The wind carried the scent of rain long before the storm broke. Liora stood on the black rise above the marshlands, her cloak clinging damply to her skin, eyes fixed on the endless horizon where the waters shimmered under a cold and ghostly light. The sky was a mass of bruised clouds, pale veins of lightning threading through them like cracks in glass.
It had been weeks since she last saw another human face. She had walked far beyond the boundaries of the known marshes, where the ground itself pulsed faintly with the sleeping heartbeat of something vast. The air here was different—heavier, older. When she breathed, she could taste iron and ash. The Beast within her stirred restlessly.
We have crossed into the Dreaming Mire, it whispered, its voice a low echo that seemed to come from the rain itself. The last boundary of the Sleeper's reach.
Liora's boots sank into the soft mud. "You said the Sleeper's strength was fading."
It was. But something has called to it again. A summoning. A wound reopened.
She looked down at her reflection in the shallow water. Her face was thinner, eyes glowing faintly with amber light. When she blinked, ripples distorted the image, and for an instant, she saw the shadow of horns and fur, a silhouette both her own and not her own.
She touched the pendant at her throat—the last remnant of the Circle—and whispered, "Then we end it here."
The rain began at dusk, cold needles piercing her skin. She moved through the wetlands, guided by a faint phosphorescence that glowed in the reeds. The deeper she went, the stranger the world became. Trees twisted inward as if listening; stones whispered beneath the water when her steps disturbed them. The air shimmered with faint shapes—faces, half-seen, dissolving when she tried to focus on them.
When she reached a small clearing surrounded by pale flowers, she stopped. The earth here was dry, unnaturally so. In the center stood a wooden post, carved with symbols she recognized from the Circle's texts—old binding marks. But these had been cut through, split by something sharp and deliberate.
Someone had broken the ward.
Liora knelt and ran her fingers along the damaged runes. The cut edges still carried warmth. Not ancient destruction—recent. Within the last day.
A whisper moved through the rain, faint but distinct: "Liora…"
She froze. The voice was female—soft, sorrowful. She turned slowly, eyes scanning the shadows. The mist moved strangely here, coiling like smoke. Then a figure emerged, cloaked in darkness, face hidden beneath a dripping hood.
Liora's hand went to her knife. "Show yourself."
The figure raised its head, and her heart clenched.
Maren.
Or something wearing her face.
Her eyes glowed faintly blue, and her expression was both tender and wrong—too calm, too distant. "You shouldn't have come here," she said. "It's awake."
Liora took a step back. "You died. I buried you myself."
"I did," the apparition said softly. "And yet the marsh does not forget its own. It pulled me back, just as it did you. But I am not what I was."
The Beast stirred uneasily. This is not her spirit. This is an echo—woven from the Sleeper's dreams.
Liora gritted her teeth. "Then I'll wake it and end this nightmare."
"You can't," Maren—or her shade—whispered. "You're already inside it."
The world shifted. The rain froze midair, each droplet suspended like glass. The marsh around her darkened, colors bleeding into shadow. A pulse rolled through the ground, deep and rhythmic.
Liora staggered, clutching her head as visions filled her mind. She saw flashes—Corren's sword glinting in firelight, the Circle crumbling, the Sleeper's massive form rising from beneath the world. Then she saw something new: a great mirror beneath the marsh, silver and infinite, reflecting a thousand faces—all hers.
The Beast's voice broke through the storm of images. Do not yield. This place feeds on memory. It will twist every grief into a chain.
"I'm not afraid," Liora whispered. But even as she said it, her knees trembled.
The frozen rain fell all at once. The ground cracked beneath her feet, revealing a faint glow below—like veins of fire running through the mud. She followed it, pushing through the storm until she came to the edge of a ravine. The light spilled from below, and when she looked down, she saw a cavern—a vast hollow beneath the marsh, its walls pulsing with dim life.
And at its center: a massive shape, bound in threads of silver light. The Sleeper.
Its body was both familiar and alien—scaled and feathered, its chest rising and falling with slow, thunderous breaths. The silver bindings flickered weakly, fraying in places where darkness seeped through.
Liora descended carefully, her steps echoing in the hollow air.
When she reached the cavern floor, the Beast inside her went silent. It wasn't fear—it was recognition.
This is where we were born, it whispered. The place of our making and our end.
Liora placed her hand on the nearest thread of light. It thrummed under her fingers, resonating with her heartbeat. "If it wakes, everything dies."
Then you must weave a new binding, said the Beast. But it will not hold without cost.
She nodded slowly. "I know."
She began the ritual the way the old texts described—marking the circle with the blood of the bond-bearer, whispering the names of the lost. The glow spread around her, faint but steady. The Sleeper shifted slightly, a tremor that sent ripples through the air.
Maren's voice returned, distant and echoing: "You can't bind what is dreaming. You must wake it or be consumed."
"I'm not binding it for me," Liora said. Her voice grew louder with every word. "I'm binding it for the world."
The Beast surged within her, lending its power, its form flickering into visibility—a towering figure of gold and shadow that stood behind her like a guardian. The cavern shuddered. The Sleeper's eye opened—one vast orb of darkness rimmed with fire.
The light of the circle brightened, forcing the shadow back. Liora felt the energy tearing through her veins, burning her from the inside. The Beast roared in her mind, lending strength, steadying her as the Sleeper's power lashed outward like a storm.
She pressed her hands to the ground, pouring everything she had into the seal. "Sleep," she commanded, voice breaking. "Sleep and do not dream."
The Sleeper screamed—a sound like the breaking of worlds. The cavern walls shook, and the light exploded outward.
Then silence.
When Liora opened her eyes, the storm was gone. The cavern was dark again, the Sleeper motionless beneath its new bindings. The glow around her had faded, leaving only the faint shimmer of the Beast's presence beside her.
You have done what no mortal could, it murmured. But the cost—
"I know," she said quietly. She could feel her heartbeat slowing, her body trembling with exhaustion. The edges of her vision flickered with white.
The Beast's voice softened. Will you stay in the waking world?
"No," Liora whispered. "But someone has to guard this place. Someone who remembers what it means to be both woman and beast."
The Beast bowed its great head. Then we remain as one.
Liora smiled faintly. "As one."
The light rose once more, enveloping her form until she became part of it—half shadow, half flame. The cavern filled with a soft hum as the bindings sealed.
Outside, the storm broke. Rain poured over the marshlands, washing away the last traces of darkness.
And in the reflection of every raindrop, for a heartbeat, a faint image appeared—a woman crowned in horns and light, eyes closed, watching from beneath the waters.
Far away, in the village that once feared her, Corren awoke to the sound of thunder. He went to the window, gazing toward the marsh. The horizon glowed faintly, gold bleeding through the mist.
He whispered her name once.
The marsh did not answer.
But in the silence that followed, he thought he heard it—her voice, carried on the rain:
Sleep and do not dream.
He bowed his head, sword resting against the wall, and whispered, "Rest well, Warden."
The storm passed, leaving only the whisper of wind and the faint shimmer of dawn over the still waters.
The Dreaming Mire slept again.