The news about the missing researchers changed everything.
Over the next few days, the campus was buzzing with speculation. Some students had dropped the class entirely. Others—like Marcus and Lia—had become obsessed, spending hours in the library poring over every published paper about the Tesseract Chamber. Lia had tried to find more information about the Oslo and Singapore incidents. There was nothing. No news reports, no official statements, just gaps where research teams used to be.
The dreams were getting worse for others, too. One student on the forum claimed to have seen a figure made of fractured light standing in his dorm room. Another reported hearing languages she didn't recognize whispering from her laptop speakers. The university had issued a bland statement about "mental health resources."
Lia had checked the forum obsessively. The posts were getting stranger. @skeptic_mike had stopped posting entirely after claiming he'd seen "geometric patterns made of eyes" hovering over his desk. @luna_night wrote that she could hear humming in frequencies that hurt her teeth. Several accounts had simply gone dark.
Marcus had been different too. She'd seen him in the library, surrounded by physics textbooks and printed research papers, his notes filling page after page with equations she didn't understand. When she'd approached, he'd looked at her with haunted eyes and said only: "The math works. That's what terrifies me."
When Monday's lecture began, the auditorium was somehow both emptier and more intense. The students who remained weren't just curious anymore. They were committed.
Professor Finch stood at the lectern with Dr. Thorne beside him. His expression was serious.
"Today," he began without preamble, "we discuss the Lumin who walk among us."
Dr. Thorne stepped forward, bringing up a diagram of a human timeline on the screen. "The codex details an entire class of Lumin assigned to the human life cycle. These are not distant, cosmic beings. These are entities that, according to the codex, accompany every single person from birth until death—and beyond."
"But do not think for a moment," Finch said, his voice dropping to a more intimate, almost unsettling tone, "that these cosmic principals are too vast to care for the individual. The codex is shockingly specific about the Lumin assigned to each and every one of you, from the moment you are born."
"First," she began, "are the Sentinels. The codex describes them as guardian Aetherians assigned to protect a person from harm. They deflect dangers we never see, prevent accidents we never know almost happened."
She advanced the slide. "Then there are the Chroniclers, beings of 'high respect' who record every deed, every word, and every intention. The codex notes they draw back when a person is in a state of physical impurity."
"But the most fascinating," Professor Finch interjected, "is what happens at death."
The screen changed to a darker image—a figure shrouded in shadow.
"The codex speaks of the Taker of Souls," Finch said, his voice low. "This entity does not work alone. It is assisted by helpers—the Naaziyat, who make the transition harsh, and the Nashitaat, who make it gentle. The harsh removal is described as 'extracting a thorny branch from wet wool.' The gentle removal is like 'a drop of water sliding from a vessel.'"
Dr. Thorne's voice dropped. "And after death, the soul is not left alone. The codex describes The Examiners—two beings who visit the consciousness in the grave. The commentaries provide chilling details: they are described as having dark forms and piercing blue eyes. They test the soul's integrity and purpose, but the specific questions they ask are a closely guarded secret within the codex."
Lia glanced at Marcus three rows ahead. He was taking notes, but his jaw was tight, his earlier outburst still hanging over him like a shadow.
A hand shot up. "What happens if you fail the test?"
Professor Finch's expression was grim. "According to the codex, the grave either expands into a garden of peace or contracts into a prison of fire. The soul experiences this state until the final resurrection."
He let that settle before continuing. "But beyond these, the codex describes the Arch-Lumin—the great commanders who oversee cosmic functions."
The screen displayed three titles in shimmering text.
"The Distributor of Sustenance," Finch began, "is described as overseeing the flow of cosmic energy and provision to all living things. The commentaries state he has never smiled since the lower realms of punishment were created. He knows what awaits those who reject truth, and the weight of that knowledge is etched into his being. Imagine carrying that burden for eternity—knowing exactly what horror awaits the fallen, unable to change it, only to watch."
"The Herald of the End," he continued, "holds a cosmic trumpet to his lips, his eyes fixed eternally on the Throne, waiting without blinking for the command to signal the end of all things. The codex describes him as unmoving, patient, utterly focused. He has been waiting since before humanity existed, and he will wait until the moment creation itself exhales its final breath. When he finally blows that trumpet, every soul in existence—living and dead—will hear it. And the universe as we know it will collapse."
"And then," Dr. Thorne said, her voice filled with awe, "there is The Mighty Messenger. The codex describes him as having 600 wings that 'cover the horizon.' When he descends from the upper heavens, the air itself vibrates with power. He is the one who delivered the codex itself to its final human recipient. The commentaries describe him as a being of such magnificence that even other Lumin regard him with reverence."
Professor Finch paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "These are the beings of light. Vast. Powerful. Obedient. And yet," he said slowly, "the codex describes another order. An order that exists not to worship, not to record, not to guide."
The screen changed to a single word in dark, angular script: ZABAANIYAH.
"The Wardens," Finch whispered. "Nineteen commanders of terrifying strength. Their sole purpose is enforcement and containment."
"Containment of what?" Professor Finch asked rhetorically. "They guard the boundaries between our dimension and the lower realm—the place where beings of smokeless fire reside. The Daemons. They are not just guards. They are the last line of defense. And the codex warns that their very existence means there is something that even the Arch-Lumin consider a threat."
Dr. Thorne stepped forward. "Next week, we discuss the Daemons. And I warn you now—this is where the codex stops being theoretical. Some of you will not want to continue. That's wise."
As the lecture ended, Lia remained seated, her mind racing. She waited until the auditorium was nearly empty, then approached the stage.
"Professor," Lia began, "The researchers who disappeared..."
Finch looked up from his notes. "They were trying to determine if the codex was actively transmitting. If it was sending signals, or receiving them."
Lia's mouth went dry. "And... was it?"
"The last transmission from the Oslo team was a single email," Finch said quietly. "Three words: It's listening back."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Ms. Vance," Finch said carefully, "you've been having the dreams, haven't you? The patterns. The sense of being watched."
She nodded mutely.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a simple business card. Just a phone number. "If you experience anything beyond dreams—visions, voices—you call me immediately. Day or night. Understood?"
Lia took the card with trembling fingers. "What will you do?"
"I'll tell you the truth," he said simply. "And then we'll decide together whether you can handle what comes next."
Lia walked across campus as the autumn sun dipped toward the horizon. The streetlights flickered on one by one, casting pools of yellow light across the pathways.
She should have felt safer in the light.
Instead, she found herself watching the spaces between the lights. The patches of shadow that seemed just a little too dark, a little too deep. The places where even the lamplight seemed reluctant to reach.
The card in her pocket felt heavier than it should. She pulled it out, studying the single phone number printed in plain black ink. No name. No logo. Just ten digits that represented a line between her normal life and whatever Professor Finch knew that he wasn't saying in class.
As she reached her dormitory, she glanced back at the path she'd walked. The quad was emptying as students headed to dinner or their rooms. Everything looked normal. The old brick buildings, the manicured lawns, the distant sound of laughter from an open window.
And yet.
As she reached the path leading to her dorm, a flicker of movement caught her eye from beneath the old oak tree. Not a person. Not an animal. It was a suggestion of a shape—a distortion in the air where the darkness seemed to fold in on itself, refusing to settle into a form her eyes could lock onto. When she blinked, it was just shadows again.
Lia hurried inside and locked the door behind her. She tried to study, to focus on her actual coursework, but her mind kept returning to the lecture. To the Examiners with their blue eyes. To the Zabaaniyah guarding boundaries she couldn't see. To twelve researchers who had simply vanished.
She thought about calling the number on the card. But what would she say? That she was having dreams? That she felt watched? It sounded absurd even in her own head.
Instead, she went to bed early, hoping for dreamless sleep.
That night, she dreamed of nineteen beings standing in a circle around a throne of light. And every single one of them was looking directly at her.
When she woke at 3 AM, her notebook was open again. This time, she'd written something she didn't remember writing:
Why are you listening, Lia Vance?