The Warden led him through a world carved out of half-light and whispered machinery.
Nameless had expected to step outside into the open air, but instead, they passed through a narrow back corridor that bent downward, descending into the bowels of the building. The walls here were brick overrun with lichen and old root systems that slithered through cracks like veins in ancient flesh. Every so often, a gas lamp flickered awake as they passed, lighting their path with pale amber light that shimmered like dying starlight through fogged glass.
The revolver stayed heavy at Nameless's hip, but he resisted the urge to reach for it again.
The Warden didn't glance back. He moved with the effortless stride of a man who had long since mapped every stair and shadow in this hidden artery of the city. His long navy coat trailed behind him like the edge of a dark flag, and the silver moth pin on his lapel glinted once - like a watching eye.
Eventually, they emerged into what felt like the underbelly of a cathedral. The ceiling arched high above, lost in shadow, and rows of rusted chandeliers dangled from chains as thick as a man's arm. Beneath them sprawled a subterranean train platform, long abandoned, but not empty.
Dream walkers moved here like ghosts in coats and veils, each bearing the weight of a dozen lifetimes in their posture. Some spoke in low murmurs in languages Nameless didn't know but somehow half-understood. Others were silent, cradling relics or scrawling symbols into the stone tiles with powdered chalk and broken glass.
The Warden gestured for him to follow.
They crossed the platform until they reached what had once been a ticket office, its glass window shattered and paper signs half-rotted. The Warden knocked twice, paused, then twice again - an odd, arrhythmic pattern.
From inside, the air stirred.
A whisper passed through the cracks in the wood.
"Unrecorded. Untethered. Unnamed."
The door clicked open on its own.
Beyond it was not an office.
It was a chamber of glass and dream light.
Nameless stepped in behind the Warden and stopped cold.
The room was circular, perhaps thirty feet across, but the walls were made not of brick or stone, but living mirrors. Each reflected something different - not their current selves, but moments, memories, possibilities. He caught a glimpse of himself standing beneath a thunderstorm, another time weeping beside a bed, another in bloodstained armor atop a tower he did not recognize.
At the center of the chamber was a podium made of twisted brass and bone.
Upon it lay a book that breathed.
It rose and fell slowly, as though asleep. The pages shifted every few seconds with a sound like turning leaves, but no wind stirred. Its cover bore no title, only a seal: a closed eye, dripping a single drop of silver.
The Warden motioned toward the book.
"Place your hand on the tome. It will test the truth of you."
Nameless hesitated.
"And if I fail?"
The Warden didn't answer.
Nameless stepped forward.
Each pace closer to the book filled his mind with pressure, like walking toward a storm, like swimming against a tide of thoughts not his own. The moment his hand hovered above the pages, something behind his sternum tugged sharply - as though an invisible cord anchored to his soul were being pulled taut.
He placed his hand on the book.
It exhaled.
The mirrors around the room flickered violently. The reflections inside twisted. Some screamed. Some reached toward him. Others shattered, glass splinters reforming into the shape of symbols, glyphs, and fragments of language that etched themselves in golden arcs through the air above the book.
One phrase burned itself across the nearest mirror:
"Nameless: First Touch. Path Unknown. Stability: Fragile."
Another flashed above the book itself:
"Wildcard Dreamform. Mutation Probability: High."
The Warden's expression didn't change.
But Nameless noticed a flicker - almost disappointment.
"Unaligned," the Warden said at last. "That complicates things."
"What does it mean?"
"It means you haven't anchored to a path yet. You're volatile. Dangerous. Possibly unusable."
Nameless turned his eyes back to the mirror.
There, in one of the cracked panels, her face returned.
The dream-woman.
Only now her eyes were stitched shut.
Her lips parted.
And she whispered again:
"You're the last door, little thief."
Nameless recoiled instinctively, and the mirror cracked in response. A fine web of fractures spread across the glass like veins beneath translucent skin.
The book snapped shut under his hand.
The Warden was already moving toward the door.
"Follow. Before it notices."
"Before what notices?"
The Warden didn't answer.
They exited the chamber swiftly. This time, the door sealed itself with the groan of ancient machinery, and Nameless felt as though something immense had just turned its attention elsewhere - for now.
They walked deeper underground, the corridors branching like a labyrinth of veins beneath the sleeping city.
"You'll be assigned quarters," the Warden said flatly. "But you won't be permitted outside without a handler until you align."
"And if I don't?"
"You'll burn from the inside out."
Nameless blinked.
"That's not metaphorical, is it?"
"No."
They stopped at a brass-bound door marked with a sigil of a moth devouring its own wings. The Warden unlocked it with a key of bone and silver, then handed it to Nameless.
"This is yours now. Rest. The Path will come for you soon. One way or another."
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the corridor without a sound.
The chamber was spartan. A cot. A mirror. A desk with a black quill and a single sheet of parchment that read:
"Write the truth of your dreams. Lie, and the room will correct you."
Nameless sat at the desk, staring at the page.
For a long time, he didn't move.
Then slowly, carefully, he picked up the quill and wrote the first sentence:
"I was born in someone else's dream."
The ink shimmered gold. No correction came.
Then the second sentence:
"She kissed my shadow."
The walls remained silent.
He swallowed, leaned back, and looked toward the ceiling—trying to ignore the fact that the shadows in the corners of the room moved just slightly when he blinked.
Far above, in the heart of Vinterra, the crimson moon watched without blinking.
And far below, in a sealed chamber the Warden didn't speak of, a bell with no tongue rang once - without sound.