"Before there was anything, there was the Dream.And before the Dream, there was the One who slept."— Myth of the Dreamer, forbidden verse
The Descent
The stairs of bone echoed beneath their feet.
Each step sounded like a heartbeat—slow, deliberate, wrong. The air grew thinner, thicker, heavier all at once. Elen clutched her chest. Time... was folding.
"We're not walking down," she whispered. "We're walking... backward."
"Through memory," Cael nodded. "To the place where it all began."
The marrow walls glistened with veins of starlight, pumping memories like blood. Faces formed in the shadows—some they knew, others they hadn't met yet.
The final step took them into a void of perfect silence.
There, rising from the nothing, was a cradle made of roots, bone, and constellations. Suspended in it was a sleeping body—a vast one, as large as a mountain. Its face was obscured by a mask of silver threads.
"Is that... the First Dreamer?" Elen whispered.
"No." Cael stepped forward. "That's what's left of them."
The Memoryverse
As they drew close, the cradle opened its eyes.
But the Dreamer remained asleep.
Instead, the dream spoke.
Reality blurred—and Cael and Elen were pulled into a realm beyond concept.
Not a vision.Not a place.But the memory of the world before the world.
They stood amidst an ocean of unborn stars. Around them, countless voices—ideas not yet realized—swirled in endless dance.
Then they saw it:The cradle being spun by the Dreamer's fingers.
Seven strands of power:
Flame that devours truth.
Water that forgets.
Wind that lies.
Earth that remembers.
Light that blinds.
Shadow that reveals.
Dream—which births everything.
"These are the First Threads," Cael said softly."From them, gods were spun. Myths were grown like trees. And mortals... were made to forget."
But something was wrong.
One thread... was missing.
The Eighth Thread
The stars around them began to stutter—flickering like dying candles.
Elen suddenly clutched her head.
"It's speaking to me—no—it's screaming."
"What is?"
"The missing thread."
She held out her palm—and from her skin bloomed a ribbon of iridescent black, made of possibility, not substance.
"This thread was never meant to be pulled," Cael warned.
"Then why do I have it?" Elen asked, tears brimming.
Cael looked away.Because he knew.
"Because you are the one who wakes the Dreamer. Or kills them."
Suddenly the memory collapsed.
And they were back—at the cradle. The Dreamer stirred.
The Choice
A voice boomed from all directions.Not from the Dreamer—But from the cradle itself.
"YOU WHO CARRY THE EIGHTH THREAD. CHOOSE."
Before Elen, the sky tore open.
Two visions were shown.
A world where she pulls the thread:
The Dreamer wakes.
The gods die screaming.
Magic returns, but it is raw and wild.
Mortals ascend… but the world fractures.
A world where she cuts the thread:
The Dreamer sleeps forever.
Peace endures… a lie wrapped in order.
No one remembers the gods.
Elen and Cael live. But they forget each other.
"Choose," the voice echoed. "And the weave shall follow."
Elen's Choice
She turned to Cael.
"What would you choose?" she asked.
"It's not my choice," he said softly."But if I could… I'd choose the world where I remember you. Even if we burn for it."
Tears fell.The eighth thread shimmered between her fingers.
She took a breath.
And she pulled.
The Awakening
The cradle exploded in light.
The Dreamer stirred—and opened their eyes for the first time in aeons.
But they didn't rise.
Instead, they looked at Elen.
A whisper passed from them to her—too ancient to be language.
But she understood it.
"You are no longer a dreamer," the voice said.
"You are the one who dreams the gods."
In that moment—Elen became the Threadbearer.
And behind her, Cael smiled faintly.
"It was always going to be you," he said.
But as he took a step forward, a crack appeared on his skin.
The cost of the eighth thread.
"Cael…" she whispered.
"Don't worry," he said, beginning to glow. "I'm not dying."
"Then what's happening?!"
He gave her one last look.
"I'm becoming the story."