The clink of porcelain echoed softly through the stillness as Nathan gently set his teacup down, a faint curl of steam rising from the rim. The library—if it could even be called that—breathed around them, its air thick with a peculiar, almost electric tension. Caspian shifted in his seat, the worn leather creaking beneath him, feeling the weight of Nathan's gaze like a fog pressing in around his shoulders. The second floor of the Library of Nightmares stretched out in every direction—rows upon rows of ancient, towering shelves, their wood darkened with age, the spines of countless books gleaming like teeth in the dim, shifting light. The shelves seemed to shiver faintly, as if each tome within them stirred with a life of its own, whispering, waiting.
"So, Caspian, is it?" Nathan's voice was smooth, almost amused, as though he were indulging in some private joke. He swirled the contents of his cup lazily, the dark liquid catching the flicker of a lantern's glow. "Zach told me you're the new Devourer of Dreams."
Caspian inhaled deeply, the scent of the tea—sharp, almost herbal—filling his nose as he forced himself to meet Nathan's gaze. Those lavender eyes shimmered like oil on water, unnerving in their calm precision. He swallowed, the words catching in his throat before he managed a careful, "That's what he told me."
Nathan chuckled, a soft exhale that stirred the steam curling from his cup. "Ah, Zach. Always so dramatic." He lifted the cup once more, taking a slow sip, his expression unreadable behind the fine rim of porcelain.
Caspian narrowed his eyes slightly, shifting forward in his seat. "What's so funny?"
Nathan set the cup down with a faint click, a glint of teeth flashing in the half-light. "I'm afraid I can't answer that."
"Or rather, you won't," Caspian replied, a note of irritation sharpening his tone.
Another laugh—this one deeper, richer, vibrating softly through the cavernous air of the library. Nathan tilted his head, studying Caspian with an air of detached curiosity, as if observing a puzzle slowly taking shape. "Tell me, Caspian," he began, voice low and measured, "do you know where we are?"
Caspian glanced around, his eyes tracing the endless, labyrinthine shelves, the strange shifting of shadows that seemed to pulse and breathe within the books themselves. "The Library of Nightmares," he answered, the name still tasting unfamiliar on his tongue.
Nathan's smile widened, eyes gleaming like the facets of a cut gemstone. "And what do you think this library stores?"
Caspian hesitated, the words slow to form. "Books... about nightmares?"
A subtle shake of Nathan's head. "Not quite. These books don't merely describe nightmares. They contain them. Each book is a vessel, a cage, holding the fragments of nightmares born from the minds of countless souls—men, women, children, dead or living, past or present. Every fear, every unspoken terror, every shadow that ever crawled across the mind of the world—it lives here, within these shelves."
Caspian blinked, a chill creeping across his skin. He glanced at the shelves again, seeing them anew: the way the spines seemed to shift, the air shimmering faintly around them, as if the shelves breathed, hungered. "So... what, you collect them?"
Nathan inclined his head, the faintest nod. "In a manner of speaking. This library is a repository, a memory of all that humanity fears—and all that it tries to forget." His voice lowered, becoming almost reverent. "Every Devourer begins here. This is where you learn who you are."
Caspian's breath hitched slightly, the weight of those words sinking in. "So... this is my first dream, isn't it?"
"Correct," Nathan replied, the word crisp and final. "The first dream is always the library. And within it, you'll be tested."
Caspian's brows knit together. "How do I pass?"
Nathan's grin sharpened, a glint of teeth in the half-light. "Ah, straight to the point. I like that. The test is simple—at least in theory. I will select a book, and within its pages, you'll find a nightmare, alive and writhing, trapped yet restless. Your task, as the Devourer, is to purge it. Eradicate it, contain it, silence it—whatever method you choose. Negotiation is possible, though rarely effective. More often than not... you will have to kill."
The words landed heavy in the air, their meaning settling like dust in Caspian's lungs. He stared at Nathan, watching the lines around his mouth, the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. "And what happens if I fail?"
Nathan spread his hands, the motion graceful, almost theatrical. "Then the nightmare devours you. And the cycle begins again... or it ends, depending on how much of you is left."
Caspian sat back, the leather of his chair cold and unforgiving against his skin. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. "What happens if I pass?"
"Ah." Nathan's eyes glimmered, the grin curling wider. "If you pass, you receive three rewards. First, you may choose any book within this library to read—though some are... off-limits, for reasons I am not inclined to explain. Second, you may ask me a single question, any question at all, and I will answer truthfully. Third, you may ask a favor of me. Be wise with it."
Caspian nodded, though his mind spun, the implications of it all swimming in a dark, fathomless sea. He leaned forward, voice low. "If the library has all knowledge, why ask you a question? Can't I just read it from a book?"
Nathan chuckled, a low, almost warm sound. "Because, Caspian... I am the library, in a sense. I've read every book. I've become part of this place, and it's become part of me. The books hold the knowledge, yes... but they don't always give it willingly. They require the right touch, the right... persuasion. And sometimes, what you need isn't in the pages. Sometimes, it's in what I remember."
Caspian exhaled, tension knotting in his shoulders. "Alright. Enough talk. What's the test?"
Nathan's grin widened, eyes bright with a strange, unsettling energy. He reached to the shelf beside him, his hand passing over rows of spines—each one flickering faintly, as if they shimmered between worlds. His fingers stopped on a sleek green book, its leather cover almost iridescent, the name Gretta Neilson embossed in delicate, curling gold script.
He withdrew the book with a whisper of parchment and handed it to Caspian, who took it cautiously. The cover was warm beneath his fingertips, the edges tinged with a faint, pulsing glow.
"This," Nathan said softly, "is the book of Gretta Neilson—a young woman from the seventeenth century. That's all I'll tell you."
Caspian turned the book in his hands, the gold lettering shimmering like firelight. "And the rest?"
"Rules are rules," Nathan replied, shrugging with a faint, almost apologetic smile. "You go in blind. The only way forward... is through."
Caspian hesitated, staring at the book. He felt it humming, faintly, beneath his fingertips—like holding a caged animal, waiting, breathing, coiled in the dark.
Nathan's voice cut through the air, gentle but firm. "When you're ready, say enter. The nightmare will do the rest."
Caspian inhaled deeply, steadying himself. The weight of the book in his hands seemed to pulse with a quiet, malevolent life.
He exhaled slowly, voice firm, clear, though his heart pounded in his chest.
"Enter."
The book shuddered in his grip. The cover split open—not into pages, but into a swirling vortex of deep, liquid blue, as if the ink itself had come alive, folding in on itself in an endless spiral. The air in the library shifted, a low, thrumming vibration coursing through the shelves, the very walls, the bones of the world itself.
Caspian felt the floor tilt beneath him, the weight of the dream pulling him down, down, down
And just before the dark swallowed him whole, Nathan's voice rang out—low, amused, crackling with the promise of something more.
"Try not to die kid"
The car rolled to a slow halt at the curb, the engine's low hum fading into the midnight hush of the unknown city. The streets were unnervingly quiet, lamplight flickering against fog-kissed sidewalks. The tower before them loomed like a sentinel in the dark, an edifice of glass and steel, etched with age and authority. Its emblem—a shield bearing the coiled head of Medusa—gleamed above the grand double doors, casting a cold shadow across the street.
Andrew stepped out first, his black boots thudding against the concrete. He took a breath, sharp and measured, as if the city's air itself was laced with tension. Camael followed, less rigid but equally alert, his pale hair catching in the faint breeze. Together, they moved toward the entrance.
The doors parted with a soft hiss, and they stepped inside—a cavernous lobby clad in obsidian marble, the scent of polished stone heavy in the air. At the reception desk sat a woman, dark-haired, immaculate, a small silver pin on her lapel marking her as Maria. Her eyes flicked up from the papers in front of her, cool and professional.
"Andrew. Camael. The boss is expecting you," she said, her voice crisp.
Andrew gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Maria."
They moved deeper into the building, the click of their footsteps swallowed by the plush carpet beneath their feet. The elevator doors slid open, and they ascended in silence. The hum of the city seemed to recede, replaced by the sound of their own breath, the quiet tension building between them.
When the doors opened, they were greeted by the sight of a man leaning casually against the wall, a grin plastered across his face. Mike. Smug as ever. His eyes gleamed with barely concealed amusement.
"Well, well. The prodigal sons return," he said, arms crossed. "The boss is pissed, by the way. Might want to wipe those looks off your faces before you go in there."
Andrew's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Camael's expression remained impassive, though there was a glint in his eyes, sharp as glass.
Mike pushed off the wall, still smirking, and sauntered past them, his cologne lingering in the air like a taunt.
Andrew watched him go, exhaling slowly through his nose. Then, without another word, he and Camael approached the large double doors at the end of the hall. They loomed, carved from dark wood, polished to a mirror sheen. Without knocking, they opened—silent as a secret.
Inside, the office was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners like ink. The scent of jasmine tea mingled with leather and old paper. At the far end sat a woman—young, perhaps mid-twenties, with chestnut hair spilling over her shoulders in soft waves. Her brown eyes glinted like tempered steel, and her posture, though relaxed, exuded an undeniable air of authority. She was beautiful, yes—but it was the beauty of a storm gathering on the horizon. Dangerous, inevitable.
Luna.
Andrew's mouth tightened into a line, but he inclined his head in greeting. "Luna."
Camael followed, nodding respectfully. "Ma'am."
Luna's gaze flicked between them, sharp as a blade. She gestured toward the chairs before her desk, her fingers adorned with simple silver rings. "Sit."
They obeyed, the leather chairs creaking under their weight. Luna's expression was unreadable, her hands folded neatly atop the desk. For a moment, the room was silent but for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall.
Finally, Luna spoke. Her voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it that cut clean through the air.
"Gregory's dead."
Andrew stiffened. "We know. We came to tell you."
Luna's brow arched ever so slightly. "I know you know. Do you think I'm slow to news like this? Gregory was one of ours, Andrew. One of the best. And now he's gone."
Her tone was sharp, and Andrew felt the weight of it settle in his chest. Camael, ever calm, leaned back slightly, watching Luna with a gaze that betrayed nothing.
"We're here to offer our support," Andrew said after a beat, his voice even. "We'll hold the line in Nimerath until you find a replacement. It's a dangerous time—especially with the Blackwood Ball approaching."
Luna's lips twitched, as if in bitter amusement. "You think I don't know that?" Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time, her anger cracked through the surface. "Nimerath is on the brink. That ball will draw the richest, the most powerful, the most corrupt. And Gregory was our man on the inside. He kept the wolves at bay. Now—" She stopped, fingers drumming against the desk. The sound was sharp, like a gavel striking wood.
"We'll do whatever it takes," Andrew said firmly. "Give us a team. We'll find who did this. We'll make them pay."
"No." The word snapped out like a whip, final and cold. Luna's gaze pinned him in place, and for a moment, Andrew felt a flicker of something unfamiliar—doubt. "No vengeance. Not now."
Andrew's brow furrowed. "With respect, Luna, they killed one of ours. Gregory wasn't just an asset—he was—"
"A friend," Camael finished, his voice softer, but no less weighted.
Luna's expression shifted, a shadow passing over her face. For a heartbeat, she looked younger—tired, burdened by the weight of command. But then the mask returned, cool and composed.
"I know," she said quietly. "I know what he meant to us. But we don't have the luxury of rash actions. We know very little about who did this. No names, no leads. Only whispers."
Andrew's voice was tight. "Then give us the chance to find out. Let us follow the trail—"
"And risk blowing what little cover we have left in Nimerath?" Luna's tone was sharp, decisive. "No. For now, your orders are to defend. Hold the city. Keep the peace. Especially with the Blackwood Ball coming. That's your focus."
Andrew clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. Camael laid a hand on his shoulder—a small, grounding gesture.
"Understood," Camael said evenly. "We'll keep Nimerath safe."
Luna nodded, though her gaze lingered on Andrew, as if daring him to object. He didn't.
"Good," she said, exhaling slowly. She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking. The tension in the room was a living thing, coiled tight as a spring.
Then, almost as an afterthought, her eyes darkened, and her voice dropped—quieter, but far colder.
"And Andrew… Camael… there's one more thing you should know."
They both looked up, braced for whatever storm was about to break.
Luna's eyes, dark and steady, met theirs—sharp as a blade's edge, unflinching in the dim light. Her voice dropped, quiet but cutting through the air like ice.
"We have a lead on who killed Gregory."
Andrew's breath caught. His fists tightened against the arms of the chair. "Who!?"
Luna leaned forward, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. The weight of her gaze was a pressure in the room, drawing them closer into the orbit of what she was about to say.
"It's not certain," she said slowly, carefully, "but we have word of an extremely elusive group of mercenaries and terrorists. The way Gregory was killed… it matches their methods, down to the smallest detail."
Andrew's voice was a low growl. "What are they called?"
Luna's lips parted, and for a moment, she seemed to hesitate—as if even speaking the name could summon something dark into the room.
"They call themselves…" She exhaled, a quiet breath that barely stirred the air. "The Oblivion Syndicate."
The words settled like ash, heavy and final. The name seemed to darken the room itself, casting shadows that crept along the walls and across the floor, coiling like smoke around their feet.
Camael's gaze sharpened, and Andrew's heart beat once, hard, in his chest.
The Oblivion Syndicate.