——From Days to Dreams, the Unfurling Breathes——
One day remains.
And the forest dreams of nothing else.
The road had long ceased to resemble a road. It was now little more than a sequence of ideas—faint intentions stitched through the dying forest, curving through dense marshlight and rot-veiled trees. Sunlight did not pierce the canopy here—it curled like a frightened thing, retreating through vine and veil like some old god ashamed to witness what approached.
Only one day remained before the promised arrival at Fort Dawnrise.
But the forest had stopped caring.
And so had time.
The Crusaders marched with silent dread. What had once been sacred order had become uncertain rhythm. Their armor felt heavier. Their prayers sounded hollow. They no longer spoke of Mar'aya—for her presence had grown distant, like a candle withdrawn from the room, offended by the unholy breath that now traveled with them.
It had begun the day before.
Arkeia had first noticed the change not in light or sound—but in memory.
Birds did not fly the way they used to.
Time staggered mid-prayer.
Trees stood in places they had not grown an hour prior.
It was subtle at first, like a dream unspooling at its edges. But the pressure of it settled against her ribs like invisible fingers—pressing harder with each passing step.
Reality had begun to bend.
And at the center of that quiet heresy stood Balfazar, unveiled and impossible.
He no longer wore disguise. He wore inevitability.
His form did not blind with brilliance, but eroded with reality. The world thinned around him. He was clothed not in fabric, but in a robe of shadows—woven from the folded wings of void, curling protectively around his form like the petals of a godless flower. These wings, sealed in repose, shielded the promised eye, hidden beneath their dreadful covenant.
Etched across his porcelain chest—glimpsed only when his robe swayed or parted—shimmered emerald runes, pulsing in disobedient rhythm. They beat in defiance of creation, an alien tempo that seemed to bruise the world's natural pace.
And around him, his companions bent the world in quieter, stranger ways.
Aethon, cruel and gleaming, drew shadows unnaturally—as if darkness itself longed to be near his smile. Even the roots recoiled in admiration.
Galeel, solemn and winged, left no footprints, no rustle in leaves. The swamp did not acknowledge his weight. Nature seemed reluctant to confirm he was ever there.
Elissa moved like a dreamer walking through someone else's memory. When she murmured, moths gathered to her lips, whispering back in tongues only the void recalled.
Caelinda, veiled and reverent, walked with a gravity that made the stones tilt. The air thickened near her. Even time seemed to inhale around her—a held breath awaiting permission.
Vharn, joyful and broken, whispered lullabies that melted into the mud like incense, and the trees swayed in rhythm to his voice. His melodies were both cradle and dirge.
And Voidstor, the kitten of eldritch whims, vanished mid-yawn only to reappear in Arkeia's boot—smug, spectral, and purring riddles in her bones.
Arkeia could not look at them for long.
Could not think too deeply about their shape.
To do so brought migraines, blurred vision, and a crawling itch that settled beneath the soul.
Her mind had begun to slip.
At first, it was a mild thing—a misplaced name, a phrase repeated with odd certainty.
But now… entire segments of time vanished from her awareness.
She would see her Crusaders and forget which ones had died.
She would close her eyes and see Balfazar standing in places he had never stood—and yet the memory felt carved in stone.
The swamp had grown louder.
The trees gurgled. The ground breathed. The mist clung to her skin like a lover's exhale.
She no longer recognized the names of birds.
She no longer trusted the shape of stars.
And then—
she strayed.
⸻
The day had grown long. The Crusaders made camp upon the softened ridge before the bog.
Arkeia had vanished down a narrow slope, beneath a canopy of decaying bone-vines and swollen mushrooms, her body drawn like a needle through thread—following the silhouette of Balfazar through the haze.
She did not question her steps.
She merely wished to speak with him.
He stood beneath a weeping tree that bled red sap into its roots, unbothered by the gnats that fled his presence. His form was still—composed. He looked less like a man than a monument built to mourn the living.
Her voice came soft. Too soft for a soldier. Too soft for judgment.
"I wonder…" she said, smile blooming like a bruise, "do you believe yourself to be as all-powerful as they say?"
Balfazar turned his head.
The gleam of his smile—quiet, knowing—caught the mosslight in a way that made her forget the names of her parents.
He said nothing.
She giggled.
Like a girl who had tasted a sacred secret and realized she was not meant to survive it.
"You're so quiet," she cooed, stepping closer, boots brushing the damp grass. "That makes you dangerous. Or shy. I wonder which."
He did not speak.
But his eyes—golden and filled with refusal—greeted her as if she were not one woman, but a thousand selves drifting side by side.
She reached out.
Her fingers brushed the edge of his robe.
Velvet darkness.
Not fabric. Not cloth. But absence—a texture that pushed back, like a sacred boundary that remembered the first time it had been touched.
"You wear your silence like a blade," she whispered. "Do you ever let anyone see what's underneath?"
He chuckled—low and distant.
It was the sound of thunder remembering it had once been a scream.
She stepped closer—closer still. Her chest brushed the sealed wings. Her face came inches from the divine veil. She did not blink. She did not breathe.
And then—
"Lady Arkeia?"
She snapped her head around.
Edmun.
Sword drawn. Eyes wide with confusion. Fear.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. "That's the Promised One! The vile evil we swore to bind, to vanquish!"
She straightened, slow as resurrection.
Her voice came soft, but honed.
"Edmun. Return to formation."
"But—my lady—"
Her gaze cut him like a divine scalpel.
"Now."
He froze.
He saw her—truly saw her—and something ancient in him pulled back.
He turned and left, but not before looking back once—as if to confirm it hadn't been a nightmare.
She exhaled.
Turned back to Balfazar.
"You should be careful," she whispered. "The children still believe in good and evil."
He smiled.
"And what do you believe in?"
She leaned in, as if to kiss a heresy.
"I believe in curiosity," she said. "And yours terrifies me."
He tilted his head.
"If you wish to speak again," he said, "come when the fog forgets its name. Come to the edge of the swamp. There—perhaps—we can finish our conversation."
She did not speak.
She only nodded.
And returned to camp.
⸻
That Night: The Swamp That Dreams Her Name
The fog had no color.
It smelled of molasses and rot.
Time dripped in reverse.
She moved like a specter through the tents.
The Crusaders lay asleep—some twitching, some whispering names they had never known. Elissa stirred, whispering in tongues. Galeel sat vigil beside her, head bowed, wings drawn inward like a forgotten hymn.
Vharn's lullabies wound up into the fog like vines of ash and devotion.
Voidstor blinked open one eye, then vanished into the Veil.
She crossed the swamp's edge alone.
There—where water met starlight—he waited.
Balfazar stood at the fraying edge of reality. His robe rustled without wind. His wings remained folded—but they pulsed faintly, trembling at their seams as if something ancient inside them stirred.
And beneath the robe's subtle parting—runes blinked like a heart that had never once known rhythm.
"You came," he said.
"You asked."
"Well.. yeah— obviously but…" *cough*
"Ah, you came"
She approached slowly. Her breath came shallow. Her limbs felt light. Her eyes no longer blinked in sequence. Her thoughts trailed behind her like incense.
"You aren't a man," she murmured. "You're a melody that learned to wear flesh."
She reached upward.
Touched his chest.
Traced a line between two glowing runes.
"I want your essence," she whispered. "I want what's inside that eye you keep sealed. I want to taste what made the stars weep. Just once. Please…"
He looked down at her.
Not pitying. Not resisting.
She pressed against him. Her lips found his skin.
"I want to forget what it means to be mortal."
And she kissed him.
And it was wrong.
Her tongue tasted languages that had never been spoken.
Her skin remembered lives that had never been hers.
Her thoughts fractured and bled.
She clutched at him—pulling, gasping. Words failed. Her moans and prayers blurred into each other.
And then—
"ENOUGH!"
She was ripped backward.
Her body hit the mud with a heavy slap.
A towering figure stood above her.
Caelinda.
Veil lifted. Eyes still.
"You touch what is sacred," she hissed. "You court what should remain unbegotten."
She took Balfazar's hand. His expression unreadable.
He did not protest.
Caelinda led him away—shoulder rigid with rage. Her voice dropped to a hiss as she passed Arkeia:
"You are not the first to crave him.
You will not be the last.
But you will be forgotten."
And then, colder:
"You will not survive the dreaming… harlot."
They vanished into fog.
⸻
Arkeia remained.
Alone.
Mouth parted. Skin damp. Eyes empty.
Above her, the stars watched without blinking.
And slowly…
they began to turn.
She did not move.
Not right away.
She only lay there, chest rising slow, limbs swallowed by the wet earth.
And in that silence—
that aching, holy silence—
she whispered something to no one.
A vow.
A confession.
A seed.
"If this is damnation… then let it be beautiful."
Her fingers curled into the mud.
And somewhere deep in the marrow of her spine, something opened.