Aster watched himself lying on the ground, a crimson pool forming beneath his body while the form of his killer remained just out of reach.

It was an odd feeling to have to watch himself die. Aster found that it didn’t bother him much. He supposed his dreams had shown him such twisted visions with enough frequency that he’d long since been desensitized. His death was no more shocking than the image of his home being consumed by raging flames or the knowledge that it would all come to happen much too soon. More importantly, before him was a vision he’d seen countless times. The shock—however mild—had long worn off.

He stared at his body as the vibrant red color seeped into the white coat he wore as a mage of the Magic Tower. It was a coat he’d been proud to be able to wear in what seemed like such a long time past. As he watched, his skin grew paler, all color leaving it as did his life. His dark eyes became distant and dulled as they stared up at what would be the last sight they’d take in. Aster’s body lay beneath the stars, a dome of crystal that let the night sky within view.

The library at the top of the Magic Tower was a place Aster frequented since he’d first gained access to it. Even at that moment, he could recall the scent of ink and aging books and the feel of magic that pervaded the air. He recalled the peace he felt there and the wish that he could remain for just a moment longer. It had, at one point, been a place Aster had enjoyed greatly. There was, he thought, some humor in it becoming the eventual site of his death.

Aster looked up at the stars that shone so brightly—so peacefully—as the world beneath them burned to ashes. He took in their position and knew the precise date in which he would find himself in that exact spot once again. It was, after all, as it should be. He could feel the certainty of his death even in the ever-changing stage that was his dream. Some things, he knew, were set in stone.

He closed his eyes and felt the world fall away, shifting beneath his feet like the tides of the ocean. There was a sense of emptiness around him as the dream took whatever form it pleased. When he opened his eyes, there were none of the flames nor the screams in the night that filled the city—sights and sounds Aster had grown used to. Gone was the crimson sky, replaced with an inky black expanse speckled with pinpricks of light.

Still, there were signs that some great disaster had befallen the place when Aster took a closer look.

The cobblestone road he stood upon had great cracks that ran all along it like the earth itself had been split. So, too, were some of the buildings around him damaged, the previously cheerful looking shops he’d once frequented now fractured, some threatening to collapse. People milled about, their hushed whispers washing over him, their fear almost tangible even within the abstract grasp of Aster’s dream. Their eyes were wide, their faces taut with alarm.

And yet, they were alive and free to wonder about what calamity had been called upon them.

“They say the Magic Tower fell.”

Aster turned at the words, spoken with a fearful sort of awe. When he tried to look for the speaker, he found that the city had faded away. In its place was the now familiar field of flowers.

The asphodels swayed in the gentle breeze, their petals brushing against him as he walked toward the tall oak tree at the center of the clearing. The flowers grew fewer and fewer until his feet rested upon soft grass and the flowers’ soft caresses were gone. Aster stood before the oak and looked at the lone figure that stood before it.

Calixtus was much the same as he was in the waking world. Perhaps more relaxed, but his eyes were just as bright as ever. He gripped his cane and stepped closer. On his hand, Aster could see the ring of gold he’d worn since they were wed. It sparkled as the dappled light of the sun filtering through the canopy of the great tree fell upon it. As he neared Aster, Calixtus raised his hand, the ring shining all the more as Calixtus reached toward the mage he’d married. Without thinking about it, Aster found himself reaching back, his own ring sparkling in the bright light of the sun.

He felt Calixtus’ hand in his—felt his callused fingers brush against his skin and the warmth of his hand an all too real sensation that startled him at how tangible it all felt. When Aster’s gaze turned from their joined hands to Calixtus’ face, he found that there was a smile upon it. The soft curve of Calixtus’ lips, the creases at the corner of his eyes—the way they sparkled—left Aster frozen and speechless.

This was a Calixtus he’d never seen.

Aster blinked and the field was gone along with Calixtus’ face. In its stead, there was the now familiar ceiling of Calixtus’ room, lit up by the faint light of dawn. Aster laid there for a moment, getting his bearings as he usually did after a dream. It was only after a second that he realized that warmth enveloping his hand was very much real.

He looked down at his hand and found Calixtus’ gripped in it. Aster looked up at the man still sleeping next to him, his breaths even and face settled into a peaceful expression. Ever so slowly, Aster released Calixtus’ hand, pulling away from him as he sat up, making sure to shift the bed as little as possible.

Thanks to his careful movements, Calixtus didn’t so much as stir as Aster got off the bed and moved around the room, getting ready for the day ahead. All the while he thought it might be a good thing that he was able to get an early start. After all, he had much to do.

The first order of business was one he made a habit of doing as soon as he awoke when possible. There were times when he was distracted by one thing or another, but he always made time before the day was over. And then, there were times when his curious nature and thirst for knowledge drew him away. During those times, sleep hardly came to him, and even less so did the dreams that so often showed him truths he’d rather not know.

On that day, Aster went to the wardrobe and carefully pulled out a small journal from within the leather bag in which he kept his most important possessions. It was a worn-looking book, though it was still in good shape. Its soft leather cover was a deep black color with silver ink painting a border of filigree that, under careful inspection, would reveal a series of magic sigils hidden within them. It was a simple spell, but it served its purpose—namely, keeping anyone with questionable motives from laying eyes on the contents of the book.

Aster settled at the single desk in the room, opening the journal to the next available page and pulling out a pen he’d grabbed along with it. He wrote quickly and smoothly, long since having gotten used to the feel of a pen scratching at paper beneath his grip. The sight of the ebony ink leaving a glistening trail on the previously pristine page was a soothing thing.

He sat there for a couple of minutes, taking note of every second of his dream he could remember. Most importantly, Aster wrote down every change he’d seen, however big or small it may have been. And truly, much had changed from the last time he’d dreamt of what was to come. Much, except for his death. Aster didn’t bother to make a note of that.

He did, however, take a moment to ponder on the person who would kill him in less than six months. In spite of how often Aster had seen his own death—in spite of how hard he tried—there were some things that were still hidden from him. The identity of his future killer was one such thing. It was one of the questions he hoped to find an answer to.

Once done with his writing, Aster waited for the ink to dry and looked out the window, where the sun was still just barely making its way up over the horizon. The town was just awakening, the warmth of the morning sun working to scare away the frigid air that had settled upon the land overnight. Aster thought it looked like it would be a nice day. Certainly good enough to take an early morning stroll and familiarize himself with the land.

He closed his journal and quietly replaced it and the pen, instead taking up another book—thicker and a bit rougher than the journal in which he kept records of his dreams. This, he tucked beneath his arm before he crept out of the room, casting one last look at Calixtus’ still sleeping form before shutting the door softly behind him. On silent feet, he made his way down the hall, descending the stairs and pulling on his coat before walking out of the house that would be his home for some time still.

The morning air was fresh and crisp as Aster walked off into town with an idea forming in his mind.