I woke into darkness.

Not night—something deeper. No sky, no stars. Just a vast, quiet space stretching endlessly in every direction.

I couldn’t see.

But I could feel the floor beneath me. Wooden planks, smooth with age, creaking softly under my weight. My steps echoed—dull and distant—swallowed almost immediately by the thick air.

I didn’t know how long I’d been walking.

Time felt different here. Slower. Like the world around me wasn’t fully real. Or maybe I wasn’t.

My breath sounded too loud.

So did the thump of each step.

No wind. No scent. Just the dry stillness of a place long empty.

I kept walking.

There was nothing else to do.

The floor never ended. No walls, no ceilings. Only the quiet rhythm of footfalls on ancient wood. I tried to listen for anything—water, voices, even my own heartbeat—but the dark pressed in too tightly.

Then—

A glow.

Far ahead. Barely there.

Faint and distant, like a candle held at the end of a tunnel.

But it was something.

I walked toward it.

The dark didn’t resist. It just watched—silent and heavy, as if waiting for me to notice that light.

The floor sloped slightly downward.

The glow grew brighter. Warmer.

Soft, golden, flickering gently—like firelight behind glass. As I drew closer, I realized it wasn’t just light. It was a lantern.

Held in someone’s hand.

A small figure stood just beyond the edge of the dark. Not quite a child, not quite anything I recognized. Barefoot, barely taller than my chest, with pointed ears and long, tangled hair that caught the lantern’s light like strands of silver thread.

But I couldn’t see their face.

The shadows clung too tightly around their head, as if the dark itself refused to let me look.

They didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held the lantern out, steady and bright.

Waiting.

I took a step forward.

The wood groaned beneath me. The air changed—warmer, heavier, like it had been holding its breath. I stopped a few paces away, unsure what to say.

“…Hello?” I tried.

No answer.

Just that quiet, pulsing flame in the lantern. It lit the figure’s hands and chest, but left the face in shadow—unnaturally so, like the light bent around it.

I felt no fear.

Only that strange calm you feel when you know you’re dreaming but don’t want to wake yet.

The figure turned slowly.

Not toward me—but away.

Then it started to walk deeper into the dark, the lantern swinging gently by their side.

I followed, boots silent on the endless wooden floor.

The figure didn’t look back, but I felt no threat. Just a strange pull—like I was walking toward something I’d forgotten I needed.

We walked for what felt like minutes… or maybe hours. Time had no weight here. Only the dark. Only the soft creak of old boards. Only the light.

Then the figure stopped.

They turned slowly, lantern lifting slightly. The shadows still veiled their face, but this time… they spoke.

A voice like paper turning. Young and old at once. Gentle. Certain.

“So… you found it. Finally.”

A pause. The flame flared slightly.

“The Library.”

The word echoed.

Somewhere ahead, a door creaked open.

Light spilled through the dark—too warm to be real, too golden to be safe.

I stared past the child, past the lantern, into a vast chamber filled with motionless shapes and towering silhouettes.

Bookshelves.

Endless.

Stacked like cliffs, lined with tomes and scrolls and things I didn’t recognize. Some floated. Some glowed. Some… whispered.

The child-elf’s voice was soft, but it filled the space like it belonged to the walls themselves.

“But it’s still not the time for it.”

They lowered the lantern slightly. The flame flickered, casting strange, shifting shadows across the rows of ancient shelves behind them.

“We’re going to meet again.”

A beat passed. The air itself seemed to pause.

“Sebastian.”

The way they said my name—it wasn’t just recognition. It was memory. Like they’d known it long before I did.

Before I could speak, before I could ask who they were or what this place was, the flame surged—

[synchronization]

[0.475 ⇒ 0.593]

The lantern burst with blue shimmer. Not fire. Not light. Something older.

And everything went white.

---

I gasped.

Air filled my lungs like it was the first breath I’d ever taken. The blanket scratched beneath my palms. My body ached, stiff from sleep. The sky above was gray with dawn, the ruins around us silent and cold.

Nick was already awake, crouched by the ridge with his back to me.

I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. The dream clung to me like fog—half-faded, half-burning bright behind my ribs.

I looked toward the eastern sky. Toward whatever waited in Oakenstar’s heart.

The child’s voice still echoed in my mind:

We’re going to meet again.

Nick didn’t turn right away. Just shifted his weight, ears twitching at the sound of my voice.

I sat up, still tasting the dream in my mouth. The sky above Oakenstar had barely begun to pale, the stars thinning like scattered embers.

“Do you have any tea, Nick?” I asked quietly.

A pause.

Then he reached into his pack and pulled out a small tin, shaking it once. “Still one or two leaves left,” he said. “If you don’t mind it tasting like sand and regret.”

I managed a tired smile. “I’ve had worse.”

Nick finally glanced back, one eyebrow raised beneath the brim of his straw hat. “You alright?”

“I… had a dream.”

He didn’t ask what kind. Just set the tin down near the old kettle and began unwrapping it with practiced hands.

“Water’s low. We’ll refill at the next ravine.”

As the kettle warmed, I sat beside him, knees drawn up, the silence between us heavy but not uncomfortable. The ruins remained still. Even the watchers had not returned.

“It felt different this time,” I said softly. “Not like before.”

Nick poured a thin stream of steaming liquid into two battered cups. He handed me one without a word.

It was bitter. A little smoky. The kind of warmth that stayed in your chest.

And it tasted like the day had already begun.

The tea cooled in our hands as the first light crept across the horizon, turning the ruins gold at the edges and lighting the sand like scattered embers.

Nick finished his cup, then stood, stretching slightly. “We keep moving today,” he said. “The deeper we go, the fewer questions we leave unanswered.”

I nodded, still staring at the place where I’d seen the lantern in my dream. The echo of the child’s voice lingered like dust in my mind.

“We’re going to meet again…”

I didn’t know who they were. I didn’t know when.

But I believed them.

We packed in silence.

The Queen Beneath Ash hadn’t spoken yet.

But Oakenstar was waking up around her.

And we were already inside her shadow.