Floren took the mask.
Its surface was smooth and cold, but pulsed faintly against her palm, like a living thing pretending to be dead.
She hesitated—then placed it over her face.
The world peeled.
Sound dropped away. Light folded inward. Her heartbeat echoed as though in a vast cathedral. And then—
Silence broke like a surface.
She was standing at the center of a circular chamber carved from obsidian glass. Above her, the ceiling spun with constellations that shifted every time she tried to map them. I've... never seen something like this... At her feet, a rune-etched platform floated over an endless void. Eight chairs made from dark wood surrounded her. Eight chairs? So not including me, there are seven people who gather here or will gather here? Floren wondered.
The runes beneath her flared gold, then dimmed into soft violet. The chairs trembled. From the ceiling, thin threads of starlight descended and hovered above each empty seat.
She somehow knew: each thread waited to be tied to a name, a purpose.
In her mind's eye, names she didn't know flickered—faces she'd never met, caught mid-motion in scenes she couldn't place.
They were scattered through the City—hidden, waiting, half-awake.
The vision faded.
Floren stood once more in the City, the mask now vanished—but she could still feel it on her skin, like memory.
A new weight pressed on her chest: not fear, but intent. Floren took a deep breath. Let it begin.
The Table awaited its first guests.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It began the way all things beyond logic do—in a dream too lucid to forget.
The girl stood in a place that did not belong to the waking world: a vast gray hall with no walls and no ceiling, only a floor of stone etched with shifting, starlit patterns. At its center stood a long, ancient table—seven chairs set around it, carved from dark wood, each with a different symbol above it.
The chair directly across from her was shrouded in something like shadow and memory, and in it sat someone.
A woman, draped in subtle folds of white and black. Her face half-lit by a flickering flame that hovered above the center of the table, casting no warmth.
The girl stiffened, startled, but curiosity quickly took hold.
She took a cautious breath and spoke, voice steady.
"…Am I dreaming?"
The woman did not move. But her eyes glimmered like stars behind fog.
"This is the Threshold," she said. Her voice was melodic and impossibly distant—as if spoken through water. "You were called."
The girl's fingers twitched, brushing the lapel of her coat. Her mind raced—not with panic, but with excitement.
"I've… felt something in the last few days. A tug. A presence at the edge of sleep." She looked down the length of the table. "Is this real?"
"It is more real than most things you've been told are true."
She looked at the empty chair closest to her. Above it glowed a symbol—subtle, ever-shifting. A spiral within a crescent moon.
She looked at Floren again.
"Miss, you... are you some sort of deity?"
Silence.
The girl drew herself upright. Not with arrogance—but with the pride of someone choosing to step forward.
"I'm not afraid," she said. "If I accept this… if I sit—I want to know what's expected of me."
"You are expected," Floren said slowly, "to seek."
The fire above the table flared once—then dimmed.
The girl looked to the chair again.
"…As you will."
She stepped forward and sat.
The moment her form touched the seat, a whisper rolled through the hall like the rustle of turning pages. Something ancient noticed.
The dream ended.
When the girl awoke, she found a card beneath her pillow. No name. No message. Only a symbol: the same spiral within a cresent moon, inked in silver that shimmered when touched.
She stared at it for a long time, then smiled happily.
"So it wasn't just a dream."
Far away, in a place between places, Floren opened her eyes. One seat was filled. Six remained.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dreamspace was silent.
The table floated in endless dark, its eight chairs waiting for an owner. One of them was now occupied.
Mira sat with both hands folded neatly in her lap, though they fidgeted every few seconds. Her feet barely touched the floor, and her eyes danced between the ever-shifting symbols on the tabletop and the flickering flame that hovered above it.
When Floren appeared, Mira practically lit up.
"You're back!" she said, standing up a bit too quickly and giving an awkward half-bow. "I mean—of course you're back my lady.
Floren stepped forward, and the shadows around her deepened for a moment before settling.
"You don't have to bow," she said gently but firmly.
"Oh—my apologies my lady," Mira flushed, brushing at her skirt. "I didn't mean to be silly. I just—I've never been in a place like this before. And you—well, you feel like someone I should bow to."
Floren said nothing to that, only watched her with quiet curiosity. Mira took it as permission to keep talking, though her tone softened, reverent now.
"I don't really understand any of this," she admitted. "But when I saw you… I just knew. Like when you see a storm on the horizon and you're scared, but it's also beautiful, so in the end you can't look away."
She looked up shyly. "Does that sound childish?"
"No," Floren said. "It sounds honest."
Mira smiled, a little more at ease. "I've always felt like there was more. Something under everything. I used to pretend I could hear whispers when I was alone. Then I really did. And I dreamed about this place. And you, my lady."
Her voice dropped, full of quiet awe. "I thought maybe you were a goddess or an ancient deity who awakened."
Floren tilted her head slightly. "And what do you think now?"
Mira considered, then gave a small nod. "I don't know what you are. But I want to find out. I want to help, of course if you'll let me my lady. I'm not important or wise, but I'll try really hard, I promise."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Floren slowly, silently sat across from her.
The flame above the table dimmed slightly, as if listening.
"Acceptable." Floren said.
And then—
The air shifted.
Both of them turned. One of the empty chairs stirred, a soft light flickering above it like a beckoning hand.
A new figure appeared. Male. Disoriented. His coat was worn, with smudges of ink on it as well as the tips of his fingers. His posture was cautious, guarded—someone used to adjusting and adapting to surprising situations.
Mira leaned closer to Floren, whispering with wide eyes, "Another one?" Mira then flinched and hastily corrected herself. "My lady, you have already invited another?"
Floren responded with a simple nod. The weight of presence returned to her like a shroud recovering. The second follower had arrived.