Sleep Perchance to Dream
The small hotel room in Amsterdam felt both foreign and familiar. Lilith Locke sat on the edge of the narrow bed, the hum of distant city life seeping through the thin walls. Her eyes traced the faded pattern of the worn quilt as exhaustion weighed down her limbs. The adrenaline from tonight’s match—the moment she pinned Victoria Lyons—still pulsed faintly in her veins, but now her body demanded rest.
She ran her fingers through her dark hair, the strands still damp from sweat and effort. Her mind replayed the match in fragmented flashes: the roaring crowd, the crushing impact, the shock of victory. It felt surreal—like stepping through a veil between two worlds. Victoria’s glare burned at the edges of her memory, a reminder that this was only the beginning.
“Goodnight sweet Queen.. Soon we will dance.. And your reign will end..”
Lilith stood and moved toward the window. Outside, Amsterdam’s canals shimmered under the moonlight, the ancient city breathing quietly beneath the stars. She took a slow breath, feeling the cool air seep through the cracked glass. In this moment, alone and vulnerable, the weight of everything she carried—the expectations, the fears, the hope—settled like a stone in her chest. She wondered where he was, if he was thinking of her.
“Goodnight Kevin… soon my love.”
She climbed back into bed, pulling the covers close. Her heartbeat slowed, but her thoughts raced, tangled in doubt and determination. Was she ready for what came next? Could she face the challenges Victoria and the others would bring? Her eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to sleep’s pull.
And as the city whispered outside, Lilith slipped into a dreamscape where reality twisted—where Wonderland waited, and the Queen’s Gambit was far from over.
CHAPTER I: THE FALL
There was a teacup.
Delicate, porcelain. Cracked.
Spinning slowly in midair like it was caught between time and truth, suspended by some unseen force that defied logic, gravity, and sanity alike.
Lilith Locke blinked at it, wide-eyed. Her breath trembled in her throat, fogging the cold air around her lips. She stood in the center of a vast checkerboard floor — black and white tiles that shimmered beneath her bare feet like they were made of glass and bone. The pattern stretched far beyond the visible horizon, bleeding into a lavender sky streaked with gold lightning and veins of something... red.
The world groaned, as if it had been turned inside out.
"I was just in Amsterdam," she whispered, her voice hanging in the air like smoke.
She remembered the moment vividly — the roar of the crowd, the shock in Victoria Lyons' eyes, the three count. She'd done the impossible. She'd beaten the Queen. And then — then it all shattered like a mirror, and she was here.
Wherever here was.
She looked down.
The hem of her dress — blue, Victorian, strangely elegant with delicate frills and a cinched corset — swayed gently in a wind that didn’t exist. Her fingernails were painted black. Her boots had laces that twisted like vines. There was a faint hum beneath her skin, like she was vibrating slightly out of step with reality.
Lilith Locke, once again, had fallen down the rabbit hole.
This wasn’t the first time she'd slipped into madness — but it was the first time it welcomed her back like an old friend.
The air smelled like static and sugared decay. Time didn’t tick here — it dripped. Her surroundings pulsed like a heartbeat, each second a little too slow, a little too loud.
She turned in slow circles, eyes scanning the surreal world around her. The trees in the distance were not trees at all — they were mirror shards, towering and crooked, reflecting distorted versions of herself back at her. In one, she was crying. In another, laughing maniacally. And in a third, she was standing triumphant — crown tilted on her head, blood on her hands.
“Where am I?” she murmured, though no answer came.
Somewhere beyond the mirrors, a music box played. A lullaby. But it was wrong. Off-key, backwards — like someone trying to remember a tune they’d only heard in a nightmare.
"Hello?" she called out louder, voice steady now despite the strangeness. Her shadow stretched behind her like it was trying to crawl away, flickering out of sync, delayed.
Then a whisper, almost too soft to hear: “The game has already begun.”
Her breath caught.
And the teacup?
Still spinning. Still cracking.
And somewhere, far above or perhaps deep within, the Red Queen smiled.
CHAPTER II: THE RED QUEEN’S GAME
The chessboard shifted beneath Lilith’s feet — the once-still squares began to flip like trapdoors, some falling away into endless voids, others rising like broken teeth jutting from a maw. Each move threatened to throw her off balance, a test of footing, of will. A rumble rolled beneath the surface as if the world itself was a living creature stirring from sleep.
In the distance, framed against a fractured horizon, rose a castle — massive and unnatural. Crimson and bone were its foundation, with jagged spires like claws tearing through the sky. Its towers twisted impossibly upward, scraping clouds that bled gold and ink. Around its base sprawled a garden, if it could be called that — thorned vines writhed like serpents, and the roses were withered, blackened, and dripping red. Not dew. Blood.
Then the voice came.
“OFF WITH HER HEAD!”
Lilith’s head snapped up.
There, on the tallest balcony overlooking the twisted landscape, stood the Red Queen — Victoria Lyons.
Her silhouette was regal and terrifying. Draped in a floor-length gown of blood-red crushed velvet, the fabric shimmered with malevolence. Gold filigree traced up her arms like veins, and jagged shoulder spikes curved like fangs. A crown of thorns rested upon her brow, sinking into her scalp — a symbol of both her dominance and her cruelty. And that smile. That smirk. Arrogant. Dismissive. Like nothing here could touch her.
“The Queen of the Roulette Division,” Lilith muttered, fists curling at her sides. “Victoria Lyons. Of course.”
Victoria raised a scepter shaped like a bishop’s staff, though it ended in a sharp dagger instead of a cross. Her voice crackled across the sky, thick with condescension.
“You thought you’d won in Amsterdam, didn’t you?” she sneered. “That one pinfall — one mistake — made you my equal?” Her laughter echoed like breaking glass. “Oh, sweet little Lilith… This is my Wonderland now. And you are just a trespasser in it.”
Lilith took a step forward.
“No,” she whispered, voice gathering strength. “It’s not your Wonderland anymore.”
The ground responded.
The roses hissed and thrashed. The sky cracked like porcelain under pressure. Thunder, though there were no clouds. Behind Victoria, statues of former champions — stone effigies twisted into tortured poses — trembled. Hairline fractures formed across their surfaces before they shattered completely, crumbling into dust. Each fallen figure was a monument to an empire Victoria thought eternal — now collapsing in the presence of defiance.
Lilith’s defiance.
The Red Queen’s smirk faltered — just slightly — as if she had felt something shift.
She raised her scepter high.
A beam of blinding light erupted from its tip, slicing the air in a scream of magic and fury. The castle walls pulsed. The board beneath Lilith’s feet began to tremble.
This was no dream.
The match had already begun.
And Lilith Locke wasn’t here to play by the Queen’s rules anymore.
CHAPTER III: THE CARD KNIGHT
From the brambles, something stirred — a ripple in the thorned silence.
Then a rustle. A deliberate sound, too exact to be natural.
A figure emerged from the shifting maze of blackened vines and blood-soaked roses, her presence as precise as a blade drawn from its sheath. Her footfalls landed with the finality of a gavel, each step echoing like the drumbeats of an execution parade.
Harper Mason.
But not quite.
This was not the Harper Lilith had faced under the harsh lights of a wrestling ring. This was something else entirely — something reshaped, reframed, and rearmed by the rules of this distorted Wonderland.
She was suited in gleaming armor, her form encased in polished steel painted with crimson hearts and gleaming diamonds. A living Playing Card — the Queen’s loyal Knight. Her helmet was a half-mask, molded to show one side of her face while obscuring the other — a symbol of duality, of control and suppression. Her eyes gleamed like rubies cut to perfection, sharp and unyielding.
“You don’t belong here, Locke,” Knight Harper said, voice flat and stripped of anything human. “The Queen has made her move. There’s no room for wild pieces on her board.”
Lilith tilted her head, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Funny,” she replied, voice soft and amused, “I was just thinking how much this place needs to be wilded.”
They circled each other, two predators with different instincts. Harper moved like a metronome — clean, measured, every gesture a study in discipline and control. Lilith, by contrast, was unpredictable. Her steps were light, dancing. She moved with the grace of a whisper and the danger of a scream.
“Tell me something, Harper,” Lilith said, her tone teasing but edged. “Do you ever get tired of being a soldier in someone else’s story? Don’t you ever wonder what you’d be without her leash around your neck?”
Knight Harper’s eyes flickered. Barely. But it was there.
“Better a soldier than a dreamer choking on fantasy,” she snapped. “This world is built on order. On hierarchy. You don’t belong in it — you never did.”
“Maybe not,” Lilith said. “But doesn’t that make me exactly what it needs?”
Then the clash.
It came without warning — sudden and vicious. Harper lunged forward, blade flashing in the twisted daylight, a swipe meant to end the conversation. Lilith ducked beneath it, rolled to the side, and kicked upward, her boot connecting square with Harper’s ribs. The impact echoed like a gunshot. Harper staggered but held firm, armored boot sliding back to catch her stance.
Lilith grabbed a broken tile from the chessboard — it elongated in her grip, transforming into a jagged, crystalline sword of thought and rebellion. She brought it up just in time to block Harper’s next strike.
Steel met madness.
Sparks erupted with each clash, lighting the battlefield like fireworks at a funeral. They moved in a violent rhythm, logic and chaos colliding in bursts of breath and fury.
And as they fought — as the Queen’s Knight clashed with the rogue Alice — Lilith saw something deeper. A tremor in Harper’s swing when Victoria’s name was invoked. A hesitation in the kill shot. A shadow behind those ruby eyes.
Doubt.
It was buried beneath duty and armor, but it was there.
And Lilith smiled — not because she had won, but because the cracks had begun to show.
CHAPTER IV: THE JABBERWOCKY
The ground trembled.
It was not a gentle shake, but a deep, bone-humming quake that rolled across the checkerboard earth like a warning. The sky, already unstable, darkened to bruised purple as the clouds convulsed, folding in on themselves like paper burned at the edges. The wind shrieked, sharp and discordant, carrying with it the sound of leaves torn from trees — only these trees bled when wounded.
Then, as if summoned by the dread in the air, the trees parted.
Something massive moved between them — something primal, ancient. A beast stepped into the clearing, and the dreamscape bowed in its presence. Towering, scaled, and terrible, it walked with the grace of a predator that knew it had nothing to fear. Its wings shimmered like jagged glass, translucent and cruel, reflecting twisted versions of the world around it. Claws dug into the tile beneath it, leaving trails of broken time and splintered thought.
Its eyes locked on Lilith. They pulsed with otherworldly light — ancient, intelligent, hungry.
“Song…” Lilith breathed.
Or what was left of her.
No, this wasn’t just Song. This was a nightmare version, pulled from the pages of forgotten prophecy. A living weapon cloaked in elegance and dread. Her body flickered between solid shadow and sinew, her every movement like ink spilled underwater — beautiful, terrifying, wrong. This was the Jabberwocky. Her final form. Her fury unrestrained.
Lilith stood still, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. Her hands clenched, but her voice faltered.
“You’re not her…”
The Jabberwocky tilted its head, as if amused by the fear it felt rippling from her.
Then it spoke.
Its voice was not one, but many — a harmony of riddles and rage, each syllable echoing like it had been spoken in a dozen tongues before reaching her ears.
“Only the fearless walk the Queen’s path, Lilith. And you… you tasted victory. Stole from the throne. Now the forest wants its dues.”
Its wings extended, slicing the air with a scream of metal.
Lilith’s lip curled. “Then let it try and take them.”
She dropped into a stance — fists raised, knees bent, every nerve on fire.
The Jabberwocky leapt.
It was less a pounce and more an eruption of movement, a storm of claws and kicks and whirling fury. Song's strikes came faster than thought, a hurricane of spinning kicks, elbows, and feints. Lilith had fought her before — but not like this. Not in a realm where reality bent to thought, where dreams turned traitor.
She moved on instinct.
Reflex.
Survival.
A kick arced toward her temple. She ducked, rolled, came up with a floating pocket watch in her hand — spinning midair like it had been waiting to be found. With a snarl, she swung it like a mace. Time shattered, exploding into fragments of glass and clock gears, raining across the battlefield.
The Jabberwocky reeled back — a flicker of pain, or perhaps memory.
For one heartbeat, there was silence.
Then… a sound rose.
Not from the trees, not from the sky.
But from beneath the earth.
And they all heard it.
CHAPTER V: THE TEA PARTY
The battlefield shifted again — violently, yet with a kind of theatrical grace. The chessboard beneath them cracked and split, and from its shattered seams grew fine porcelain grass, delicate as bone china. Trees melted into twisted chairs with high, arched backs and clawed feet. Platters and teapots floated down from the violet sky, spinning like fireflies, filling the air with the scent of rosewater and smoke.
A long banquet table materialized from the mist — warped and uneven, its surface covered in lace stained with rust and red. The cups on it giggled when no one touched them. Silverware danced in slow pirouettes. Candles burned with blue fire, dripping wax that hissed as it hit the tablecloth.
They were seated now.
All four.
At the head of the table sat Victoria Lyons, robed in royalty and malice. Her gown billowed like flame, her scepter resting lazily in her hand. Her lips were curled into that same imperious smirk she always wore when she believed the match had already been won.
To her right, Harper Mason sat straight-backed, armored and silent. A blade shaped like a spade was cradled in her lap, and she was sharpening it with clinical precision, her eyes never straying from Lilith. No emotion. Only duty.
Across from her, Song — the Jabberwocky — sat coiled in shadow, her body half-glimpsed and flickering. She sipped from a cracked teacup filled not with tea, but black ink. Each swallow left smudges on her mouth that vanished like fading nightmares.
And at the far end stood Lilith Locke.
She didn’t sit. She refused to.
Her hands slammed onto the table with defiance, rattling the china.
“You stacked the deck,” Lilith said, voice steady and sharp. “You picked three names you thought you could control, Victoria. You turned Harper into your loyal pawn, you twisted Song into a monster, and you figured I’d be too far gone, too lost in the dream to find my way through.”
Victoria tilted her head, intrigued more than insulted. She took a slow sip from her goblet — the liquid inside shimmered red, viscous and alive.
“I did choose,” she replied. “And now I choose again — I choose to break you. In this Wonderland, I write the rules. You’re in my court, dear.”
Lilith smiled — not sweetly, but like someone who had learned to laugh at pain.
“And in mine?” she said, eyes gleaming like stormlight. “The Queen bleeds.”
In an instant, the table erupted.
Teacups shattered into stars. Platters exploded in fireworks of silver and bone. Candles screamed as they melted down into molten wax serpents, hissing and writhing. The chairs buckled and warped, launching Harper and Song into motion.
Above them, a massive clock began to tick — backward. Loud. Ominous.
The countdown had begun.
“One of us leaves with the crown,” Lilith declared, rising amidst the chaos. “And I plan to wear it while you choke on your own rules.”
Victoria hurled her goblet with a snarl.
Harper rose, blade in hand.
Song screamed — a sound that split the dream down its seams.
And the final round began.
CHAPTER VI: THE FINAL MOVE
The world fractured, then reassembled.
No spiral, no descent — just impact. The checkerboard crumbled into fog, and through that veil, a new reality surged into being.
A ring appeared from nothingness. It didn’t rise from the ground; it asserted its existence — ancient and electric. The ropes pulsed like veins of lightning, humming with energy that cracked the dream wide open. The canvas was stitched from memory, blood, and myth — it shimmered with every past fight, every sacrifice, every scream swallowed by the crowd that didn’t exist, yet somehow felt present.
And in the four corners of this spectral battleground — the final four.
Harper Mason. Breathing like a machine. Calm. Precise. Her knuckles bloodied, her blade discarded. Her eyes never left the center of the ring — never left the title.
Song. Wings unfurled, feathers razor-sharp. Her mouth curled into a bestial snarl, lips painted in ink. Every muscle coiled. She was a tempest in flesh, a nightmare refusing to fade.
Victoria Lyons. The Queen. Standing tall, regal despite her crown lying somewhere in the dust. She held the Roulette Championship tight against her chest — not like a trophy, but like a birthright. Her gaze was pure venom, and her nails were already stained with someone else’s blood.
And then there was Lilith Locke.
She stood barefoot in the center of it all — the eye of the storm. Bruised. Bleeding from a cut above her brow. Her lip split. Her arms trembling from the weight of everything she'd endured.
But she was smiling.
Because this was what she fought for. Not the dream. Not the escape. But the war. The moment where fate didn’t choose — where she did.
A single bell rang. Low and haunting. A funeral dirge and a battle cry all in one.
The match began.
Lilith launched first — no hesitation, no breath wasted. She hurled herself at Song, meeting the beast head-on, knee driving up into her midsection. The Jabberwocky staggered, wind ripped from her lungs. But there was no time to breathe.
Harper was on her before she could blink — fists moving with military precision, every strike measured, meant to dismantle. Lilith weaved under a hook and twisted Harper’s momentum into a throw, sending her crashing chest-first into the ropes.
Pain exploded down her back — Victoria’s claws, raking across her spine like a queen claiming her due.
Lilith spun, caught Victoria’s wrist, and twisted low. One heartbeat. Then she spiked the Red Queen with a DDT — the canvas howled beneath them. The title rolled from Victoria’s grasp, spinning away like fate trying to choose.
Chaos reigned.
Bodies collided.
Reality itself blurred. Every second was its own hallucination — agony blooming into glory, blood dripping into dreams. Harper and Song crashed into each other like titans, wings and fists. Victoria crawled along the ropes, teeth gritted, regal rage radiating from every breath.
Lilith climbed — not metaphorically.
She climbed the ropes.
Her knees buckled beneath her, vision swimming like the ring was caught underwater. Her lungs burned. Her shoulders screamed. But she climbed — because she had to.
Below her, Harper had driven a spear into Song’s gut, but the beast would not die. She kicked Harper across the chest, but Harper rose again, staggered but unbroken. Victoria reached for her crown — grasping, desperate.
And Lilith?
She looked to the sky — that broken, bleeding dream-sky that had watched her fall and rise again.
And she whispered.
Not a name.
Not a threat.
Just a prayer — to the moon, to madness, to every piece of herself she’d left in every ring she’d ever bled in.
Then she leapt.
A corkscrew senton — body twisting like stardust, every wound burning in the wind.
She crashed into the chaos — all three of them colliding at once in the eye of the storm.
Time paused.
Then — the count.
ONE.
Harper twitched beneath her, too stunned to move.
TWO.
Victoria’s fingers scraped the canvas, reaching, grasping.
THREE.
Stillness.
No roar of a crowd. No booming announcement. Just the slow, haunting toll of the bell.
The lights flickered above the ring like dying stars.
Lilith lay on the mat, chest heaving, eyes wide with disbelief. Her fingers curled around the title — heavy, warm, real.
And in that moment, in the collapsing dream, the cracked Wonderland...
The Queen had fallen.
And Lilith Locke had risen.
CHAPTER VII: IN DREAM AWAKENING
Lilith Locke sat up with a gasp — sharp, ragged, like someone drowning who finally broke the surface.
The air was cold. The world was still. And the violent hum of the dream had gone silent.
She was back.
Concrete walls. Dim fluorescent lights. The low hum of a vending machine somewhere outside the door. Her body ached, every muscle a memory of war. She looked down — hands bruised, knuckles raw. Her pulse still thundered in her ears, but slowly, reality began to settle over her like dust.
She sat on the bench in the locker room, sweat clinging to her skin like a second layer. A cracked mirror reflected her image — mascara smeared, blood drying on her temple, strands of hair matted against her cheek.
Not Alice.
Lilith.
And beside her, on the bench… it gleamed.
The Roulette Championship.
Gold and leather. Scratched. Burnished. Hers.
She blinked, reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they made contact with the plate. It was warm. Solid. Real. Not a hallucination. Not a mirage conjured by some twisted dream-world court.
Real.
Lilith exhaled — slow, disbelieving. Her throat felt raw from screaming, though she couldn't remember if she'd screamed in the dream… or only in victory.
The Queen’s Gambit had ended.
Victoria’s reign had cracked. The Jabberwocky had been silenced. The loyal Knight had faltered. And in the end, the girl who had fallen through the rabbit hole — who’d danced with madness and fought monsters stitched from her own doubt — had risen.
Not yet awake.
Alive.
Lilith Locke stood, title in hand, shoulders square.
She hadn’t escaped Wonderland.
She’d conquered it.
And now?
Now the real story began.
EPILOGUE: OFF WITH HER CROWN
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Lilith whispered to the camera later that night, her hair matted, her knuckles split. “I don’t want to be Alice. I didn’t want to be anyone’s dreamgirl. But this place — this company — it makes monsters and queens and soldiers out of all of us.”
She smirked.
“And sometimes… sometimes the girl who falls through the cracks is the one who crawls out wearing the crown.”
Fade to black.
Therapy Session: Lilith Locke & Dr. Harris
The soft ticking of the clock filled the room as Lilith Locke shifted uneasily in the leather chair. Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap, eyes darting between the muted pastel walls and the calm, expectant gaze of Dr. Harris seated across from her.
Dr. Harris adjusted her glasses and smiled gently. “Good to see you, Lilith. How have you been feeling since our last session?”
Lilith let out a slow breath and stared down at her hands. “I… had the strangest dream.”
Dr. Harris nodded, encouraging her to continue. “Tell me about it.”
Lilith swallowed hard, eyes distant. “It was like stepping into a twisted Wonderland. I was Alice, and Victoria was this terrifying Red Queen. Harper was a card soldier, all sharp edges and cold discipline. Song was this Jabberwocky — a nightmare version of herself, chaotic and dangerous. And I was… lost.”
She paused, swallowing again, a flicker of fear in her eyes. “It felt so real. Like it was trying to tell me something. Like a warning.”
Dr. Harris leaned forward. “What do you think it was warning you about?”
Lilith shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. “That the match isn’t just about fighting the others. It’s about fighting myself. My doubts. My fears. That if I don’t get through it… I’ll lose more than just a match.”
There was a moment of silence. Dr. Harris’s eyes softened. “That’s a very powerful insight, Lilith. What part of yourself do you feel at risk of losing?”
Lilith’s gaze fell to the floor. “My sense of control. My identity. I’ve always been the underdog, the scrapper, but now… I’m supposed to be the champion in waiting. And that terrifies me.”
“Tell me more about that fear,” Dr. Harris prompted gently.
Lilith’s hands clenched into fists. “I keep wondering if I’m really ready. If I’m strong enough. That dream… it showed me parts of myself I try to hide. The loneliness, the panic, the feeling that no matter how hard I fight, I’m just a piece on someone else’s board.”
Dr. Harris nodded thoughtfully. “It sounds like you’re wrestling with a lot of pressure — both internal and external.”
Lilith let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Everyone expects me to be unstoppable. But inside, I’m scared. Scared of failing. Scared of losing everything I’ve worked for.”
“Have you noticed any ways that fear affects you in your daily life?” Dr. Harris asked.
Lilith paused, considering. “I’ve been restless. Hard to sleep. My mind races with ‘what ifs.’ Sometimes I replay the dream, like it’s a puzzle I’m trying to solve. Other times, I feel numb, like I’m shutting down before the storm even hits.”
“That’s a natural response to high stress and anxiety,” Dr. Harris said. “Your mind is trying to prepare you for what’s ahead. But it can also be overwhelming.”
Lilith nodded, biting her lip. “I want to be ready. To go into that match confident and strong. But the dream… it feels like a shadow hanging over me.”
Dr. Harris smiled reassuringly. “Dreams can be our mind’s way of processing fears and desires. They bring what’s hidden into the light so we can face it. What do you think Alice learned in your dream?”
Lilith’s eyes flickered, the tension in her face softening. “That I can’t just fight the Red Queen or the Jabberwocky. I have to face the parts of me that feel small and powerless. And maybe… accept them instead of running.”
“That’s an important step,” Dr. Harris agreed. “Growth often comes from embracing our vulnerabilities rather than denying them. How might you start doing that as you prepare for the match?”
Lilith’s lips pressed together thoughtfully. “I guess… by being honest with myself. Not pretending I’m fearless. Not pushing down the panic or the loneliness. Maybe even sharing some of it, instead of carrying it alone.”
“That’s very brave,” Dr. Harris said warmly. “Vulnerability can be a source of strength. Have you talked to anyone about how you’re feeling?”
Lilith’s gaze dropped. “Not really. I don’t want to seem weak. I’m supposed to be the contender — the future champion. People expect me to be tough.”
“Toughness doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone,” Dr. Harris said gently. “Sometimes, asking for support is the strongest thing you can do.”
Lilith nodded slowly. “I think I’ve been afraid that if I show fear, I’ll lose respect.”
Dr. Harris smiled. “True respect often grows from authenticity, from showing up as your whole self. Even the parts you’re afraid to share.”
Lilith sighed, a flicker of relief washing over her. “Maybe that’s what I need to remember. That I don’t have to be perfect. That it’s okay to be scared.”
“Absolutely,” Dr. Harris said. “And in that space, you might find a new kind of courage — one rooted in self-compassion.”
Lilith’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “It’s strange. I’ve always thought of courage as charging forward, no matter what. But maybe it’s also about knowing when to pause and breathe.”
“That’s a beautiful realization,” Dr. Harris affirmed. “Pausing doesn’t mean giving up. It means honoring your humanity.”
Lilith looked around the room, the soft light calming her restless energy. “I want to go into the match not just to win, but to grow. To come out whole, no matter what happens.”
“That’s a powerful intention,” Dr. Harris said. “And it will serve you well.”
Lilith smiled faintly. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
Dr. Harris’s voice softened. “Remember, Lilith, the dream you had is a story your mind is telling you — but it’s not the whole story. You get to write the next chapter. How do you want it to go?”
Lilith thought for a moment, then said with quiet determination, "I want to fight fiercely, but with kindness — to myself and others. To face the Red Queen and the Jabberwocky not just with strength, but with heart. And to come out knowing that I’m more than the sum of my fears.”
“That’s a beautiful way to step into your power,” Dr. Harris said with a smile.
Lilith sat back, a weight lifting from her chest. “It’s still scary. But I don’t feel so alone.”
“You’re not alone,” Dr. Harris assured her. “And you don’t have to be.”
Lilith took a deep breath and looked out the window, feeling the sun’s warmth on her skin. The dream was still there — but now it felt less like a trap and more like a guide.
The journey ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in a long while, Lilith was ready to face it.
