Lucian didn't remember falling asleep, but he knew the moment he slipped into a dream.
He stood once more in the spiral of Vel Quen—except this time, it was inverted. The sky spun like a whirlpool above him, and grief trickled down like threadlight rain. People surrounded him, faces blurred but voices clear. They handed him folded notes, ribbon-bound boxes, shattered lockets. All tokens of sorrow.
He tried to collect them. Tried to fold their pain into gold thread and return it as peace—but the thread refused to shine. Every time he wove, the grief burned through his hands like fire.
Then a voice—Serafina's, maybe—whispered behind him: You cannot transmute what you do not carry.
Lucian jolted awake.
His palms ached.
By late morning, Alice had already gone ahead, visiting the marketplace. Lucian stayed behind, sitting on the guesthouse balcony, watching Austmark begin its day.
