Kael's sleep, in his modest little room, had taken on an almost sacred weight for Uncle Borin. Weeks had crawled by, and although the young boy lay unmoving in the waking world, his presence filled the house—comforting, yet deeply unsettling. The illness ravaging Aris—the sleep-plague that drained dreams and hollowed out the living—continued its quiet devastation. And yet, from Kael's inert body, a faint wave of change had begun to radiate, too subtle for most to notice, but undeniably there.

Crossing the Veils of Oblivion and Fear in the Dream Realm had altered Kael in ways that echoed beyond the invisible thresholds. His Dream Garden—his spiritual heart—was spreading and strengthening, no longer a barren wasteland of ash and hollowness, but a sanctuary stirring with rebirth. And this restored vitality did not remain trapped within the boundaries of his dreaming self. It seeped into the waking world like a silent tide—an unseen resonance.

Those closest to Kael were the first to feel its touch. Mara, little Lia's grandmother, didn't just sleep more peacefully—her mind had sharpened. Her memories, once fragile and scattered, now returned with improbable clarity. She recalled details of conversations, the faces of friends long forgotten, as though dust had been brushed from her thoughts.

Even Lia—the child whose hands once traced endless black spirals—now filled her drawings with people, animals, and flowers. Still blurry, still uncertain, but undeniably there. The sadness that had dimmed her eyes for months was thinning, replaced by a flicker of curiosity, fragile yet luminous. The changes were small, gradual, and no one dreamed of connecting them to Kael's uncanny sleep. They whispered of good fortune, of a fleeting reprieve from the plague—though elsewhere the illness raged without mercy.

And still, the resonance spread outward. Borin's neighbors. The marketplace vendors Kael had once greeted. Even farmers on the village's outskirts. Not true recoveries, not miracles—but their minds felt less clouded, their dreams less choked by shadows. For moments at a time, lucidity returned to them like a long-lost friend. The vital sap of dreaming—stagnant for months—had begun to trickle through old channels.

This anomaly, this persistent spark in a world sinking into darkness, was still what The Ash was searching for.

The Ash felt it.

Not through sight, but through hunger—a void yearning to swallow anything that dared to shine. The Ash did not think, not in any human sense, but its Servants did. They were not simply dream-beings; they were twisted remnants, once humans or Keepers, now hollow vessels of corruption straddling the line between dream and flesh. They sensed the disturbance—a maddening resistance to their feast.

One such entity, known only as The Whisperer for the way it sowed paralyzing doubts and deep-rooted fears in the minds of sleepers, began probing the physical world. It did not appear in any form one could see. It worked through fractures—unstable dreamers, trembling minds, fragile nightmares—and whispered poisonous thoughts into the cracks.

The Whisperer was more and more drifting through the hidden fears of Aris, and now its attention locked onto that warm pulse of vitality. Not yet sure about the center of the anomaly's source, yet feeling that the direction was the right one.

It could move through the dream's connections, sensing which dreams were "colder" or "warmer." Checking the dream's boundaries, and leading towards those which felt calmer and less resonant with its own nature: an extension of The Ash.

Its intervention had become essential. The mindless Wanderers drew too much attention; guards scattered them before they could detect the exact spot.

But the number of dreams was too many. A single person could have several dreams during the night, and they won't all occur at the same speed. In some dreams, time passed faster; in others, it went slower, making it hard for the Whisperer to detect the right direction in time.

So the Whisperer released its scouting shadows—small, agile splinters of Ash—sending them slithering through cracks in consciousness to seek the source of this defiance. They did not attack. Not yet. They hunted. They learned. Kael was unknown to them, but unmistakable: an anomaly that needed to be erased.

Meanwhile, deep within the buried halls of the Deep Foundations, Master Elian felt a tremor in the balance. His bond with the Dream Realm was old, vast; through it, he could hear the shifting currents, the discordant notes—and the fragile harmonies.

One afternoon, Lyra climbed to his tower, where he sat hunched over dream maps shimmering with living threads." Master," she said, tension cutting through her voice. "The resonance is growing. Not only Kael—his entire village is humming with clarity. The Ash is aware of it. I can feel its attention tightening."

Elian did not look up immediately. His jaw hardened.

"I know, Lyra. His Sleeping Flame is knitting the fabric of dreams around him. A blessing to us… but a beacon to the Ash."

He finally turned toward her, his eyes heavy with dread.

"Kael's progress through the Veils is astonishing. But I also sense a new hunger—directed at him. Something from the waking world is reaching toward his anchor point. A shadow stretching farther than it should."

Elian was not merely a scholar. He was a Keeper seasoned by hard centuries. He understood: the Ash had grown cunning. It was a hunt for Kael's physical body. Without that anchor, his dreaming soul would drift helplessly—easy prey.

"We must act, Master," Lyra urged. "We must warn him. If he does not know the danger stalking his body, the Ash."

"Not yet."Elian's voice cut through her words, steady and immovable. "He is already bearing more weight than most seasoned Keepers could endure. A warning at the wrong moment could shatter his focus—or worse, seed terror. And fear is the purest nourishment the Ash could hope for."

He rose."I will forge countermeasures in the Dream Realm. Protective barriers. Warning signals. If the danger crosses a certain threshold, Kael will know. He must know."

His mind churned with strategies—calculations, gambits, desperate contingencies. Buying time was their only hope. He understood too well: if the threat in the waking world swelled beyond control, Kael might be forced to awaken prematurely, severing his ascent through the Eight Veils of the Spirit.

A colossal risk. But unavoidable.

In the solitude of his tower, Master Elian carried the crushing weight of this dual threat, crafting a plan that might save Kael—or decide the fate of the entire Dream Realm.

*****
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