Søren was dreaming. Or perhaps, something was dreaming of him.
There was no sky, no stars, no wind, no time.
Only the sea, vast, black, and utterly still.
He stood on its surface barefoot, but the water did not break beneath him. It was solid yet liquid, soft yet unyielding. The air or whatever passed for it was thick, humid, and tasted of rust. Around him stretched a horizonless plain of ink. An ocean untouched by sun or storm. A place outside the world.
And beneath him... movement.
He looked down.
The water, for all its darkness, was clear. Horrifyingly clear. Like glass above a pit. And through it, he saw the world beneath a churning chaos of life that did not belong. Long, wormlike creatures spiraled in impossible loops, bending angles that hurt to follow. Jellyfish glowed faintly with lights that pulsed in broken rhythms, flashing symbols rather than colors. There were things with no eyes, no mouths, no spines just mouths upon mouths upon mouths.
And among them... the tentacles.
They writhed slowly, drifting like roots suspended in a forgotten current. Some twisted around invisible columns. Others slithered in and out of cracks in the ocean floor. Some simply floated, lifeless. But even the still ones seemed... aware. Watching. Testing. Waiting.
Søren felt a pull, not physical, but internal. A gravity inside his ribs that drew his eyes further into the black.
And there far off, between folds of shadow and depth he saw it.
A shape.
No, not a shape. A presence.
It was distant, but not far. Massive, but not loud. It didn't move. It didn't need to. It was. Towering and coiled, crouched like something that had never learned to stand upright. Its body seemed layered in great slabs of flesh and muscle, wings like tattered sails folded against its back. Its head... or what might have been its head... bore a cluster of tentacles that never stopped shifting, reconfiguring, hiding the center from view. As Søren stared, the tentacles moved in rhythms that seemed almost purposeful like they were spelling something he had once known and forgotten.
The pressure in his chest tightened.
It was looking at him.
Not with eyes, no. But with presence. With awareness. With a gaze that wrapped around his soul like cold chains, pulling gently. Testing.
His knees buckled.
He fell, not into the sea, but onto it, the surface accepting his weight as if it had waited for this moment. He was kneeling now, breathless and sweating, though the air was still.
He wanted to scream. But instead, he whispered, without knowing why:
"I know you."
The ocean answered with silence.
Then came the sound. A resonance. Deep. Old. Not heard, but felt behind the eyes, between the teeth, inside the spine. A name. A word. A command. It pulsed through him in waves.
He clutched his chest as the vibration grew.
A thought not his own pushed into his mind:
You have seen Me. You remember.
And just as his vision began to fold in on itself, light inside shadow inside darkness...
He woke.
***
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar.
Wooden beams. Hanging herbs. A small crack where light leaked through.
His body was slick with sweat. His heart was racing. The taste of salt lingered on his tongue.
For a moment, Søren lay still, trying to remember who he was.
Then he heard the sound of a pen scratching against paper.
Turning his head slowly, he found Feran sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, notebook open in his lap. His goatlike legs were curled beneath him, and the little candle beside him cast flickering shadows across his horns and sharp features. His golden eyes were focused on the page, lips moving silently as he wrote.
Søren tried to speak, but only a rasp came out.
Feran didn't look up. "You were talking in your sleep," he said softly, scribbling one more note. "Muttering in a language I couldn't catch."
Then, as if remembering something important, he snapped the notebook shut and grinned. "Well then, good news!" he said brightly, slipping the book under one arm and standing in one smooth, inhuman motion. The porridge worked."
Søren stared at him, throat dry. "What… what do you mean?"
Feran walked over and perched on the edge of the bedframe, one hoof tapping the wood absently. "I mean," he said, voice lighter now, "you dreamed. Deeply. Properly. Which means your Sibil's waking up. The porridge feeds it. I wasn't sure how long yours would take to stir, some are stubborn, but looks like yours is eager."
Søren sat up slowly, the blankets sticking to his damp skin.
"I saw… something. In the sea. Tentacles. Eyes. Something huge."
Feran's grin faded just a little, replaced with a curious tilt of the head. "Did you see its shape?"
"No. Not clearly."
Feran nodded thoughtfully. "Good. You're not ready for that yet."
"What was it?" Søren asked, voice quiet.
Feran just smiled again, wide and unreadable. "A memory. Or a promise. Or both."
Then he stood, stretching, joints popping like dry twigs. "Come downstairs when you're ready," he said, heading for the door. "Bryony made tea that doesn't taste like seawater. Thought that might be nice after your little voyage."
He left with a soft clack of hooves.
Søren remained there in silence, staring down at his hands, still shaking.
A memory. A promise. Or both.
The echo of that gaze still pressed against his chest.
He didn't know what he had seen.
But he knew it was waiting.
***
The wooden stairs groaned softly beneath Søren's feet as he descended, the smell of dried herbs and old smoke growing stronger with every step. The early morning light barely touched the inside of the cabin, filtered through slats and branches that curled like fingers against the windows. It felt like the house itself was still half-asleep.
Bryony sat cross-legged near the hearth, steam rising from three cups of tea placed carefully on the low table between them. Their posture was relaxed, though their eyes watched the fire with distant focus. Feran was sprawled beside them in his usual way, half-sitting, half-lounging, tail twitching slightly with thought.
Søren sat down across from them, still feeling the echo of the dream buzzing under his skin.
Feran handed him one of the cups, the warmth seeping into Søren's fingers like breath. This tea did not smell like blood or seawater, just earth, bitter leaves, and faint citrus.
They drank in silence for a while.
Then Søren spoke.
"What exactly is a... Sibil?"
Both Bryony and Feran looked up.
Feran blinked, his expression one of genuine surprise. "Wait. You mean Bryony didn't tell you?"
Bryony didn't look away from the fire. "He wasn't ready."
Feran laughed, nearly spilling his tea. "Gods. You dramatic thing. He literally knelt to That Which Sleeps and didn't get devoured, he's ready."
Søren's brow furrowed. "You keep saying that word. Sibil. I keep hearing it like it's supposed to mean something. But I don't... I don't know what it is. I thought it was just... power?"
Feran sat up properly, setting his cup down. "No, no. Not just power. Not just magic. A Sibil is... more than that."
He looked at Søren seriously for the first time since they met.
"It's what we call the gift or curse you receive when you survive being touched by the Abyzmal."
Søren felt the word land heavily inside his chest. "Abyzmal?"
Bryony finally turned from the fire, their voice soft but resolute. "It's what we call the source. The origin of the corruption. The thing that breaks reality. It leaks into this world like ink into water, slow, subtle, and impossible to remove once it spreads. It warps. It unravels. It forgets."
Feran nodded. "And those who come into contact with it, deep contact, not just breathing the air near a dead thing, they face a... split path. Two ways. Two outcomes."
"Most become corrupted," Bryony said, their eyes now fixed on Søren. "Their bodies fail to contain the presence. They twist. They forget who they are. Their minds collapse under the weight of something too large, too wrong. They become what we call Ka'thul, monsters born from broken memory and shattered flesh."
Søren thought of the thing in the town, the hound-shaped horror that screeched with a voice like metal and rot.
Feran sipped his tea again, voice quieter now. "That one you saw? That was a person. Once. A man, maybe. A child. Doesn't matter now. The Abyzmal rewrote them."
"And the other path?" Søren asked.
Bryony's fingers drummed lightly against the rim of their cup.
"Some endure. Somehow. Not because they're stronger, or more worthy. No one knows why. The Abyzmal touches them... and they change, but they remain. Their minds hold. Their memories fracture, but do not vanish. And when the breaking ends, they are left with a mark. A connection. A gift. That is your Sibil."
Feran leaned forward, golden eyes glowing faintly. "You've already felt it, haven't you? That pull in the dream? The feeling that something old was waking inside you. That's it. That's your Sibil scratching against the inside of your skull."
Søren looked down at his tea, at the rippling surface. "So... the dream wasn't just a dream."
"No," Bryony said. "It was a memory. Not yours. But perhaps... one you've inherited."
Feran continued, voice almost reverent. "The Endured, that's what we call ourselves, those who've Awakened. We live with our Sibil. We feed it. We learn its shape. Some hear whispers. Some see through walls. Some, like me, see into people."
Søren looked up. "You knew what happened to me. Even before I said anything."
Feran smiled gently. "I didn't need to hear you say it. I felt it. The dream residue clinging to you like salt. The panic in your breath. The way your mind shifts when you look at dark water. It all leaves a taste."
Bryony added, "You'll feel it too, soon. Your Sibil is stirring. The more you accept it, the more it will show itself. But be warned..."
They leaned forward, voice low and firm.
"...it does not make you human. It makes you survive. Those are not the same."
The room fell silent again.
Søren's thoughts spun in quiet chaos. Ka'thul. Abyzmal. The Endured. Sibil. Words that sounded like myths, but sat in his bones like truths.
He reached for his tea again, trying to keep his hands from shaking.