Lia Vance hadn't slept properly in three nights.
The dreams had started after Monday's lecture. Not nightmares exactly—nothing chased her, nothing threatened her. But she'd wake at 3 AM with her heart racing, her notebook open on her chest, filled with sketches she didn't remember drawing. Concentric circles, each one labeled in her own handwriting: Aquarian Veil. Astraeus. Kydoimos.
Seven layers, always seven, spiraling inward like a target with her at the center.
On Tuesday night, she'd dreamed of standing in an ocean that stretched in all directions, the water perfectly still and impossibly deep. Above her, the sky had been divided into sections she could almost count, each one a different shade of light she had no name for. Something vast had been moving through those layers, something with too many wings, and when it turned to look at her—
She'd woken up gasping.
But it wasn't just the dream that disturbed her. When she'd opened her eyes, her room had been filled with a sound she couldn't identify—not music, not noise, but something in between. A low, pulsing tone that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It had lasted exactly seven seconds, then stopped.
She'd checked her phone, her laptop, her roommate's devices. Nothing was playing. Nothing was on. The sound had no source she could find.
And then there was the writing. When she'd looked at her notebook, she'd found words she didn't remember writing, in handwriting that was hers but somehow different. More precise. More confident. The words were in a language she didn't recognize, but somehow she knew what they meant: "The threshold is opening. The bridge strengthens. Your kind has invited us, and we accept."
She'd tried to erase them. The words wouldn't disappear. They remained on the page, dark and permanent, as if they'd been burned into the paper itself.
Now, walking across campus on Wednesday morning, she felt exhausted and strangely alert at the same time. The autumn air was crisp, the quad bustling with students heading to early classes, everything perfectly normal. And yet.
She pulled out her phone and opened the unofficial Aethelgard forum. The thread about Professor Finch's lectures had exploded over the past two days.
@skeptic_mike: Anyone else having weird dreams since Monday?
@luna_night: YES. Patterns everywhere. I see them in static, in crowds, in the way leaves fall.
@rationalist_04: Psychological priming. Finch put ideas in our heads. That's all.
@anon_student: Something followed me home. I felt it. Don't call me crazy.
Lia closed the app quickly, her hands unsteady. She wasn't crazy. She was a historian, rational, grounded. But as she climbed the steps to the auditorium, she couldn't shake the feeling that learning about these beings was different from learning about history or mythology.
She'd spent years studying ancient texts—the Epic of Gilgamesh, the Vedas, Egyptian funerary rites. She'd read about gods and monsters, heroes and demons. But those had always felt safely dead, preserved in clay tablets and crumbling papyrus.
This felt alive. As if the act of learning about the Lumin was somehow making them aware of her. As if knowledge itself was a form of contact.
She shook her head, trying to dismiss the thought. Psychological priming, as @rationalist_04 said. That had to be it.
It felt like being noticed.
The lecture hall at Aethelgard University was buzzing with an energy that felt different from the week before. The academic curiosity had been replaced by something more urgent, more personal. The question Professor Finch had left them with—What are they guarding us from?—had lingered in the air for days.
Professor Finch stood at the lectern with Dr. Aris Thorne beside him. His expression was serious.
"Welcome back," he began. "Last week, we ended with a revelation from the Mariner's Codex: the existence of seven heavens, each guarded by powerful beings. To help us explore this topic, I've invited a colleague whose expertise is unparalleled."
He gestured to the woman standing beside him, sharp and energetic in a dark blazer. "This is Dr. Aris Thorne, Professor of Comparative Mythology and the emerging field of Xenomythology."
Dr. Thorne stepped forward, her eyes scanning the crowd with confident intelligence.
"Good morning," she said, her voice crisp. "Professor Finch and I are going to discuss the beings the codex describes. But first, we must address the obvious question." She looked around the room. "If they exist, why can't we see them?"
Finch took the lead. "A typical answer might be that they are like the air—invisible but detectable. The truth, according to both the codex and modern physics, is far stranger."
He gestured to the screen. "This is the electromagnetic spectrum. It represents every type of signal we can possibly detect. And this tiny sliver," he pointed to a thin rainbow band, "is the 'visible light' our eyes can see, just 0.0035% of the total spectrum. In simple terms, 99.9965% of the known universe is already invisible to us. We are functionally blind."
"Now," he said, his voice dropping, "what if something was made of a material that doesn't exist on this spectrum at all? We wouldn't just be unable to see it. We would be unable to detect it in any way. The codex states this is the nature of the beings we will discuss today. It calls their substance 'Noor', a form of cold, coherent light, and 'Samūm', a type of smokeless, contained fire or plasma. This means that once again, science cannot help us. We must rely on the codex."
"The ancient word for these beings," he explained, "translates to two things simultaneously: 'the one who is ruled over' and 'the messenger'. They are ruled by the Creator, and their primary purpose is to carry out commands."
He clicked to the next slide, which showed the word "LUMIN" in elegant script.
"In our research," Finch continued, "Dr. Thorne and I have adopted the term 'Lumin'—derived from the Latin 'lumen,' meaning light. From this point forward, when we say 'Lumin,' we are referring to these beings of light."
Dr. Thorne stepped forward. "The codex also presents a vast and complex hierarchy. At the very top, closest to the Creator's Throne, are two of the most mysterious orders."
A new slide showed an artist's rendering of colossal, indescribable figures. "First are the Throne-bearers," she said. "Eight colossal beings of unimaginable scale who uphold the fabric of the Seventh Heaven. Below them are The Near Ones, beings who exist in constant worship around the Throne."
"Interestingly," she continued, "we see faint, symbolic echoes of this hierarchy in other ancient texts. Some biblical traditions speak of different orders of angels."
The slide changed to show strange, ancient depictions. "They describe the Cherubim as hybrid beings with four wings. They speak of the Seraphim as having six wings—two to fly, two to cover their faces, and two to cover their feet. And they mention the Ophanim—described as golden, flying wheels covered in hundreds of eyes. These descriptions are like seeing a complex machine through a distorted lens. The codex provides the clear blueprint."
"It also describes a celestial place of worship in the Seventh Heaven," she added, "a 'Frequented House' where 70,000 different Lumin arrive to worship each day and never get the chance to return until the end of time."
Finch returned to the lectern. "But why do these beings hide their true forms from us? The codex gives us a chillingly practical reason." He brought up the "first contact" anthropology example. "In 1930, when an indigenous tribe in Papua New Guinea saw a Caucasian man for the first time, they were so terrified by his white skin they tried to 'muck it out,' believing it was a disease. They couldn't comprehend what they were seeing."
"Now," Finch said, his eyes sweeping the room, "imagine you are confronted not by a person of a different skin color, but with a being from the First Heaven, made of half fire and half ice. Or a guardian from the Third Heaven with 70,000 heads. The codex describes beings with multiple sets of wings—two, three, or four pairs. Your mind would not be able to process it. The codex states they appear in human form out of mercy, to prevent our minds from shattering."
Professor Finch was mid-sentence when Marcus Chen stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"This is insane," Marcus said, his voice tight. "We're sitting here talking about invisible plasma beings with seventy thousand heads like it's a biology lecture. We're taking notes."
Professor Finch paused, his expression unreadable. Dr. Thorne folded her arms, watching with interest.
"We're treating this like academic theory," Marcus continued, his hands shaking slightly. "But if even one percent of what you're saying is true—if that chamber exists, if the codex is real, if these things are out there—then we're not safe. None of us are. What if finding that chamber was a mistake? What if we weren't supposed to open it?"
The auditorium was silent. Lia realized she'd been holding her breath.
Professor Finch walked slowly to the edge of the stage. "Mr. Chen," he said quietly, "that is the first truly intelligent thing anyone has said in three weeks."
Marcus blinked, caught off guard.
"You're absolutely right to be afraid," Finch continued. "The ancient commentaries warn that knowledge of the unseen is not neutral. It changes the knower. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed." He paused. "So I'll ask you directly: do you want to leave? No judgment. No penalty to your grade. This is your chance."
Marcus stood there, breathing hard. The entire room waited. Slowly, he sat back down.
"I need to know," Marcus said hoarsely. "Even if I shouldn't."
A cold knot tightened in Lia's stomach. He had given voice to the very fear that had been coiling in her own mind, the one she'd been too rational to acknowledge. What if some doors, once opened, couldn't be closed?
Professor Finch nodded gravely. "Then let's continue. The codex describes these beings in extraordinary detail. But it also issues a warning."
The room remained tense. Several students were staring at Marcus with newfound respect—or fear. Lia noticed a girl in the front row had her hand pressed to her chest, breathing deliberately, as if trying to calm herself. Another student had already packed up his laptop, clearly reconsidering his commitment.
Dr. Thorne waited, giving the room a moment to settle. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentler than before. "Mr. Chen's reaction is not only valid, it's appropriate. What we're discussing isn't abstract theology. If the codex is what it claims to be, then we're not just studying history. We're studying a present reality that surrounds us, invisible, right now."
She let that sink in before nodding to Professor Finch to continue.
He brought up a new slide—a passage from the codex: "Do not invoke what you cannot contain. Do not name what you cannot command. Do not seek what you are not prepared to find."
"Over the past decade," Finch said slowly, "seventeen research teams have studied the codex. Fifteen published their findings. You've seen their work." He paused. "Two teams went silent."
A ripple of unease passed through the auditorium.
"One lab in Oslo. One in Singapore. Six months apart. Both within a week of attempting advanced spectral analysis on the codex itself—trying to measure its impossible properties."
"What happened to them?" someone called from the back.
"Their labs were found empty," Dr. Thorne said quietly. "Equipment still running. Coffee still warm. Twelve researchers, just... gone."
Lia remembered a profile she'd read on one of the Oslo team leads, Dr. Elara Vance (no relation). The article had featured a picture of her laughing in a sun-drenched lab, a half-assembled spectrometer on the bench behind her. That woman was gone. Vanished from a sealed room.
Professor Finch looked out at his students. "Next week, we'll discuss why the codex needed to be guarded. We'll discuss the beings of smokeless fire—the Daemons. And we'll discuss what might happen when humans get too close to knowledge they weren't meant to have."
He clicked off the projector. "Class dismissed. And please—" his voice dropped, "—be careful what you dream about."
The auditorium emptied slower than usual. Students left in hushed groups, some arguing in whispers, others silent and withdrawn. Lia watched Marcus exit through the side door, shoulders hunched. He didn't look back.
The same students who'd been eagerly googling the Tesseract Chamber just a week ago now avoided making eye contact, as if afraid that acknowledging what they'd learned might make it more real.
As Lia gathered her things, she couldn't help but glance up at the ceiling, at the empty space above the stage where the projection had been. The darkness there seemed deeper than it should be.