Nocturnals

The full moon, veiled in ethereal glow, loomed over the City of Despair. Its skyline lay in shadowed hues, each block rising like an ivory tower of the Sapiens. The fortunate slept within, cradled under the spell of Hypnos—the God of Sleep—while the hapless remained awake, imprisoned in glowing square cells, each one a cage for the Sleepless.

Had they not been warned? Meet Hypnos beneath the full moon or fall prey to the Night Owl—the name given to us, the Hollow-Eyed.

Each full moon, Hypnos collects his tribute: fragments of mortal experience, harvested and inscribed into the records of the Living. This is the bargain every soul made upon incarnating as Sapiens—to steal secrets from the Living and return them to the Eternals.

Unlike the tales whispered to children, we do not harm. We are silent figures with eyes like vacant moons, forcing the Sapiens, through our hollow lens, to look upon themselves. In our gaze, every hidden fear rises; few endure, most crumble, surrendering to the God of Sleep.

Yet not all obey. The Sleepless cling to their unrest, even as we linger at the edge of their vision. 

For such prey, each hour awake is a vigil. They clutch at every raw spark of feeling as though it were sacred fire—afraid sleep will extinguish what burns brightest: longing, creation, love.

So they sit in their glowing solitude, weaving unrest into songs, visions, and trembling beauty. They believe preserving such intensity defies eternity itself. And so they remain awake—trembling, luminous, and doomed. Ripe for the Hollow-Eyed.

The Hollow-Eyed drifted through the City of Despair like smoke, moving between towers where the last defiant lights flickered. Most Sapiens had succumbed to Hypnos by now, their fears laid bare until sleep was their only refuge. We decided to split apart to hunt.

I glided through the city until my gaze caught the highest floor of a crumbling apartment, where a single square of light still glowed. Drawn to the pulse of wakefulness, I descended.

Inside, a woman sat before an open window, fingers dancing over violin strings. Night air carried her music through the streets—a fragile rebellion against silence. Her eyes struck me first: milky, empty of presence, reflecting moonlight like frosted glass. 

A blind Sleepless.

She did not startle when my talons scraped the floor. She could not see our hollow eyes, our forms woven from shadow. Yet she knew. 

Her bow hesitated mid-note.

“You’re here,” she said steadily—not a question but recognition.

I circled, intrigued. Those with sight always broke down when they sensed us. They saw their horrors mirrored in our gaze and fled to Hypnos. But this one? She had no sight to reflect her fears. How do you hunt what does not fear its hunter?

“I’ve heard stories. The Hollow-Eyed come for those who refuse sleep.” She lifted her chin with a faint smile.

For the first time, I hesitated. I reached for her mind, as we had countless others, seeking cracks to pry open. Yet hers was neither a labyrinth of escape rooms nor a prison of secret terrors. It was a tended garden—ordered, cared for. How do you frighten someone who has already faced the darkness?

She tilted her head as if listening to my hesitation. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “The ones with sight run from their shadows. But me? I live in them.”

Her fingers resumed their dance, the violin weeping a melody of longing and resistance. The bow drew one last, aching note. Then she set the instrument aside, leaning into the night air. Waiting.

Hypnos demanded tribute. Yet this Sleepless had already given her fear a name. Something in me was too stubborn to let her be. I could not return to Hypnos empty-handed.

I paced her room, circling like a shadow in search of a fracture. There were none. The space was small, ordered, precise—every item placed with purpose.

“You seem anxious,” she said calmly, as if she had come to collect me.

“Not anxious,” I snapped. “Frustrated.”

Then I saw it—a pendant glimmering against her chest.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded.

“I’ve always had it,” she said, fingers brushing the charm. “The only thing left of my parents. They died protecting me from something… I never knew what.”

I stepped closer. “That is the Sigil of Teiresias, the blind prophet who could not see yet foresaw what others feared to face. His words soothed the Sleepless. They offered hope. In those days, we harvested best.”

“I’m no prophet,” she said. “But I knew the Hollow-Eyed would come. I have something to show you.”

She extended her hands toward the empty corner. “Take my hands.”

“I’m on your right,” I said.

She smiled faintly. “Here, you don’t have to pry into my mind; I’ll give you a guided tour.”

I closed my eyes as our hands met. The world shifted.

It was not a labyrinth of fears but a garden: violet trees looming in shifting shapes, petals changing with every glance. It was built not on sight but on touch, sound, scent. When I ceased straining to comprehend, the garden settled into something whole.

Among the violet trees, she said.

“Harvest not my pain but the garden in my mind. Tell Hypnos that living is beyond suffering. If Eternity seeks intensity, let it feast from my passion for a life unseen, yet wholly embraced.

I will not offer fear unmet, nor empty voids. Let Hypnos inscribe my garden, not my wounds. I choose to meet him with grace, not anguish.”

Her words carried the weight of prophecy.

“Tell me, Damien—the one who tames and subdues—will this tribute suffice for Hypnos?”

I stiffened. “How—”

She smiled. “A reflection is never one way. Your name rests in your mind, so it rests in mine.”

I faltered. Her defiance unraveled the order of my purpose.

“You got the color wrong.” With spite, I painted her violet trees a sickly green, petals dull yellow.

She stood unbroken.

I tore free from her grasp and fled into the night, my spite trailing behind, weaker than her grace. Yet her voice clung to me like petals refusing to wither.

The air in Hypnos’ lair, usually thick with the cloying scent of poppies and chamomile, now crackled with a cold, wakeful fury. I stood before him, empty-handed. The God of Sleep, usually a languid sprawl upon his chaise lounge, was rigid, his youthful features sharpened by displeasure. The shadows around us deepened, and the gentle snores of the realm seemed to hush in fear.

“You dare return to me with nothing?” His voice was a low whisper, vibrating with the force of a coming storm.

I kept my head bowed, the image of her unbroken garden seared behind my eyes. “My Lord, the watch was vigilant—”

“I care not for vigilance!” He thundered. The air vibrated. I braced for punishment—eternity of nightmare or silent exile.

Desperate, I offered, “I may not return with tribute, but I found something greater. The Sigil of Teiresias has been seen again.”

The raging stillness broke. Hypnos leaned forward, dark eyes now replaced by pure, avaricious curiosity. “Teiresias?” he breathed.

“Not the man,” I said, heart pounding. “A successor. A woman. She was seen wearing his Sigil. She does not sleep. She is blind, yet she sees the threads of fate as clearly as we see this room.”

Hypnos’ fury vanished, replaced by a strategist’s focus. “A seer outside my domain. An impossibility. A prize I must claim.” A slow, possessive smile crept over his lips.

“This changes everything. You will return to her. You will not demand. You will court her. Win her trust. Help her see the benefit of aligning with my power. She will read the fates for me, and I will grant her anything her heart desires. Make her wish to be mine.”

The command was a shackle. I bowed, accepting my new role: a courtier sent to seduce a prophet into servitude.

I returned to her, this time simply sitting opposite, watching her fingers move gracefully across a Braille typewriter.

“I see you have come with a counteroffer,” she said calmly.

“Hypnos is right. You are a Seer,” I whispered, knowing my plan to feign friendship had already failed.

I am not used to the Waking World. Sunlight pours into every corner of the city, unforgiving, leaving no place for Night Creatures to hide. I left Hypnos at dawn, shunned from his temple. His command burned in my ears: bring me the Seer, or be unmade. Now I lingered in her chamber, caught between exile and obedience. Daylight would smoulder my feathers to ash.

She moved barefoot across the boards; every vibration betrayed me where I clung to a ceiling beam. She couldn’t see me, yet she knew. Her blind eyes pierced more than sight ever could.

“Damien, dear,” she said, voice unyielding. “Fetch the poppies from the balcony. They’ve been waiting in the shade for you.”

Shame burned through me, but I obeyed. My wings unfurled in the cramped room, brushing against mortal walls. I plucked the blossoms and laid them at her table. She drew a deck of blank cards. One leapt free; her fingers caressed its surface like tracing an old scar.

“The Hanged Man,” she laughed. “You.” She tilted the card upward. I drifted closer. Its surface was carved in braille, studded with constellations meant only for her touch.

Chamomile and poppies choked the air. For a moment, I believed myself back in Hypnos’ lair. But then she began chanting.

Ancient syllables vibrated through the room—words I had not heard since Teiresias walked the temple. Each verse carved anew the map of Hypnos’ domain. My eyes widened as her chant drew near completion—the forbidden lines carved into Hypnos’ throne, words known only to him…and to Teiresias.

Her voice didn’t merely echo him—it inscribed. His voice was hope. Hers, defiance.

“Stop!” I rasped. “The throne’s words are forbidden. Even the Eternal dare not—”

But she continued.
“…as above, so below.”

The air tore open.

Hypnos stood among us. Summoned from his lair, the God of Sleep towered in mortal space. His rage bent the floorboards, blackening the air. Across the world, every Sapien awakened. Those caught between rose as Sleepwalkers, hollow vessels of a broken order.

“How dare you drag me from eternity?” Hypnos roared.

She stood still. “I will not bow to your orders or be bribed by your offers. Harvest only our fire of passion and nothing less.”

“Blasphemy!”

He drew his blade. She didn’t flinch. Instinctively, I stepped between them.

My eyes shut for the first time in eternity.

Was it fear or surrender?

I trembled between her defiance and his wrath. For the first time, I saw a path unmarked by order or prophecy.

The air stopped feeling cold. Instead, it became stale from Hypnos’ presence, as if every drop of temperature and glimmer of light were sucked into a void. His blade was not metal but absolute oblivion—a sliver of nothingness that existed before dreams.

Not even glancing at me, Hypnos fixed on her. “You have torn the fabric of night. For this, there is no sleep. Only an end,” his gaze was vast and empty.

I expected her to cower. Instead, she smiled, a small, defiant curve. “Bringing a blade to a war of ideas won’t cut what I offer, Hypnos.”

My body moved before my mind could form a thought. I stepped between them, wings stretching to full span, forming a feathered shield.

I, a creature of shadow, stood against the god of my making.

Hypnos shifted his gaze to me—not anger now, but profound disappointment. “You would choose a fragile mortal over your Lord’s endless mercy?”

“I am not choosing her,” I stuttered. “I am choosing the truth she speaks. You demanded I bring you the Seer. You did not specify the condition.”

Hypnos laughed—a sound like mountains shifting. “Audacity of pedantry. You have learned mortal tricks.”

He lowered his blade. “Very well. You have delivered her. And she has delivered her message. The transaction is complete. But a debt remains. My temple is defiled. My order, broken. This imbalance must be corrected.”

A searing pain shot through my wings. I cried out. The divine essence—the gift of Hypnos—evaporated like mist under the sun. I thought I was becoming ash; instead, I was becoming real. Weight pressed down, my heart thundered, lungs gasped. I fell to my knees, no longer clinging to shadows but solid on the creaking floorboards.

“Let the day burn you. Let time claim you. You wished to be of her world? Now you are.” With a final, world-bending sigh, Hypnos vanished.

The room was just a room again, filled with chamomile and poppies.

“Damien, dear,” she said softly. “The sun is waiting for us.”

I looked up. For the first time, the prey had been unmade. The predator forgiven. What remained was simply a man and a woman, sleepless and boundless, ready to face the dawn together.