He dreamed of a temple with no sky.
The ceiling arched far beyond sight, swallowed in shadow, upheld by pillars carved in spirals that never ended—snakes devouring their own tails, twisting like truths retold by liars. Everything was mirrored: floor, wall, air. The world reflected itself in infinite regress. He could not tell what was up or down, only that he moved forward.
He was barefoot, clothed in robes not his own. Dust clung to his feet. There were no windows. Only open mouths carved into the walls—seraphs without eyes, whispering riddles through cracked stone lips.
"To know is to suffer," they said.
"To see is to break the mirror."
He kept walking.
A figure awaited him at the center of the temple. Robed in gold and rust. Its face was a crown of light, but no features beneath—just a blinding glow, as if the sun had forgotten how to smile. A voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere.
"You seek the spark."
"You seek the Word."
He felt his knees buckle. His mouth opened, but no sound came.
"You will find it… below. In the hollow place. Where light is trapped. Where truth forgets its name."
The figure reached out a hand—five fingers, each etched with a letter.
They spelled TRUTH, but not in any tongue he knew. The letters twisted. TRUTH became THRUT, then RUTH, then RUIN.
The figure placed something into Elias's hand: a shard of mirror, dull and warm.
"This is your key," it said.
"It will show you the way out."
"Out of what?"
"Out of yourself."
The temple began to collapse inward—not with destruction, but with hunger. The mouths in the walls began to devour themselves. The floor turned black, then wet, then gone.
He fell.
—
Elias gasped.
Sunlight. The scent of bread. A voice calling from downstairs.
"Elias! You'll be late for school!"
He blinked. The dream was already fading.
But in his hand, he still felt the mirror.
And somewhere inside him, the spark had already begun to dim.
Rain taps gently at the windows.
David moves quietly in the kitchen, flipping eggs in a cast iron pan. The smell of smoke and butter clings to the air. He wipes his hands on a cloth, turns the bread over the fire, and hums softly — not a song, just a rhythm.
Alexandra sits already at the table, elbows wide, arms crossed. She fills the room without trying — thick arms, tree bark hands, a streak of dried sap still on her sleeve. Her axe rests by the door like a sleeping dog.
She says nothing. Just watches the stairs.
A wooden chair creaks beneath her weight as she shifts, eyes flicking to the growing mountain of food. A whole loaf torn open, mushrooms and roots roasted, eggs piled beside smoked strips of meat, soft goat cheese crumbling in a bowl.
She waits.
Elias finally descends the stairs — barefoot, slow, shirt slightly wrinkled. His hair is damp, combed with water and fingers.
David doesn't greet him. Just sets a plate down as Elias pulls out a chair.
No one speaks.
Elias glances at his mother. She's already halfway through a slab of bread, chewing slowly. Her eyes meet his just once — wordless, unreadable — then drop back to her plate.
They eat.
Forks clink. Bread is torn, passed. A hand wipes a mouth. Another fills a cup. The rhythm is familiar. Old. Worn like stone steps.
Elias chews, swallows. Stares at nothing.
David nudges a second helping closer to his wife. She grunts in approval.
Elias reaches for the milk. David beats him to it — not forceful, just instinct — and pours.
Outside, thunder murmurs.
Inside, there's a full table, and three people who love each other so deeply they don't have to say a word.
But even here, Elias feels the quiet tug of something else.
A presence under the floorboards of his heart, stirring.
The trees whispered before they were seen.
Fog hung low on the path like it had slept there overnight, curling around their ankles, clinging to the grass. Crows croaked overhead, hopping between leaning fence posts and bare tree limbs, always just a little too quiet when you looked at them.
Elias kept pace behind the trio, his breath visible in the morning chill. His satchel bumped against his leg with each step. He wasn't trying to catch up—just walking, watching their shapes move through the mist like shadows with places to be.
Eventually, Isabelle drifted to the side to avoid a puddle and slowed slightly. Without planning to, Elias ended up next to her.
He hesitated—then offered, "They trimmed the orchard back early this year."
Isabelle looked over, surprised but not unfriendly. "Yeah?"
"My mom says the trees are acting strange. Sap's been pooling where it shouldn't. She thinks it's the weather, but I don't know."
Isabelle smiled softly, a little distracted. "Your mom's the one who chops trees, right?"
"Yeah. She can carry three logs on her shoulder. I can barely carry my books." He chuckled.
Isabelle gave a polite laugh. "She sounds cool."
"She is." Elias looked down at his shoes. The mud was swallowing his soles. "I had this—"
He stopped.
She glanced at him. "Hm?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Just—bad sleep."
The fog thickened for a moment, swallowing the path ahead.
Behind them, the crows rose all at once, as if startled by something no one heard.
Up ahead, Isaac and Ian were still walking in silence, just shapes in the mist. Neither had looked back.
Isabelle adjusted her satchel and picked up pace again, slipping a step ahead.
Elias stayed quiet. He could still hear his own words echoing in his head.
Not the dream. Not yet.
They passed an old shrine on the edge of the path—weather-worn and tilted, offerings of bone-dry flowers still resting at its base. Elias slowed for just a moment, staring at the cracked statue inside. Its face was worn blank.
No one else stopped.
He caught up again.
"Do you guys… ever feel like something's watching us? Like, right under the skin of things?"
Isaac didn't turn. "It's just the woods, man."
Ian muttered, "Everything here watches you. That's the whole problem."
Isabelle said nothing this time.
The school roof rose into view over the trees—weathered shingles, crooked steeple, smoke curling from a chimney that never ran out of fire.
Elias glanced back at the shrine one last time. The statue hadn't moved.
But the wildflowers beside it were now pointing toward him.
They walked the rest of the way like ghosts pretending to be students. The school loomed ahead, a jagged silhouette against the pale gray sky. The bell had not yet rung, but it felt like it Before he knew it, class had ended.
The others filtered out toward the courtyard, but Elias was handed a broom and a mop.
"A storm's rolling in," Jack said, gesturing toward the thickening clouds beyond the chapel windows. "Courtyard's done for the season. Clean up in here."
So he did.
He dusted the old chairs, the shelves sagging with mildewed books. He wiped grime from the corners of the altar, where wax had pooled and hardened like old scars. The floor moaned under his steps as he scrubbed it clean, drawing out layers of dirt that had settled like memory.
He swept fallen shards of stained glass into a rusted pan—red, green, blue. When the light caught them, they shimmered like pieces of a broken sky.
Some of the windows had faces in them. Saints, probably. Their eyes had long since faded, turned cloudy. He tried not to look too long.
By the time he reached the far wall, the wind had started howling through the cracks in the stone, whispering through the rafters like a song that had lost its melody.
And that's when he felt it.
A strange stillness. Like something watching from behind the walls. Or beneath them.
Not hostile.
But... waiting.
He paused.
Something had changed in the room.
Not the lighting. Not the temperature. But the feeling. Like the air itself had narrowed in on him—like the space was no longer just space, but a presence. His name echoed, but not through sound.
It wasn't spoken.
It was felt.
Like something deep inside him had been quietly summoned—pulled toward a point in the room with no clear source. No voice. No speaker. Just a pull. Gentle. Absolute.
Elias turned his head.
At the far end of the chapel stood the old podium—crooked on its base, its wood eaten away by time. A few steps led up to it, warped and uneven. He'd swept past it earlier without thinking. But now…
A faint breeze.
Cool air brushed against his ankles. A draft?
He climbed the steps slowly. The wind was coming from beneath the podium. He crouched down, pressed his hand against the floorboards—and they gave.
Hollow.
He leaned his weight against the podium and pushed. It resisted at first—then groaned, wood dragging against stone as it scraped aside just far enough to reveal what it had been hiding.
A trap door.
Rough wood. Iron ring set into its face. No dust. No moss. Like it had been touched recently.
Elias stood still.
His first thought: No way no one's ever seen this before.
It was too obvious. Too exposed. It practically invited discovery.
He backed away. Left the room. Stepped into the silent hallway. It was empty. Everyone had already gone. Rain tapped lightly against the high windows.
Then he returned.
And the podium was completely moved.
Fully pushed aside, as if someone—or something—had finished what he started.
He hadn't heard it move.
Hadn't seen it.
But it had been done.
He stared at the trap door, now fully exposed in the dim light, and felt something old and wordless rise up in his chest. Not fear. Not yet.
Anticipation.
He crouched down, fingers wrapping around the iron ring.
He hesitated.
Then he pulled.
To be continued.