There was no sky. Only pressure.

A stillness that held the world like breath held too long—tight, unseen, ancient.

Beneath it, a boy drifted upward.

Arms rising, mouth closed, pulse quiet.

He reached. Once. Again.

The surface shimmered above, light fractured like memory—

But it never gave.

He struck it.

Not water—resistance. A surface that denied him.

He struck it again.

And again.

No yield. No breath. Just refusal.

Then—

a shiver.

Not in the dream, but through it. A force beyond it.

He lifted his hand once more—

Fracture.

Zephryn’s chest pulled tight as his eyes opened.

The ceiling above him was stone-veined wood.

Light filtered in through high arched windows—thin, cold, early.

His pulse was steady.

The pendant in his hand? Warm.

He hadn’t meant to grab it in his sleep.

A voice stirred behind the wall.

“You alive in there, or still dreaming in metaphors?”

Kaelen. Already up. Dry as ever.

“Lyceum starts in five. Selka’s ready. Yolti’s wearing your boots and eating your toast.”

A pause. The floor creaked.

He was pacing.

Zephryn didn’t move yet.

He turned to the scarf, still coiled neatly on the shelf where Solara had last wrapped it.

He reached for it without thinking.

It was soft.

Lighter than memory.

He stood.

“I’m coming.”

The hum stirred as he spoke.

Quiet.

But it was there.

And so was he.