The whisper from his palm did not fade.
It pulsed again—this time more clearly, not a voice in the ear but a resonance in the bones.
"She is still dreaming... and you are the crack in the glass."
Nameless stared down at the mark etched into his hand. The silver brand shimmered dimly in the vault's low light. But it had changed since he last saw it. A new detail had emerged: a second ring forming just outside the first, like the beginning of a seal being drawn by an unseen artist.
He didn't touch it.
He didn't need to.
He could feel it growing with every breath.
Across from him, Elira Thorne crouched silently, her coat draped across her knees, monocle dangling from one hand. She was watching—not just him, but the air around him.
"The threads are thickening," she said, voice hushed. "You're anchoring yourself into the city's dreamline. That's not normal."
"What happens if I finish anchoring?"
Elira didn't answer at first. Then, slowly:
"You stop being Nameless. You stop being you. You become part of Vinterra's unconscious—its memory, its curse."
Nameless leaned his head back against the stone wall.
"Maybe that wouldn't be so bad."
"Don't joke about that."
The fire in her voice surprised him.
She stood, pacing now, fingers tight around her walking stick.
"I've seen people fall into the dreamline before. They stop asking questions. They start answering them. They start telling you what you were before you speak."
"You mean they become seers?"
"I mean they become parrots of the city's madness."
Nameless exhaled. The vault's air was stale, heavy with damp and age. On the far wall, ancient sigils flickered faintly, carved into the stone in long-forgotten glyphs. They pulsed in time with his breathing.
The city was listening.
No—dreaming through him.
Suddenly, something shifted above them.
A faint tremor in the air.
A ripple, like a drop of ink in clear water.
Nameless turned toward the sealed stairwell leading up to the surface.
"What was that?"
Elira's eyes went wide.
"The bell again."
And this time… they could hear it.
Faint. Distant.
No clang. No echo.
Just a low note. As if a single piano key had been pressed and held—forever.
"No," she muttered. "It shouldn't be able to ring twice."
The ground beneath them shook gently, the air growing warmer—not from heat, but from pressure.
Then they heard the scream.
Not human.
Not animal.
A scream made from memory itself.
It tore through the vault, not through their ears but through their recollection of fear. It struck their minds like a hammer breaking stained glass, shattering the illusion of safety.
Elira stumbled, clutching her head.
Nameless felt the dream threads flare outward like snapped cables.
Then, silence.
Until—
"Come back," whispered the voice in his palm. "You left her dream open."
Nameless stood up. His legs moved before he willed them to.
The vault's air flickered like heat rising from stone, and when he stepped toward the far wall—the one covered in the oldest glyphs—a door began to form.
Not a real door.
Not even a dream-door.
But something stranger.
A memory of a door.
A shape in the stone where none had ever existed, forming from dust and sound and the echo of footsteps long since faded.
The brand in his palm sizzled faintly.
Elira looked up, pale-faced, eyes watering.
"Where are you going?"
"Back," he said.
"You're not ready—"
"I was never ready," he said quietly. "That didn't stop her from dreaming me into being."
And then, the memory-door cracked open.
Meanwhile, Far Below Vinterra.
In a chamber sealed for centuries, where the No-Name Bell still sat chained in silence, a figure moved.
It had no face.
Just a slit where a mouth should be, and rows of teeth that whispered instead of spoke.
Around its neck hung a string of tiny mirrors—each cracked, each faintly bleeding.
It turned its head upward.
Toward the sky.
Toward him.
And smiled.
In the Dreamspace Between Lives. Nameless fell through light and darkness again. No corridor. No staircase. Just weightless descent through sensation and stolen memory.
He heard music—out of tune, but familiar.
The lullaby.
The one she had hummed behind stitched lips.
Now it was clearer.
The lyrics formed:
"The sleeper knows, the mirror weeps…
The dreamer walks, the silence speaks…"
Then—
He landed.
Hard.
On stone.
But not just any stone.
He stood once again in the fractured dreamscape of Lucien Grahme.
But it had changed.
Where once there was a floating clock in the sky, now hung nothing.
Not darkness.
Not void.
Just absence.
As if even nothingness had fled.
Nameless looked around.
The fragments of streets and benches were gone. Now there were shards—jagged pieces of mirror protruding from the ground like crystal tombstones.
In the reflection of one, he saw her again.
The dream-woman.
She stood in the distance, still, arms hanging at her sides.
But now—
Her mouth was open.
No stitches. No blood. Just an endless smile, too wide, too quiet.
She raised a hand.
And pointed behind him.
Nameless turned slowly.
Behind him stood a copy of himself.
Wearing Lucien's clothes.
Smiling Lucien's smile.
Holding Lucien's book.
And whispering:
"You're not the first crack. Just the one that's spreading fastest."
Nameless reached for his revolver.
But in the dream, it was missing.
His reflection laughed.
"You left it behind, remember? Waking is just sleeping deeper in a different lie."
Nameless lunged.
His hand passed through the doppelgänger like smoke.
But the impact echoed.
Shattered the mirror behind it.
And through the broken glass, he saw a new path opening:
A dream-train on a shattered rail line, pulling into a station that didn't exist.
Its sign read:
Vinterra – Line 0 – No Stops
He turned back to face her.
The dream-woman.
But she was gone.
Only her scent remained.
Lavender and burning memory.
Nameless stepped toward the train.
Because there was nowhere else to go.
And because dreams don't end.
Not until someone names them.