They stepped beyond the broken wardline into a place untouched by sun or storm.
The world changed.
One instant, they were standing among the moss-choked ruins of Cael'Bryn's outer ring. The next, a sea of translucent mists curled around their ankles, and the air itself felt thicker—as though saturated with memory. The path ahead shimmered like a reflection on water. Trees with crystalline leaves stood in impossible silence. Their trunks were white, bark etched with fractal patterns that pulsed faintly with violet and gold.
Lirien drew a breath through her teeth. ("We're in a Reflection Pocket.")
Haraza turned to her. ("A what?")
She kept walking, eyes scanning their surroundings. ("A fold in space. Not quite part of the waking world, not quite part of the Rift either. Usually only forms in places where the Rift's memory has soaked deep into the land. I didn't think Cael'Bryn still had one intact.")
The Seed inside Haraza throbbed gently, resonating with every step. Here, more than anywhere else, he felt like a puzzle piece slipping into place—like this space had always been waiting for him.
("Why does it feel like I've been here before?") he asked quietly.
Lirien paused.
("Because you probably have,") she replied. ("Not you as you are now—but the Seed remembers. And that memory is echoing into your mind. This place is showing you a fragment of what it once knew.")
As they moved deeper into the pocket, the world seemed to ripple. Structures emerged from the mist—half-formed buildings of glass and gold, towers without base or top, hanging suspended in open air. Statues lined the path now: tall, cloaked figures with no faces and hands clasped in silent prayer.
Haraza slowed beside one of them. Its head was bowed, arms open toward a ring of symbols carved into the floor beneath it.
("Lirien… look at this.")
She turned—and immediately froze.
The symbols beneath the statue were Warden glyphs. Ancient. Lost. But unmistakable. And at their center, a single emblem glowed faintly in the mist:
A spiral. The mark of the Rift.
With a dagger through its heart.
Lirien knelt, brushing away ash and moss from the sigils. ("These aren't just glyphs. They're part of a Rite. A ritual. A sealing.")
Haraza frowned. ("You think this place was built to trap the Sleeper?")
("No,") she said slowly. ("I think this place was where the Sleeper was sealed. This entire Reflection Pocket might be a containment field.")
Suddenly, the statue's eyes lit up.
Not with malice. Not with power.
With recognition.
And then it spoke.
("Fragment identified. Echo protocol initiating. Welcome, Vessel.")
Haraza instinctively stepped back, but Lirien raised a calming hand.
("It's not alive,") she said. ("It's an echo construct. An ancient form of projection magic. Pre-Rift, from the early Accord era.")
The statue continued, its voice smooth and ageless.
("Containment has failed. Pulse 33-A has exceeded threshold. The Sleeper stirs. Failsafe sequence incomplete. Awaiting last Warden Prime…")
There was a pause. Then:
("Warden Prime: Unidentified. Vessel remains active. Directive: Deliver Seed to Threshold Gate. Coordinate Sigma-Twelve. Seal initiation required.")
The statue's light dimmed, and it returned to stillness.
Silence.
Haraza exchanged a look with Lirien. ("Threshold Gate? Sigma-Twelve? Do you know where that is?")
She looked troubled. ("I've heard of it. But only in legends. Sigma-Twelve is a myth. A final gate built before the collapse of the Accord. It was said to be the only point in the world where the Rift could be sealed permanently—from both sides.")
("And if we get the Seed there?")
("Then we might have a chance to stop all of this.")
Haraza nodded slowly, hand on his chest. The Seed's pulse matched the rhythm in the air. The Sleeper's breath was growing stronger.
But with it came clarity. Focus.
The path forward was no longer uncertain. It was written into the bones of the world.
They moved on.
The Reflection Pocket began to thin—mist dissipating, structures fading. The crystalline trees grew sparser, and soon, the air began to shift back to the rough dryness of the Ashlands. They passed through a veil of silver light—and stepped once again into the waking world.
The light of dusk greeted them.
Far in the distance, black clouds still churned over the Tower of Unknowing. But here, for now, there was peace. Wind whistled through scorched grass and skeletal trees. And on the horizon, a single line of jagged mountains marked their next destination.
("The Sigil Spine,") Lirien said, pointing. ("That's where Sigma-Twelve is rumored to be. Somewhere deep in those peaks.")
Haraza exhaled. ("We'll need supplies. Shelter. Allies.")
Lirien nodded. ("There's an old Warden outpost near the edge of the spine. If anyone still lives there, they might help us. Or kill us.")
("Encouraging.")
They began their descent into the plains, taking a narrow path between dead forests and dried riverbeds. Strange creatures watched them from afar—birds with mirrored wings, foxes with eyes that shimmered like water. The land was sick. Warped. But it still lived.
They made camp beneath a half-buried statue of an ancient Accord sentinel. Its sword was broken. Its face worn away. But it still stood.
Lirien tended the fire while Haraza sat staring into the flames.
He saw the boy again. The Dreambound child from the garden.
You carry the first spark…
Was it true? Was he more than a vessel?
He turned to Lirien. ("If I'm the Sleeper—or a part of him—what happens when we get to Sigma-Twelve?")
She looked up, her face lit with firelight and fatigue.
("I don't know,") she said honestly. ("Maybe you'll have to choose. To become him. Or to destroy him.")
("And if I choose wrong?")
("Then the world dies dreaming.")
Haraza nodded. The wind carried the faintest whisper across the hills.
("Remember…")
Sleep came hard that night.
And with it, dreams not his own.