He lay sprawled on the bed, fingers tracing idle patterns on the sheets, amber eyes half-lidded as he blinked away the remnants of sleep.
The room around him was dimly lit, bathed in the faint blue glow of the night outside. He glanced at the mirror across from him.
"Magnificent," he murmured.
The bed, a nest of plush covers and silken pillows, was tucked into the far northeast corner. Sleek, metallic shelves lined the walls, each holding intricate devices and displays that hummed softly. A central holographic console near the window cast a low luminescent glow across the floor.
He spoke into the stillness, half to himself, half to the shadows.
"The blue-haired man once told me, 'Understanding yourself is the first step on the journey to true grace.'"
A frown tugged at his lips. Grace. What had the old man truly meant? Not mere enlightenment—that felt too distant, too abstract. This grace… was it a state of being? A way of moving through the world? What shape did it take?
He let the question hang.
Maybe it's better I don't know yet. Grace couldn't be handed down like a decree. No one could simply tell him who to be or what path to walk. True understanding wasn't dictated—it was guided.
The shelves held small artifacts: strange sculptures, crystalline orbs, all bathed in ambient Rasvain energy. Antigravity shelves floated at varying heights, displaying books and relics from countless districts. A quantum terminal hummed quietly in the corner.
Nearby, an automated closet shifted as it organized sleek fabrics and synthetics engineered to near perfection.
Without much thought, he peeled off his red vest and shrugged out of his white long-sleeved shirt. He let them fall beside the bed, too tired to care. The phantom pain in his missing arm throbbed. Exploration would have to wait.
He let himself collapse onto the bed, brown skin gleaming in the moonlight, an arm thrown over his face. The world blurred at the edges, softening like watercolors in the rain.
His vision faded as he sank into the pillows. Within moments, sleep took him.
In his dream, he stood at the base of the enormous tree.
"It grows taller every time," Aether muttered, eyes following the endless trunk stretching into his mental barriers. It felt larger than last time, as if mocking him with its impossible height.
He looked down, willing himself to lift off the ground. To fly. To escape gravity.
"Still stating the obvious, I see," a sharp, mocking voice rang out.
Aether spun around, breath quickening. Even in a dream, fatigue gnawed at him.
"This is a dream!" he shouted, fists clenched.
His clothes shifted into a plain white singlet as he bolted toward the tree, determined to conquer it. The bark felt rough, uneven—oak-like this time. Last time, it had felt like birch.
He clawed at it, fingernails tearing as he searched for a grip. If only I had both arms, he thought bitterly. I could climb. I could hold on.
A laugh echoed from above, amused and almost sympathetic.
"Watching you struggle never gets old."
Aether squinted into the light. A figure sat high on a branch, legs swinging. Their silhouette shifted, gender indistinct, smirking from the shadows.
"And what makes you such an expert?" he asked, shielding his eyes with one arm.
In a blink, the dream shifted. He now stood in a scorching desert. Waves of heat warped the air, the sand beneath his feet searing hot.
"Oh, wouldn't you love to know," the voice teased. The figure appeared again, distant atop a dune—dark against the blazing sun, a flickering mirage.
"When did the church come into existence?" Aether asked abruptly, the question forming without thought.
The figure hesitated. Then, as if compelled, answered.
"In the fourth cycle, RH 6340-6840, approximately."
"Got you," Aether said, tilting his head. "Only text would know that so precisely."
"Oh yes, only the text would know that," the voice muttered, its tone curling like steam before vanishing.
"What—?" Aether began, confused. Silence followed.
Then a familiar voice boomed into the dream.
"Ever since you had me as a starter pack, I've wondered..."
The tone was thoughtful but edged with impatience.
"Wondered what?" Aether replied.
"Where are you from?" Text pressed. "You've always dodged that question."
The voice sighed dramatically.
"You really are annoyingly good at evasion. Fox would've suited you better than Aether. You've never told anyone the truth. Just vague things—'another city,' 'the tour guide's son.' I'll find out soon enough. But honestly..."
"The tour guide's son?" The figure laughed—wild, hysterical. Their form fractured like shattered glass.
"Of all the lies, that one's almost insulting!"
"You seem... unstable," Aether said, taking a step back.
"Perfectly stable," they replied, too quickly.
"Uh-huh..."
"Alright then—ask me about a creature. Any creature. I know you want a challenge."
"Any creature?" Aether raised a brow.
"Sure. Why not start with something desert-y? Like, 'What creature lives in a desert biome?' That fits the scene."
"What creature lives in a desert biome?" he echoed, arms crossed.
The figure leaned forward. Their voice dropped to a whisper that somehow filled the air.
"Faltcids are massive, segmented creatures that roam the deserts of the Sirocco district. Their bodies are armored with coarse, leathery scales that shift like dunes, letting them blend with the landscape. Jagged spines line their backs—sharp enough to pierce anything foolish enough to climb them."
Aether listened as the sand beneath him seemed to ripple. The creature took form beneath the surface.
"The faltcid's head is shovel-shaped—flat, broad, with four retractable mandibles. Barbs line the mandibles, razor-sharp. They snap shut around prey and drag it below. They breathe through specialized hairs that detect the faintest vibrations. They can survive indefinitely underground."
A low rumble shook the sand underfoot.
"Highly territorial," the voice continued. "During breeding season, they release a guttural rumble that resonates across the desert. A warning... or a death sentence."
His heart began to race as the figure described the creature's hunting habits, its territorial nature, the way it dragged its prey beneath the sand. Sweat beaded on his temple—dream sweat, he realized with growing unease. You weren't supposed to feel such physical sensations in dreams.
The rumble grew louder, like a subterranean thunder that resonated in his bones. "Hey—text," Aether muttered, suddenly wary, eyes scanning the sand. "Can you tell me its weaknesses?"
The voice responded, distracted.
"Yeah, yeah. Unlike most desert predators, it can't handle prolonged exposure to sunlight. It survives underground where it's cooler. So… if you can keep it up here—"
"Long enough, and it'll overheat," Aether finished, a steely resolve building as he summoned his sword. The weapon appeared embedded in the sand in front of him, its hilt gleaming with its familiar colour. He pulled it free with a determined grip, leaving the sheath behind, buried in the ground.
"You're such a prideful person—even if you hate to admit it," the figure called out, fading like smoke. "Always trying to prove something."
"I know. I'm working on that!" Aether shouted back, chuckling.
The sand exploded upward in a geyser. The faltcid burst from beneath, its segmented body uncoiling like a nightmare. Mandibles spread wide—each the size of Aether's torso, serrated and glinting with menace. Its hide rippled with muscle, sand cascading from its joints. Spiracles hissed, releasing steam. A guttural rumble shook the air.
Aether didn't hesitate. He ran, sword gripped tight. He sprinted across the dunes, feet slipping, lungs burning. The faltcid gave chase—its massive body undulating, lunging, dragging the sand like waves behind it.
With every strike of its limbs, the sand rose like walls, blinding him. He ducked and rolled, jaws snapping inches from his heels.
The chase had begun.