Nameless awoke with a scream caught in his throat.
It didn't escape his mouth.
Instead, it echoed inside his skull - like someone had carved the scream into bone, and now the marrow itself repeated it.
He bolted upright, drenched in sweat that smelled faintly of ash and ink. The world around him flickered once - reality not quite settled - and then solidified into the dim-lit courtyard where the Dreamwright ritual had begun.
He was back.
The circle of bone-dust and chalk was gone.
Only blood remained - smears where his limbs had convulsed. His right palm burned with an afterglow, a faint silver brand pulsing beneath the skin, as if a dream still lingered just beneath the surface.
Elira stood over him, her expression tight, gloved fingers wrapped around her walking stick. Her coat was splattered with chalk and… something darker.
The others were gone.
Nameless tried to speak.
His throat was raw.
"Elira…"
She crouched beside him immediately, holding out a small vial of blue-gray fluid. It shimmered oddly - like smoke trapped in water.
"Drink."
He obeyed, barely managing to tilt his head without collapsing. The liquid slid down his throat like velvet and ice. Immediately, the world stopped shaking. The pain dulled.
But not entirely.
Something had changed.
He looked down at his palm again.
The brand had solidified.
A circle of jagged, interlocking arcs surrounding an empty eye. Beneath it, three faint lines trailed downward like roots - or scars.
Elira's eyes narrowed at the sight.
"That's not any path I know."
He shook his head. "It chose me."
"No," she corrected. "You chose not to choose. That's different. The Guild won't like it."
Nameless pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. His bones felt like they'd been boiled. The revolver - his revolver now, no longer Lucien's - was holstered at his hip.
Something within him had settled.
Something else had awakened.
"What happened while I was under?" he asked.
Elira stood and took a long breath. "You were gone six minutes."
He blinked. "That felt like—"
"Days? Weeks? That's dreamspace. Time isn't a river there—it's a trap."
She paused.
"The others… They saw things. When you touched the circle, it flared. One of the mirrors in the chamber below cracked. Three Watchers lost consciousness. I had to shut the door manually."
Nameless ran a hand over his face.
His skin felt different. Thinner. Like he was wearing it from the inside-out.
"Do you feel it?" she asked suddenly.
"Feel what?"
Elira pointed toward the rooftops. The night above was still thick with fog. The crimson moon hung lower than before - larger now. Closer.
But it wasn't that.
It was the threads.
Fine strands of silver light now trailed from Nameless's body - dozens of them, almost invisible, stretching upward, sideways, downward into the stones. They hummed quietly, vibrating like harp strings pulled taut.
They weren't there before.
They connected him to something - no, everything.
Dream residue. Mental impressions. Echoes.
Elira stepped back.
"You're leaking."
He looked at his hand. "So I'm unstable?"
She shook her head, slowly.
"No. You're not unstable. You're—networked."
Nameless stared at her.
"Meaning?"
She swallowed. For the first time since he'd met her, Elira Thorne looked afraid.
"Meaning you're no longer just one person."
A silence fell between them, broken only by the distant screech of tram wheels scraping metal and the slow hum of unseen machines beneath the street.
Then, from somewhere far below the city - beneath even the Guild's deepest vaults - a bell rang.
No sound followed it. Just a sensation.
A pressure in the bones.
Elira turned her head sharply. "That's the Archivum. Nothing down there rings unless…"
She trailed off.
Unless someone - or something - had found a name that shouldn't exist.
Nameless looked at the sky.
The crimson moon was bleeding.
Thin trails of red mist spiraled downward, curling like fingers reaching for the city.
"You need shelter," Elira said quickly. "Now."
"Why?"
"Because that bell wasn't for you. It was for what's following you."
They ran.
Through alleys slick with fog and lamp-oil, past curio stalls and shuttered pawnshops that stank of brimstone and candlewax. The air pulsed with pressure now—like the city itself was trying to inhale, but couldn't.
Nameless moved like he'd done it a thousand times before.
No hesitation. No stumble.
Just instinct.
He knew which stones would hold. Which doors to avoid. Which gutter echoed when someone was watching.
"You remember Vinterra," Elira said breathlessly beside him. "But you weren't born here. Were you?"
"No," he said.
But he had lived here.
Just not as himself.
They arrived at an archway set into the side of a dead church.
A rusted gate. A stone passage. No guards, no signs.
Elira pounded a pattern against the side - five taps, a pause, then three.
The wall shimmered.
A seal cracked and The gate swung open.
They entered just as a howl echoed behind them.
Low. Animal. Wrong.
Nameless didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
He already knew what it was.
They descended into the Lower Sanctum, a sealed Guild vault used only during high-class dream infections.
The stone corridor smelled of dust, copper, and faintly, lavender.
The moment they passed the second gate, Elira dropped to one knee and scratched a symbol into the floor: an open door crossed by a chain.
The air sealed shut behind them.
They were safe.
For now.
Nameless sat against the wall, his breath ragged.
Elira stared at him.
"That dream-mirror you touched… It wasn't from the dream-runner's mind."
He looked up.
"It wasn't?"
"No," she whispered. "It was older. Much older. Pre-Guild."
A pause.
"Do you understand what that means?"
Nameless didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Because the pressure in his palm had returned.
And now, for the first time, it whispered back.
"She is still dreaming."