As Caspian and Layla walked home in the dead of night, the moonlight lay soft upon the wet pavement, fractured by the brass streetlamps casting elongated shadows across the ground. Rainwater glistened in gutters, reflecting fragments of neon signs and the dull amber of traffic lights. The world had quieted, stripped down to its bones—no club music, no voices, just the hum of electricity and the distant rumble of a night train threading its way through the sleeping city.
Layla gradually slowed her pace until it matched Caspian's, falling into step beside him without a word. They walked like that for a time—companionable silence, neither rushed nor hesitant.
They turned down a narrower street where the nightlife had fully retreated, and the signs of Nimerath's wear began to show. Cracks split the sidewalk like veins, and the buildings leaned a little too close together, crowding the sky into a narrow strip above. A flickering light buzzed above a shuttered barber shop, and a mural of a weeping angel, defaced with graffiti, loomed over a street corner.
Caspian's eyes scanned the rooftops instinctively. "This isn't the same city when it's quiet."
"It's never really quiet here," Layla said. "Just resting between screams."
A cluster of people loitered outside a corner market still open despite the hour. One of them, a wiry man with oil-streaked hands and a lopsided beanie, raised a hand as they passed.
"Layla. That you?"
She turned her head. "Merrit."
He trotted up beside them, a smile breaking across his face. "Didn't think I'd see you in this part of the district again."
"Just passing through," she said. "You still fixing vents for half the slums?"
"Someone's got to." Merrit glanced at Caspian, curiosity flickering. "New friend?"
Caspian nodded but said nothing.
"He's alright," Layla said. "Just bad at introductions."
Merrit grinned. "Well, if he keeps walking with you, he'll learn fast." Then, more quietly, "Be careful. Some of the local enforcers are jumpy tonight. Rumor says a Blackwood operative tore through a club not far from here."
Layla's eyes flicked to Caspian. "Thanks for the warning."
Merrit patted her arm, then disappeared back into the cluster, calling over his shoulder, "Come by sometime. It's not the same without your yelling."
They kept walking, rounding the corner and ducking into a side alley where the ground sloped downward toward the river. Pipes ran along the walls like skeletal limbs, and stray cats darted between trash bins, their eyes catching the light like twin embers.
"You know everyone in this city?" Caspian asked.
"Just the ones who matter," she said.
Past the alley, they emerged into a dim courtyard flanked by abandoned brick buildings with ivy creeping through shattered windows. Someone had set up candles along the base of a crumbling fountain, and a few figures huddled close to the stone, wrapped in threadbare blankets, sharing warmth more than space.
One of them—a pale woman with tangled silver hair—raised her head and met Layla's gaze. She offered a small, almost regal nod.
Layla returned it.
"She used to be a violinist," Layla murmured as they walked past. "Played at the old opera house before the riots. Lost her family and just… never came back from it."
Caspian didn't speak, but his eyes lingered on the woman until the courtyard was behind them.
They crossed a narrow bridge next, its iron rails slick with rain. Beneath them, the river pulsed dark and steady, a mirror fractured by the current. The bridge groaned under their steps, an old sound, like something ancient remembering it had to bear weight.
"So many ghosts in this city," Caspian said at last.
"They never really leave," Layla answered. "They just settle into the bricks."
As they entered a better-lit district closer to the Tower, the buildings grew taller, sleeker—less personality, more power. Cameras turned subtly to follow their progress. A security drone buzzed overhead and vanished behind a building's steel edge. The shadows here were artificial, cast by design rather than neglect.
"We're close," Layla said, her voice quieter now, the intimacy of the slums giving way to the silence of surveillance.
They passed a man asleep in a parked car, steam curling against the windshield. A dog padded silently alongside them for half a block before veering off into an alley.
As the Blackwood Tower came into view, rising like a solemn sentinel against the night sky, Caspian and Layla slowed their pace. The streets here were wide and clean, their surfaces polished smooth by the recent rain. The lights from the tower's upper levels reflected in the glossy black asphalt, stretching like pale ribbons toward the horizon. The hum of the city faded behind them, leaving only the faint rustle of wind through the lampposts and the distant, hollow clatter of a train turning somewhere far across the district.
They reached the base of the stairs leading up to the Tower's front entrance, but neither moved to climb them just yet.
Layla tilted her head back, eyes scanning the sky. Between the towering buildings and their spiraled antennae, a wedge of stars was still visible, silver pinpricks suspended in the deep blue canvas. The moon hung low, caught in the curve of an antenna dish, its light soft and pale like breath on glass.
"I love nights like this," she murmured. "When the city stops trying to be louder than everything else."
Caspian followed her gaze. "It's easier to think when the sky is empty of noise."
She gave a small smile. "I used to lie on the rooftop of our old building when I was little. Stare at the sky for hours. Made the world feel bigger. Like everything I was afraid of was too small to matter from up there."
"I used to do the same," he said quietly. "Only the stars looked different back then. War changes the air, the color of the light. Makes everything feel closer, like it's pressing down on you."
Layla turned to him. "And now?"
He took a breath. "Now it feels… distant again. Like the city's learning to breathe."
They stood in silence a moment longer, wrapped in the hush of midnight and cold metal and forgotten echoes. A breeze stirred the hem of Layla's coat, tugging softly at the strands of her hair. She crossed her arms, but not from cold.
"Thank you," she said.
Caspian looked over.
"For walking me home," she added, voice gentler. "You didn't have to."
"You would've been fine on your own."
"Probably," she agreed. "But I didn't want to be."
He didn't respond right away. Instead, he turned his eyes back to the stars, letting the quiet settle again between them. No tension. No distance. Just presence.
"You don't talk much," Layla said after a pause, "but when you do, it sticks."
He almost smiled. "Then I guess I should be careful what I say."
She nudged his arm lightly with her shoulder, more gesture than force. "You're alright, Caspian."
He didn't answer, but she saw the flicker in his expression—something softer, something real.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, stepping back toward the door. "Assuming I don't vanish again."
"No promises," he said, though his tone was low and warm.
She disappeared through the glass doors, and they sighed shut behind her with the faintest hiss.
Caspian remained where he was, hands in his coat pockets, eyes lifted once more to the sky. The moon had begun to drift behind the tower's spire, casting long shadows over the polished stone. The stars shimmered faintly above, muted by the haze of city light but visible nonetheless—steady, indifferent, ancient.
The city held its breath.
Slowly, Caspian descended the few steps leading to the main courtyard and sat down on the lowest one. The stone was cool beneath him, damp from earlier rain, but he didn't seem to notice. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and sighed a deep sigh.
He looked up again, eyes tracing the ragged edges of the skyline, then beyond, to the stars that refused to vanish even beneath the weight of Nimerath's steel and smoke.
Above him, the sky remained—dark, vast, and patient.
And beneath it, alone on the steps of Blackwood Tower, Caspian sat with the silence, the letter, and a thousand thoughts too heavy for words.
A faint breeze stirred the stillness, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and distant smoke. It curled low through the courtyard, sweeping up a small handful of brittle, curled leaves—amber and ash-brown, remnants of some long-dead season. They rose a few centimeters into the air, dancing briefly in the moonlight before scattering again along the steps.
Caspian sat quietly, elbows on his knees, the night wrapping around him like a second coat.
Then, from the shadows to his left, a voice broke the silence.
"So... that was the infamous Layla Blackwood?"
The voice was unmistakable—sharp-edged, familiar, laced with smug amusement.
Caspian turned his head quickly, eyes narrowing.
Zach was perched on the stone ledge that framed the tower's western façade, reclined like a man without a care in the world, his back against the rain-speckled window, one leg dangling freely over the edge. A half-folded newspaper rested lazily in his lap.
"You know," Zach continued, tapping the page with a gloved finger, "a proper instructor always does his homework. And by homework, I mean thorough research on the people his students seem… interested in."
Caspian's expression was unreadable. "So you're stalking her."
Zach feigned offense, lifting a hand to his chest in mock injury. "Stalking? Please. I prefer the term 'investigative surveillance.' Has a much more noble ring to it, don't you think?"
Caspian exhaled sharply through his nose. "Sounds like something a creep would say."
Zach chuckled and folded the newspaper with exaggerated care before tucking it behind him. "Touché. But I'm not here to debate semantics."
Caspian gave a slow yawn, stretching his arms above his head before letting them fall to his sides again. "Then what are you here for? Boredom? Or just trying to haunt me into insomnia?"
Zach leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting—less mirth, more purpose.
"Firstly," he said, wagging a finger, "don't yawn in the presence of spirit. Its rude. Most people would sell their children to even get a glimpse of me. Secondly…" He paused, then added, with theatrical gravity, "I came to give you a warning."
That caught Caspian's attention. He straightened up slightly. "A warning?"
Zach nodded solemnly, though the glint in his eye never dulled. "About your upcoming dream, of course."
Caspian blinked. "Dream? You're being cryptic again. You do that a lot."
Zach smirked. "And you never listen the first time. Let me spell it out for you, then—though I do love watching you flail around in confusion."
Caspian rolled his eyes with a groan.
Zach continued. "Every so often, the Devourer receives a dream. Though its not someone else's, rather your own. But unlike those you enter to observe or mend, this one's different. It's... personal. And because it's yours, it's exponentially more dangerous."
Caspian frowned. "It's still just a dream."
"Yes, and no," Zach replied, tilting his head. "Dreams and reality bleed together for you. That's your whole job, remember? So any damage you take in this dream… sticks. Wounds. Broken bones. Pain. All of it. Real."
Caspian processed that in silence, the weight of it settling in his gut.
"So," he said slowly, "with a serious enough injury…"
"You could die," Zach finished flatly.
The words echoed.
"You have a knack for dropping such serious information on me late at night, you know that right?"
"Call it a special talent of mine" Zach responded with a sly grin.
The night was filled with a longer silence, the only movement was a slight breeze which carried a group of brown maple leaves across the street.
Caspian swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the night's silence pressing in from all sides. "So how do I survive it?"
Zach stood then, brushing dust from his coat as he stepped down from the ledge. He walked a slow arc around Caspian, hands clasped behind his back, like a professor circling a lectern.
"It's simpler than it sounds," he said. "Dreams have rules, whether they admit it or not. You'll wake up somewhere. Somewhere unfamiliar, but built from fragments of things you know. And in that place, there'll be someone—or something—waiting for you."
"Waiting?" Caspian echoed.
"Yes. Sometimes they're hostile. Sometimes not. It depends, usually, on how you treat them. How honest you are. How afraid."
"So be polite and hope I don't die," Caspian muttered dryly.
Zach chuckled again. "Something like that."
Caspian raised an eyebrow. "That's all?"
Zach paused mid-step and turned back toward him.
"Oh. Right. One more thing."
His tone darkened slightly.
"If you ever hear a voice speaking in a language you don't recognize… leave. Immediately. Don't try to understand it. Don't look for the source. Just run away as fast as you possibly can."
Caspian stared at him. "Why?"
Zach's smile faltered for the briefest moment, the normal sarcasm in his eyes was momentarily replaced with unbridled rage. "Because whatever speaks that language doesn't belong in your dreams. Or anyone's."
A quiet stillness settled between them, as if the night itself had paused to listen. The hum of the city softened, leaving only the faint whisper of the wind threading through the alleys and the muted thrum of Caspian's heartbeat in his ears. The leaves Zach had stirred earlier settled back onto the cold stone, brittle edges rasping against one another like dry paper.
Zach didn't move for a moment, simply standing there, his silhouette framed against the faint glow of the streetlamp, the shadows shifting across his face in jagged lines. His gaze had softened—just slightly—but it held something Caspian couldn't quite name. Not pity. Not concern. Something quieter. A knowing.
He started to turn away, but then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His voice came lower this time, almost like a passing thought he hadn't meant to share aloud. "She seems like a lovely girl, you know. The girl. Layla."
Caspian frowned slightly, uncertain how to respond. The words lingered, suspended in the cold air between them.
"She's strong," Zach went on, almost as if speaking to himself now. His eyes weren't quite focused—like they were tracing something far beyond the darkened city streets. "Sharp, too. But it's the way she looks at you... you don't see that often. Not in this world."
Caspian shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely, unsure whether to agree or dismiss it.
Zach's gaze sharpened for a moment, catching his hesitation. "Don't screw it up, kid. People like her don't show up often."
Caspian's mouth opened, as if to speak, but the words tangled behind his teeth.
"She's not yours to save either," Zach added quietly, almost as an afterthought. His tone lacked the usual sharpness, as if he wasn't scolding Caspian but reminding him of something older, heavier, that came from experience. "But she's the kind of person you hold onto, if she lets you."
Caspian finally found his voice, though it came low and careful. "Is this the part where you tell me you've seen it all before? That I'm just the next in a long line of screw-ups you've tried to coach through life?"
Zach gave a quiet huff, more breath than laugh, and looked down at the crumpled newspaper in his hands. His fingers traced the folded edges absently, almost as if they were a map. "I've seen plenty, sure. Enough to know most people don't figure it out in time." His eyes flicked up, meeting Caspian's squarely now. "You don't have to be most people."
The silence stretched again. Caspian watched as Zach's outline seemed to waver in the dim light, his edges blurring into the wind. The leaves stirred once more, lifting in a small, restless spiral.
"Besides," Zach added, his voice softening to a near-whisper as the breeze began to pull at his coat, "you're going to need someone in your corner. When the time comes."
Caspian's brow furrowed. "When what time comes?"
Zach just gave a faint, enigmatic smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "You'll know."
And then, as if the wind had been waiting for his final word, Zach's form dissolved into the air—fading into a swirl of leaves that scattered across the steps and into the empty street beyond.
A single crumpled page from his newspaper fluttered to the ground in his place, catching briefly on the edge of the steps before blowing down the street.
Caspian remained standing, rooted to the spot for a long moment, staring at where Zach had been. The words lingered, heavier than they should have been, pressing against his ribs like a weight he hadn't been prepared to carry.
Finally, he exhaled—slow, steady, the breath curling in the night air like smoke. And with that, he turned back toward the tower, steps measured, the note in his pocket suddenly feeling heavier than before.
Caspian exhaled slowly and stood.
He turned to the doors of Blackwood Tower, one hand brushing over the cold brass handle—but paused. The lights inside were soft and dim, the warmth of the foyer visible through the glass, but it didn't call to him just yet.
He reached into his coat pocket.
From within, he drew the note—Julius's note—creased and folded with care. He didn't open it. Just held it in his hands, staring down at it as the breeze lifted the edge slightly, like it wanted to read it too.
Then he leaned back, resting his weight on his palms, and tilted his head toward the sky.
Above him, the stars shimmered faintly through a break in the clouds. Cold. Distant. Patient.
He let the silence take him again, deeper this time. No more voices. No more warnings. Just the ache in his chest, the note in his hand, and the question he didn't yet know how to ask.
What the hell am I walking into?
The stars didn't answer.
They never did.