The night Mary returned from the dream-thread, the world tilted.
Every shadow in the Loomspire seemed to breathe. The walls pulsed with faint whispers — not words exactly, but fragments of sound, like echoes of a language trying to remember itself. The air smelled faintly of ozone and ink.
Mary stood at the window, her reflection fractured in the old glass. Outside, the skies over the Valley of Thorns were restless. Veins of red lightning traced patterns through clouds shaped like pages torn from forgotten books.
The Queen's influence was spreading.
Lucien entered the chamber quietly, his steps careful. He looked tired, though he tried not to show it. "She's begun her harvest," he said. "The dream-thread is bleeding into the waking world. Anyone who sleeps now risks being rewritten."
Mary didn't turn. "How many?"
"Hundreds," he said grimly. "By tomorrow, thousands. The smaller towns are already reporting the 'Mirror Sleep' — people who lie down and never wake. Their reflections vanish before they do."
Mary exhaled slowly, feeling the faint tremor in her pulse. "Then we don't have much time."
Lucien nodded. "I sent word to Lela and Loosie. They're on their way. The Friend too, if the roads between remain open."
"The roads won't stay open for long," Mary murmured. "The Queen is twisting the in-betweens — turning corridors into traps. She's building her empire in dreamspace, and soon she'll step fully into this world."
Lucien hesitated, then asked the question he had been avoiding since she woke. "Mary… when you faced her — what did you see?"
Mary turned from the window, her eyes dark but steady. "I saw what she's becoming. She's no longer bound to the Codex. She's rewriting herself using us — our fears, our memories, our stories. Every dreamer is a page she can claim."
Lucien frowned. "Then we're all part of her book."
"Not yet," Mary said. "Not while we still remember who we are."
By dawn, the Loomspire became a gathering point once again.
The survivors arrived one by one — Loosie first, her coat burned at the edges, the scent of smoke and iron trailing her like perfume. Her eyes carried the same fire as the forges she had once commanded.
Behind her came Lela, pale and silent, her aura flickering between light and shadow. She looked fragile, but Mary knew better. The Queen had tried to take her once before — and failed.
And finally, the Friend stepped through the archway, his coat covered in a faint dusting of glowing motes, like starlight clinging to him. He bowed slightly.
"The paths are closing faster than I thought," he said. "Some doors refuse to open now. Others lead to the same dream again and again."
"Loops," Mary murmured. "She's rewriting the network."
The Friend's eyes softened. "Then this will be our last chance to fight her before every story becomes hers."
Mary faced them all — the last remnants of what the Codex once was. "Then we go where she's strongest. We take the fight to the dream-thread."
Lela's expression tightened. "You've been there once. You barely made it out."
"I know," Mary said. "But I learned something. The Queen isn't omnipotent there — not yet. She's still feeding. Still binding herself to the sleeping minds. If we can sever that connection, we can weaken her enough to finish this."
Lucien crossed his arms. "And how exactly do we fight her in a place that doesn't obey time or form?"
The Friend smiled faintly. "The same way she does — through story. We don't bring weapons. We bring words."
Loosie arched an eyebrow. "You mean we talk her to death?"
"Not quite," the Friend said. "We write her out."
The plan was impossible.
It required all four fragments of the Codex to open the crossing — the exact center of every dream that had ever touched the Queen's influence. It meant walking willingly into her realm, where reality bent like smoke and memory became clay.
But impossibility had never stopped them before.
In the great hall of the Loomspire, the four placed their fragments on the altar — pages of light and shadow that hummed when brought together. The Codex pulsed once, then twice, as if taking a breath after long slumber.
The air trembled.
"Once we step through," Mary said quietly, "we can't turn back. The Queen will know we're there."
Lucien smirked faintly. "She'll know when I hit her with everything I've got."
Loosie grinned. "I've been wanting to see if fire burns in dreams."
Lela smiled softly, a ghost of her old warmth. "Let's find out."
The Friend, ever calm, placed a hand over the fragments. "Then let it be written."
Light flared.
The crossing was unlike anything Mary had experienced before.
The world folded inward — sound and sight imploding into a point of infinite stillness. Then came motion, not forward but through. They fell and rose at once, tumbling through layers of memory and myth until they emerged into a sky of shifting color.
The dream-thread stretched before them — a vast landscape of thought and illusion. Mountains made of glass rose from oceans of ink. Trees grew from the remains of forgotten stories, their branches whispering in dozens of tongues.
It was breathtaking — and terrifying.
Mary could feel her mind fracturing slightly just by standing there. The place wasn't meant for form, but for meaning. Every thought had weight. Every word could shape reality.
"Stay focused," the Friend said. "If you lose your sense of self here, the dream will rewrite you."
Loosie grunted. "So, no wandering off. Got it."
They began to walk, following the pulse of the Codex fragments, which now glowed faintly in their hands like living compasses. The path led them toward a horizon of black fire.
And there — rising from that fire — was the Queen's Citadel.
It towered impossibly tall, made of mirrored obsidian and bound by rivers of light. The air around it shimmered with power. At its heart, a massive door pulsed like a heartbeat — and behind that door, Mary could feel her.
The Queen was awake.
As they drew closer, the dream began to resist them.
The ground shifted beneath their feet, turning from glass to shadow to bone. Whispers filled the air, murmuring their fears back to them in their own voices.
Lucien froze mid-step, staring ahead. "Mary… do you hear that?"
Mary turned — and saw him staring into the distance, where a figure stood.
It was her.
The dream had manifested a copy of her — not the Mary she was now, but the one from long ago, when she still believed she could save everyone. That version smiled softly, her eyes full of hope.
Lucien took a hesitant step forward. "Mary?"
The illusion tilted its head. "Don't you wish it had ended differently?"
Lucien clenched his fists. "Not this again."
He tried to look away — but the dream's power tugged at his thoughts. His memories began to spill, bleeding into the air.
Mary reached out, grabbing his shoulder. "Focus. She's using reflection traps. Don't look too long."
He tore his gaze away — just in time. The illusion melted into smoke, dissolving into the shifting air.
Lela spoke softly, her voice trembling. "She's using our own stories against us."
"Then we write new ones," Loosie said, drawing a flaming sigil in the air with her hand. The fire held — solid, defiant. "Let's see how she likes this one."
They pressed on.
When they finally reached the foot of the Citadel, the door opened before them — a vast wall of mirrored light, part invitation and part threat.
The Queen's voice rolled through the air like thunder wrapped in silk.
"Welcome home, children."
Mary stepped forward, unflinching. "This was never home."
"Then why do you keep returning?" the Queen asked, her tone almost tender. "Why do you cling to a story that refuses to end?"
Mary raised her hand, and the fragment of the Codex in her grasp flared brighter. "Because endings aren't the only kind of truth."
The Queen laughed softly. "Then come. Show me your truth."
The doors swung open.
Inside was not a throne room, but a library. Infinite shelves stretched into darkness, each filled with books that breathed and whispered. The scent of parchment and ash filled the air.
And at the center stood the Queen — radiant, terrible, her gown now a storm of living text. Her eyes burned with creation itself.
Mary felt the others gather beside her, their presence anchoring her in that impossible place.
The Queen extended her hand. "Join me. Together we can end this illusion of separation. One story. One will."
Mary shook her head. "No. Not one story. A thousand."
The Queen smiled sadly. "Then you've chosen war."
The room exploded in light.
The first battle of the Dream War began not with swords, but with words.
Every thought became a weapon, every memory a shield. Fire and shadow clashed across the library of eternity. Lela's light burned holes through the Queen's illusions. Loosie's forges roared with defiance, shaping weapons out of willpower itself. Lucien summoned storms of ink and lightning.
And Mary — at the center of it all — held the Queen's gaze, her mark blazing with silver fire.
Their words collided like titans.
Each one rewriting the other.
Each one refusing to fade.