The dreams were not hers.
Lynchie awoke not to her own memories, but to echoes of lives she'd never lived—each one branded behind her eyes like smoldering sigils.
An ocean boiled in reverse. A boy screamed at a silent mirror. A dragon wept over an unhatched egg, its wings stitched shut with starlight thread.
And somewhere far below, the sound of thunder that made no sound at all.
She sat up in her dormitory bed, drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted around her legs like old roots. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Not fear. Not exactly. It was recognition. A part of her—buried deeper than memory—had known these dreams. Had written them, maybe. Had bled them into someone else's stars.
Moonlight filtered through the slatted crystalpane, revealing the soft etchings still glowing on her palms—Spiral Glyphs that hadn't faded since the trial. Normally, dream-echoes dissolved upon waking. But these… lingered.
She turned her head.
The room was still. Her roommates—Arjay, Camila, Suazi—slept soundly, undisturbed by whatever had clawed its way into Lynchie's consciousness.
Her gaze flicked to the corner shelf where the self-writing page lay dormant, folded inside the Archivist's protective seal. No new words had written themselves. No light. No chime.
And yet… something had changed.
There was a presence in the air.
She reached instinctively for her inkblade.
And found it humming.
The weapon—no more than a curved brush-tipped dagger made of dreamwood—never pulsed like this. But now, it thrummed beneath her hand like a heartbeat in waiting.
The glyphs on her palm flashed once.
Then everything went still again.
She rose. Slowly. Quietly. Each motion rehearsed in silence.
She stepped toward the observatory's spiral stairwell, barefoot, glyphlight flickering faintly with each step. Behind her, none stirred.
Below her, the Dream-Vault awaited.
But someone was already there.
She saw the figure's silhouette from halfway up the stairwell—back turned, hands clasped behind their back. Watching the vault's sealed iris as if waiting for it to blink.
"You heard them too," said the figure without turning.
Lynchie's breath caught.
Not at the voice.
But at the words.
They were in the same dream.
Together.
And that was never supposed to happen.
Not in this world.
Not without consequence.