Nameless sat motionless for what felt like hours, his back against the peeling wall, fingers still curled around the cold brass revolver. The flickering oil lamp cast long, wavering shadows that moved just a heartbeat slower than they should have—lagging behind his motions as if reluctant to let go.
His breathing steadied, but not entirely.
Every few seconds, he would turn to glance behind him, half-expecting the dream-woman's fingers to close around his shoulder. But the room remained empty.
No whispers.
No flickering forms.
Just the silence of a city that had forgotten how to sleep.
Dust hung in the air like old breath. The garret smelled of faded ink, mothballs, and the faint perfume of mildew—strangely nostalgic, though he had no memory to compare it to. His gaze settled on the journal lying nearby. The cover was leather, creased and worn, but when he picked it up, the first page was still gone.
No trace of fire.
No sign it had ever existed at all.
He let the journal rest in his lap and finally stood, his limbs sore, like he'd run miles in someone else's shoes. The floor creaked beneath his weight. Across the room stood a narrow dresser missing one leg, leaning against the wall like a drunk too proud to fall.
He found a cracked mirror on top of it.
There was no face staring back at him.
Not entirely.
What stared back was a man of perhaps twenty-five, lean and angular, with soot-gray eyes too hollow for his age. Black hair clung to his scalp as though damp, and his features were… forgettable. Not ugly. Not striking. Just vague enough to be lost in a crowd.
Nameless raised his hand to touch the reflection.
It didn't move.
He recoiled.
The revolver slipped slightly in his grip, and he re-holstered it into the tattered leather holster strapped to the inside of his coat - an article of clothing he hadn't noticed before. Thick wool, charcoal black, double-breasted. Dusty but heavy. Good for hiding.
Someone else's coat.
Just like someone else's dream.
He moved toward the window and pushed it open. The chill of the night air struck him like a slap - a refreshing one. Below him stretched the sleeping body of Vinterra, cloaked in fog and smog, bathed in the crimson glow of the ever-present moon that hung like a rotting god's eye above the city.
The skyline was jagged, wrought-iron towers, crumbling cathedrals with stained-glass eyes, crooked chimneys vomiting smoke. Down in the winding alleyways, flickering gas lamps revealed cobbled streets slick with oil and shadow. A tram rattled past a distant bridge, sparks trailing behind like dying fireflies.
Somewhere below, a woman sang a lullaby in a language he didn't understand—but his bones did. It chilled him.
He looked down at the journal again. The second page had begun to write itself in tiny, tight cursive.
"You won't last long outside. Not without a name. Names are anchors. Without one, the city will swallow you whole."
Nameless touched the page.
The ink shimmered like dew in moonlight. Beneath that line, a question had appeared.
"Do you wish to keep being no one?"
He paused. Something deep inside him recoiled at the idea of taking a name—like an oath, or a bargain made in the dark.
But the alternative was worse.
Without a name, what was he? A squatter in stolen skin. A thought with legs. A placeholder waiting to be overwritten.
He didn't write a word. But as he thought - Nameless will do - the journal rippled with warmth, like it had heard.
And then, three things happened at once.
First, the oil lamp hissed and went out.
Second, the sound of footsteps echoed up the narrow stairs.
Third, the journal snapped shut in his hands and locked—an invisible seal forming across its spine with a faint hiss of heated air.
He grabbed the revolver again and turned.
A shadow moved past the doorway. Then a voice—calm, male, and too collected to be safe—floated in from the stairwell.
"A fresh one, hmm? Poor lad. Smells like dreamfire and stolen breath."
Nameless froze.
The shadow stepped into view.
A man, tall and thin, with the kind of bone structure reserved for marble statues and saints long forgotten. His eyes were a sickly shade of blue, too bright, and his coat—long, navy, buttoned to the throat—bore the emblem of a silver moth with open eyes.
Nameless felt something twitch behind his eyes.
Not pain. but Recognition by the Dream wright Guild. A Warden.
The man smiled—cordial, clinical, not quite human.
"You're not registered," the stranger said. "That's a problem."
Nameless backed up.
The revolver was in his hand now, steady.
The man raised a pale brow.
"Don't waste the bullet. You're new. That means unstable. Fragile. The last thing you want is a fracture."
Nameless didn't lower the gun.
"You were in someone else's dream, weren't you?" the man continued. "You still smell of her."
The silence between them stretched long and sharp.
Then, "Come with me," the Warden said, holding out a hand covered in black silk gloves. "You have no name. No record. And no protection. But the Guild might take you in."
Nameless didn't move.
Behind the Warden, down in the alley, the lullaby had stopped.
A new sound had taken its place, something wet, dragging along stone.
The Warden's eyes narrowed.
"You're leaking. She's still watching."
Nameless blinked—and suddenly, a handprint began forming across the window glass behind the Warden. Not pressed from inside. From outside.
The same handprint from the desk in Lucien's dream.
Bloody.
Wet.
Burned around the edges.
The Warden turned just in time to see it finish forming. Then he hissed a word under his breath—"Seal."
The glass shimmered. The print vanished. But the presence didn't.
Nameless looked at the man again. The revolver lowered slightly.
"Fine," he said hoarsely. "Take me."
"Good," the Warden replied, already turning. "Then maybe you'll survive the next night."
They descended the staircase together, past peeling walls and broken gas sconces that flickered nervously. As they reached the bottom floor, Nameless caught his reflection again—just a flash—in a warped metal tray.
His face had shifted slightly.
Just enough to notice.