They didn't look back.
Haraza and Lirien sprinted through the collapsing halls of the sanctum, the shrill keening of the Dreambound chasing them like phantom hounds through the dark. Columns cracked. Floors buckled. The very air seemed to twist and flicker as if reality itself had begun to unravel in the presence of whatever had awakened beneath the ancient city.
("Left!") Lirien shouted, casting a flare glyph that illuminated a side corridor. Arcs of silver light raced along the walls, lighting their path for mere seconds before being swallowed by the hungry dark behind them.
Haraza dashed after her, dodging fallen beams and fractured runes that sparked with volatile energy. The Resonant Spire's final images still burned in his mind—a tear in the Rift growing wider, its heartbeat now in sync with the pulse beneath Cael'Bryn.
They had seen the Sleeper's breath.
And it was only the beginning.
They burst through a half-buried exit shaft, the arch above them engraved with the last words of the Cael'Bryn Council: When the Rift remembers, the world forgets. The passage led them into an old transportation channel, once used for skyriders and kinetic trams. Now, it was little more than a long tunnel of broken glass and ash-covered rail.
("I sealed the Spire behind us,") Lirien said between breaths, her hands still glowing faintly with runes. ("Won't hold them forever. But maybe long enough for the data to matter.")
Haraza nodded grimly. "That crystal you pulled—how much of it is usable?"
("All of it, if we're lucky. The last three pulses and a projection estimate of when the Rift's core reaches breach threshold.")
("And when is that?")
She met his eyes, and her voice dropped low.( "Less than a month.")
A cold silence followed. Even the echoes of their steps seemed to fall still at those words. A month. Thirty days before the Sleeper's dream bled through the waking world completely. Before the veil between realities gave way.
Before everything ended.
They emerged from the tunnel into the ruins of what had once been Cael'Bryn's skyport—vast, open platforms carved into mountain terraces, once buzzing with energy and motion. Now, all that remained were the skeletal husks of shattered craft and shattered memories.
Then they saw them.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of figures strewn across the landing zones. Some curled into fetal positions. Others stood, unmoving, eyes open and glowing faintly violet. The Dreambound. Not hostile. Not yet.
Haraza halted.("Are they… alive?")
Lirien held up her hand and whispered an incantation. A glyph shimmered in the air, revealing faint threads of connection, each Dreambound tethered to an invisible strand leading down into the ground. Into the Rift.
("They're dreaming,") she said. ("All the same dream. The Sleeper's dream. If we get too close, it might spread.")
Haraza's skin prickled. The Seed in his chest felt cold, like it had dipped into an icy current.
("What happens if it spreads to us?")
("You become one of them. Mind lost. Body preserved. Consciousness tethered to the Sleeper's will.")
He swallowed. ("So, no pressure.")
("We take the long way around. Through the lower sanctum gardens. The wardline there should be weak enough to breach.")
They descended into the terraced undercity, once filled with lush bio-cultures and Rift-enhanced flora. Now, twisted vines of voidroot and decay choked the architecture. Trees whose bark shimmered with iridescent veins pulsed faintly in the gloom, as though keeping time with some forgotten song.
But the silence was louder than any music.
As they passed a shattered fountain, Haraza saw something stir.
A child.
A boy, no more than six, stood barefoot among the ruins. His skin pale, eyes glowing, but unlike the others—he blinked. Turned toward them.
("Lirien…")
("I see him.")
The boy raised his hand—and pointed at Haraza.
Then, he spoke.
Not aloud. But inside their minds.
("You carry the first spark. The seed the Sleeper once planted. He remembers you. And he is grateful.")
Haraza felt the Seed burn in his chest.
Images flooded his mind—impossible memories, lives he never lived: A warrior on a battlefield of stars. A scholar beneath twin moons. A thief lost in an endless maze. All him. All fragments of something far older than the man called Haraza Genso.
("What… what is this?") he gasped.
The boy stepped forward. ("You are the tether that remains. When the Rift was torn, a piece of Him passed through. It needed a vessel. A future to wait in. You are that future.")
Lirien stepped between them, hand on her blade. ("Back. Now.")
The boy's expression did not change. ("The Sleeper does not wish you harm, not yet. He merely seeks to wake. And when He does, you will remember everything.")
He vanished.
Not in a flash. Not in a burst.
He simply wasn't there anymore.
Haraza dropped to one knee, head spinning. The Seed pulsed harder than ever—no longer dormant, but alert. Active. As if that single encounter had stirred something inside it.
("What the hell was that?") he asked, trying to catch his breath.
("A Memory Echo,") Lirien said. ("But one tied to you. Directly. That's not normal.")
("No kidding.")
She looked at him, eyes filled with something new—something closer to worry. ("Haraza… I think you were never meant to be just a vessel. I think the Seed isn't separate from the Sleeper. It is the Sleeper.")
He looked up at her, heart pounding.
("If that's true," he said slowly, "then what does that make me?")
Lirien didn't answer.
They walked in silence, slipping through the overgrown gardens and broken sanctuaries until the edge of the city loomed ahead. There, beyond a wall of thorns and broken light, was a faint shimmer in the air—a wardline, fragile and fading. Their escape.
Haraza reached for it.
The Seed pulsed once—twice—and released a surge of light that shattered the ward in a single, silent flash.
The path beyond opened.
And so did something else.
A whisper, deep below, in the voice of the Rift:
("You awaken. At last.")