Santiago inherited their grandmother's chestnut brown eyes. 

“Mother, there’s something wrong with Rocío, she’s been sleep-deprived all week,” Elena frowned. 

The duchess turned to her third child and her eyebrows knitted together in concern. She stood from the couch and walked over to Rocío, landing the back of her hand against her daughter’s forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever…”

Rocío sighed and gently pushed her mother's hand away from her head, “Mother, I’m not ill, I’ve just been having trouble sleeping, that’s all.”

“All week!” Elena emphasized. “That’s far from normal.”

The duchess sat down next to Rocío. “Is there something that troubles you?” She asked softly.

Rocío stared into her mother’s warm and gentle eyes. She was so tempted. She shook her head. “No, Mother, I’ve just randomly been waking up at odd hours and can’t seem to return to bed.”

“We should call upon the doctor,” her mother suggested, “It’s most definitely not normal.”

Elena nodded in agreement. “It’s exactly what I’ve been telling her.”

Rocío shook her head again. “No, there’s no need,” she assured, “It’ll go away on its own.”

The youngest lady groaned, “It probably won’t, and you have to be very healthy because you have to be present at my debut ball!”

Elena’s birthday and debut ball was happening in a week’s time, and the house had been lively with preparations. The staff had spent nearly a month getting Estella Abbey in order and in its best and most luxurious state to welcome the hordes of guests that were expected to be trickling in the following weekend.  Elena was the youngest child of the Duke of Estella, which meant she was given only the best of everything, and it was also an occasion that the duke had to show off the fruits of his involvement in the war.

“Worry not, Elena, I’ll be just fine by the time of your debut,” Rocío insisted.

The duchess shook her head. “No, I will call upon Doctor Tomás, your health is the top priority, alright sweetheart?” She squeezed Rocío’s hand reassuringly.

Rocío sighed. “Mother, trust me—”

“No,” her mother silenced, “You don’t get to have a say. I am calling the doctor and that is final.”

“Very well,” Rocío huffed in defeat. “I will oblige just this once, Mother.”

“Good,” her mother smiled. Then the duchess waved her hand, signalling her maid to approach. After whispering in the ear of her maid, the older woman bowed her head and left the room.

Elena picked up the teacup again and sipped at the pomegranate tea her sister had brewed. “Now that that’s settled, I asked you what you think of hanging wisterias on the balcony. Wouldn’t it be simply divine?”

Rocío nodded. “I think it would be lovely. Have you already decided on what flower arrangement will be on the tables?”

Elena eagerly nodded. “Of course! I’m going with mainly violet lilies and hydrangeas, and I’ve even done the preparations to serve blueberry tea and blackberry desserts, what do you think?”

A smile lit Rocío’s face. “I think that every young lady in the kingdom will be inspired by your preparations.”

“You think so?” Her younger sister’s blue eyes sparkled. “Oh, I do very much hope so!” She clapped her hands together.