Chapter 2: The Dream That Clung to Morning
And from the shadows beyond the doorway... something began to step through.
Its limbs were too long, jointed like a spider's legs but stripped of flesh, shimmering with the greasy translucence of smoke clinging to bone. No eyes, no mouth—just an absence that pulled, a vortex of silence sucking warmth from the air. Leo couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even draw breath against the suffocating dread. It raised a hand, impossibly elongated fingers curling like dead branches reaching for his throat—
Leo bolted upright, gasping.
A strangled cry tore itself from his lips. His heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird. Cold sweat plastered his thin shirt to his skin, and the phantom chill of that skeletal touch lingered on his neck. He blinked wildly, disoriented, clawing at the dark-blue sheets tangled around his legs.
Not real. Not real. Not here.
Pale, buttery sunlight streamed through gaps in the cream curtains, painting warm stripes across the worn floorboards. Dust motes danced in the golden beams. Outside, the world was gently alive: sparrows chattered in the vine-clad window frame, their song bright and insistent. Further off, the rhythmic clop-clop of hooves on cobblestones drifted up, accompanied by the cheerful jingle of a harness bell—no doubt Old Man Heron's milk cart. The air carried the sweet scent of baking bread, mingling with the damp earthiness of dew-kissed grass.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until stars burst behind his lids.
Just a dream. A nightmare. Vivid... too vivid.
But the terror felt real. The way the air had frozen around it... He looked down at his hands. They trembled.
"Leo! You alive up there? Breakfast won't eat itself!" Mira's voice floated up the stairs—warm, familiar amusement shattering the last remnants of the nightmare's grip.
Leo dragged himself from the bed. His legs felt shaky, hollow. He stumbled to the washbasin on the sturdy oak dresser; the cool ceramic was smooth under his fingertips. Splashing icy water on his face helped, but the reflection in the age-spotted mirror looked haunted: shadows pooled under his eyes, his skin pale beneath the droplets. That face—his face, yet not entirely his. The messy brown hair and sharp jawline belonged to the boy in the sketches downstairs, to this body he'd woken in. But those eyes... they held a fractured awareness, a stranger peering out from behind a familiar mask. Who am I? Where did 'I' come from?
The aroma of warm bread and melting butter grew stronger as he descended the creaking stairs. The house felt lived-in, welcoming. Sunlight flooded the small kitchen where Mira sat. She was halfway through a thick slice of crusty bread, slathered in golden butter and glistening jam. Steam curled from a large earthenware teapot between them.
"Sleep like the dead?" Mira asked around a mouthful, eyes crinkling with a teasing light. She wore practical trousers and a woven tunic, her dark hair braided neatly back—ready for the day, while Leo still felt stuck in the night.
He sank into the chair opposite her, the worn wood solid beneath him. He reached for the bread, the simple act grounding. The texture was perfect—crisp crust yielding to a soft interior. He spread butter, watched it melt, and spooned on the fruity sweetness. It resonated deep in his body's memory, even as his mind registered the oddity: Even here... jam? The absurdity almost made him laugh, but it came out as a shaky exhale.
Mira's playful smile faded, replaced by a quiet scrutiny. She sipped her tea, then set the cup down.
"Seriously, though," she said softly, voice firm, gaze sharpening, "what possessed you yesterday? Venturing into the Whispering Stones like that?"
Leo froze, bread halfway to his mouth. Whispering Stones? The mist-shrouded field. The watching shadows. The ruins. His spine went cold.
"The... Stones?" he croaked.
Mira leaned forward, brows drawn. "Don't play dense, Leo. The old watchtower ruins are on the north ridge, past the Silverwillow boundary. You know that place is off-limits—has been since before the last Frostfall. Even the Watchmen avoid it unless there's a confirmed breach. Too unstable. Too..." She paused, searching. "...residual."
Off-limits. Breach. Residual. The words dropped like stones into his stomach. Watchmen? He had flashes—stern faces, leather armor, a closed-eye symbol on a pauldron. Was that why the skeletal horror hadn't crossed his threshold? Or was the "residual" holding it back?
Panic fluttered in his chest. How could he explain? "Sorry, I'm a stranger in this body with nightmares and zero local knowledge." The fear of being unmasked warred with his desperate need for answers. That voice—"You... weren't supposed to come back."—was it meant for him, or for the boy whose place he now occupied?
He dropped the bread back onto his plate; sticky jam clung to his fingers. He met Mira's concerned gaze. His confusion—and the terror barely concealed beneath—was plain on his face.
"Mira," he whispered, voice raw. "I... I can't remember."
Her concern flared into alarm. The playful light vanished from her eyes, replaced by searching intensity.
"Can't... remember?" she echoed softly. Her gaze swept his face, lingering on the shadows under his eyes and the tremor in his hands. The silence grew thick, broken only by the frantic hammering of Leo's heart. The sunlight streaming through the window felt too bright, too revealing. The taste of sweet jam turned cloying on his tongue.
And in that moment, Leo realized the nightmare had not ended—and the peace of Mawrech's golden morning was a fragile, shimmering veil. What lay beneath it, clawing its way out of the dark, was only just beginning.
...
Leo's eyes fluttered open again, but the world felt off. The soft morning light through the curtains was too familiar, too comforting for the terror that still clung to his bones.
It was just a dream. A nightmare.
He sat up, breath ragged, pillows tangled under him. The weight of the skeletal hand, the glass-crack portal, the whisper—"You weren't supposed to come back"—all burned behind his eyes. He pressed his palms into his face, trying to scrub away the memory.
How can something so vivid vanish so quickly?
A voice drifted up from below:
"Leo! You alive up there? Breakfast won't eat itself!"
He froze. That voice—so warm, so mundane—sliced the last threads of his dream-logic apart. Leo bolted upright, head spinning. His legs felt like jelly, heart pounding in frantic rhythm.
Did that really happen?
Or am I still trapped in the ruin's darkness?
He swung his legs over the bed and scrabbled for his slippers. Every step down the creaking stairs felt like a journey from one world into another. The farther he walked, the more the memory of the nightmare receded—yet the dread that accompanied it remained.
He reached the bottom step just as Mira turned, her head tilted, eyebrows knitting. She clutched a mug of steaming tea.
"Sleep like the dead again?" she teased, voice gentle but concerned.
A chill ran down his spine. He swallowed, mouth dry. "I... yeah. I must've dozed off hard."
Mira's gaze flicked over him, noting the sweat on his brow and the tremor in his hands. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He forced a smile. "Just... tired."
She gave him a long look but didn't press. Instead, she slid a plate of warm, fluffy bread toward him. "Go on, eat. I have to head out soon."
Leo sank into the chair and tore off a chunk of bread, the steam drifting up in lazy curls. He smeared butter on its soft interior, the taste grounding him—real. The sweetness of jam cut through the morning's haze.
But as he chewed, Mira's earlier words echoed. "What possessed you yesterday? Venturing into the Whispering Stones like that?"
His fork clattered against the plate. "Mira... I—"
She narrowed her eyes. "You told me you'd never touch my old documents again. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? You know what they say about the stones—memories bleed, echoes awaken, and sometimes, people don't come back the same."
Leo's mind spun. Echoes awaken? Memories bleed? The nightmare images—smoke and bone, shattered portals—flared behind his eyelids once more. He felt the room tilt, heard the wind's distant howl that wasn't there.
He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I... I just heard something calling my name, and I followed it."
Mira's fork paused mid-air. She set it down. "Called your name? Leo, you know how the stones sing to the lost and broken. They lure people in." She pointed outside. "Look at the sunlight now. It's a new day. Forget that place. Promise me you'll stay away."
He stared at her, torn between gratitude and dread. The simple morning scene—the cozy kitchen, the bread, Mira's concerned eyes—should have banished his fear. But his heart pounded with an urgent question:
Why does the fear follow me, even in the light?
He reached for his tea, sipped the warmth, and tried to swallow the panic. "I promise."
Mira's shoulders relaxed, but her gaze remained sharp. She pursed her lips, then offered him a small, wry smile. "Good. Now finish your breakfast. I'll be back by midday—if all goes well."
With that, she rose and slipped out the door, her footsteps fading on the cobblestones. Leo watched her go, then turned back to his plate. Each bite of bread felt like reclaiming a piece of his sanity. The kitchen's gentle clatter—pots, dishes, the distant chatter of neighbors—reminded him that life here moved forward, oblivious to the nightmares lurking at its edge.
After a few minutes, he stood and stretched, the ache in his muscles real—not the phantom terror of dreams, but simple human fatigue. He walked to the window and pushed aside the curtain. The village lay bathed in morning light: children chasing each other across the square, a baker loading loaves into a cart, a musician tuning a lute under a flowering arch.
This is home, he thought, yet the memory of the ruins tugged at him. And yet... I don't belong in either world.
He closed his eyes. The whisper returned, soft but insistent: "Leo... Leo..."
His heart stuttered. The line between dream and reality blurred. He opened his eyes to the bright day, to villagers who had no idea of what lay beyond the mist. He shook his head, dismissing the echo.
Then a tingle of movement caught his peripheral vision. He turned to see the front door standing ajar—an impossibility, given Mira's warning. The hinges creaked in the still air. Leo's stomach plummeted.
Never again, he vowed silently. I won't let that place follow me here.
He strode across the room, bread forgotten on the table. As he reached for the door, the sunlight glinted off something on the floor—an ivory feather, delicate and impossibly light. His breath caught.
It wasn't from this world.
And with that discovery, Leo realized he could no longer ignore the pull of the Whispering Stones or the truth about who he had become.