Lyra was already fast asleep. Her little chest rose and fell slowly. I gently brushed away the bangs covering her closed eyes.

Fate and fortune is cruel. I thought bitterly. My sister was lucky she could sleep through the night, even with the occasional nightmare. My night terror made it nearly impossible for me to sleep sometimes. I assumed a comfortable position on the windowsill and gazed out the window. Candles flickered in a few windows and the houses basked in the light of the waxing moon that was almost full. Snatching my book off the nightstand, I settled between my covers for a bit of reading.

I was running once again down the streets of the underground with bread in my arms. My feet barely made a sound as they touched the cold stone beneath them. I felt something sticky touch my foot. I stopped to examine my foot. Suddenly a sickening tangy iron smell hit my nose.

"Little sparrow" whispered some raspy voice from a dark corner.

"Always too late, bloody messes in her wake," the voice chanted again, "little footprints to follow, down the hall we go!" it chirped.

I pivoted and turned away from the voice. Instead of seeing the street, I saw darkness then I felt invisible hands pulling me toward the sounds I heard earlier. Abruptly I was met with a sunken face. Its eyes were completely blank and white, the skin on its face filled with gouging holes so deep bones could be seen. The face fell into my hands and began to melt. I dropped it to the floor, but the blood dripped down my arms. I felt the hands grasping my face again. Frantically, I wiped the fluid on my tattered clothes, however, it merely seeped into my skin and caused my arms to turn crimson red. I heard chains clink against the stone. I whipped around nothing was there, only the dimly lit street. I checked my arms, there was no blood on them. Just the same scars that I despise wholeheartedly. Shaking my head, I grabbed the fallen loaves and began down the street again. This time I heard a shriek and then a scream. Child's scream of pure terror. I immediately ran towards the screaming. Wheeling down the alley, I froze. Chocolate brown hair was in a puddle of blood. It was Lyra. And there was a knife driven into her carotid ar terribly familiar crimson substance spread to reach my feet.

"Little sparrow, too late," it chirped.

"Slit their throats in their sleep,

hear their painful screams,

little sparrow can only weep,

look, look! how's she ripped apart by the seams,

listen to your line of fate,

there's no one left to rescue you!

Run little sparrow! Fly, fly, fly, or by crimson you will die!"

I sprung up breathing heavily. Flinging off the covers, I stormed over to Lyra's little bed. Her dark hair sprawled about her head, and her limbs tangled in the sheets. I hesitated recalling the gleaming metal sticking out of her neck. I shifted the covers a little. Her throat was intact. I sighed and plopped down on the end of her bed. Gripping my head in both hands, I tried to clear my mind of the flashing images; my baby sisters horrified screams as she died and the gentle hand that caressed my face before... I shook my head. I must've fallen asleep while reading. I picked the book up off the floor. Then turned my head to glance out the window. The darkness was fading away into the early morning light. What a surprise. I slept more than 3 hours.

(Note: this is an excerpt of a chapter.)