The dawn broke slowly, not with light, but with a change in texture—air that rippled like silk stretched too far. The horizon trembled as if something long buried beneath the seams of the world had shifted.
Ketzerah stood still.
Behind him, Lyssaria stirred from sleep beside a dwindling fire, and the young girl—silent and ever-watchful—rose to her feet with a grace that did not belong to her age. She rubbed her eyes, yawned once, and then fixed her gaze again on the back of the man whose presence bent reality.
She still had no name.
Not yet.
But she followed him faithfully, instinctively.
Not out of fear, nor awe—though those feelings existed—but out of something older. A recognition.
As if her soul had been waiting for him to return.
And on this morning, under a sky that had started to forget how to remain blue, a new presence awakened.
---
Far away, in a palace floating above the Veiled Expanse, an entity emerged from slumber that spanned epochs.
Aerivelle Ny'mira.
The Sleeper.
The Warden of Lost Dreams.
Her bed was a disc of obsidian set atop glass petals that floated in air untouched by gravity. Her chamber reflected no light, only memories. Symbols glowed around her in concentric rings, reacting to the disturbance that had finally reached even her most shielded sanctum.
The boy had awakened.
No—not a boy. He had never been a child, never been bound by cycles of birth and death.
He was walking again.
And the world was remembering.
Aerivelle's silver eyes blinked open. They did not focus on the room. They pierced straight through dimensions, reaching toward that singular, absolute vibration that was now resonating across all layers of existence.
"Ketzerah," she whispered.
The name itself disturbed the equilibrium of her chamber.
And she felt it again.
That same fear she'd buried long ago beneath confidence and clarity.
---
Back on the surface, Ketzerah stood beside a ruinous arch of what once might've been a celestial observatory. Its stone was fused with forgotten crystal; the air around it shimmered with memories of stars no longer in the sky.
Lyssaria walked up beside him, adjusting her armor loosely draped over her shoulders. "You stopped."
Ketzerah didn't reply.
Not immediately.
The little girl—barefoot and cloaked in rags—stood on the opposite side of the arch. She tilted her head, mirroring Ketzerah's posture.
"What is it?" Lyssaria asked, softly this time.
Ketzerah's eyes—those unchanging, depthless spheres of presence—shifted skyward.
"There is someone," he said. "She remembers the end."
Lyssaria blinked. "The end of what?"
Ketzerah did not look at her. "Of everything. And she dreams it still."
And with that, he began walking.
North.
Always north.
The girl followed without question. Lyssaria glanced back once at the arch—its ruins vibrating ever so slightly—then hurried to catch up.
---
They passed through a gorge where trees grew upside-down from floating islands. The sky split into mirrored layers. Time stuttered again, like a faulty breath in an ancient lung.
None of these things slowed them.
The path was not set. The road was not real. And yet, they moved in a direction that all three knew.
They came upon a lake whose surface shimmered like glass but reflected no sky.
And it was there, by the Lake Without Source, that she arrived.
A storm formed from silence.
A circle of light opened mid-air, and from it, Aerivelle Ny'mira descended—no wings, no sound. Just a presence wrapped in shifting layers of silver and thought.
Lyssaria gripped the hilt of her sword, stepping slightly in front of the girl. "Who is—?"
"She dreamed the end," Ketzerah said again.
Aerivelle landed softly on the lake's shore, her bare feet never disturbing a ripple.
She looked at Ketzerah.
Long.
Slow.
Intensely.
"You were supposed to vanish," she said. "When the Old Realms collapsed, you should've been unmade."
Ketzerah didn't answer with defiance.
He simply said: "I remain."
Aerivelle narrowed her eyes. "And she follows you?" Her gaze shifted to the child, who didn't flinch. "She should not exist yet."
Lyssaria stepped forward. "She was alone when we found her. I don't care what she 'should' be."
"You misunderstand," Aerivelle replied. "That child is not merely following fate. She is becoming one."
The little girl stepped beside Ketzerah and took his hand.
No fear.
No hesitation.
And the lake's reflection responded—not showing her face, but a future.
A teenage girl with violet eyes, silver strands braided into midnight hair. Standing tall in a gown made of starlight, at Ketzerah's side.
Radiant.
Loyal.
And loved.
Lyssaria saw it.
And for a moment, the ache in her chest wasn't jealousy—it was wonder.
"What… is her name?" she asked aloud.
Ketzerah looked down at the child.
Then back at Aerivelle.
"She hasn't chosen yet," he replied.
Aerivelle's expression twitched—something between a frown and recognition.
"She will be one of your stars," she said quietly. "Another fixed point in the orbit around your truth."
Ketzerah did not confirm it.
But the air grew warmer. Softer. As if the world acknowledged her place.
---
Aerivelle stepped forward.
"The others will awaken," she warned. "You are drawing the eyes of every slumbering titan, every fragment that once denied you."
"I do not summon them," Ketzerah replied. "They choose to look."
"And if they do more than look?"
Ketzerah turned toward her fully.
"Then they will remember why they stopped trying."
That answer shook the surface of the lake.
---
The conversation faded.
As the sun twisted overhead—pulling its own light into spirals—the three continued north. Aerivelle did not follow, but her form watched until the air reclosed.
---
They came upon a canyon where voices from other timelines murmured like ghosts in the rocks. Here, Lyssaria finally dared to ask:
"That vision… of the girl. Is that her future?"
Ketzerah answered calmly. "It is one possibility. But she is not bound by it."
"And if it comes to pass? She becomes—like that?"
"She becomes herself."
Lyssaria looked at the child—now quietly humming as she walked, eyes wandering the strange flowers that bloomed in their wake.
"She's… beautiful," Lyssaria admitted.
"She is true," Ketzerah said.
Lyssaria took a deep breath.
"She'll love you, won't she?"
Ketzerah's steps didn't slow.
"She already does."
---
They camped that night near the Obsidian Spire—a monument to a forgotten empire. The girl curled beside Ketzerah, resting her head against his arm like she belonged there.
Lyssaria sat opposite the fire, watching them. Her heart held no envy.
Only peace.
And a sense that the pieces of something immense had begun to fall into place.
---
The next morning, the girl finally spoke.
"My name…" she said quietly.
Both Ketzerah and Lyssaria turned toward her.
"…is Veltrenia."
The name echoed once.
And the wind carried it forward—as if the world itself agreed.
---