The journey from the rotting foundation to the privileged heights of the City of Veins was a physical map of the world's current faith.
In the lower districts, where the cultist lay shivering, the streets were merely carved through the decomposing muscle and thick cartilage of the divine corpse. Here, the ichor flowed freely, and the architecture was organic and unstable, whispering low-level prayers. But as Erevan ascended, the material changed. The muscle became petrified bone, and the bone slowly transitioned into smooth, alien crystal—the purified marrow of the dead god, polished and claimed by the elite.
He moved through the circulatory pathways of the city with the efficiency of a parasite that understood its host. He didn't use public transport, which consisted of rickety, steam-powered carts running along the largest veins. Instead, he utilized the service tunnels and disused utility shafts he remembered from the blueprints of the original Dream Diver Colony—structures built by his people, now repurposed or forgotten.
The air thinned as he climbed, losing the heavy scent of decay and gaining the sharpness of ionized crystal. When he finally reached the Spire district, he stepped onto a thoroughfare paved entirely with translucent, glowing vertebrae.
The Spire was a realm of impossible geometry. Towers, grown from pure divine remains, twisted into elegant, self-supporting spirals. These were the residences of the Apostles, the high-ranking clergy, and the obscenely rich merchants who cornered the market on the most potent strains of Dream Ash.
He found the entrance to the Vault of Whispers tucked into the shadow of an Apostle's personal cathedral. It was unmarked—a single, black door of obsidian embedded in the spinal column of the god. It was protected not by guards, but by a psychic membrane Erevan felt instinctively. It didn't repel; it simply tested.
He paused before the door. The membrane read the intent and the spiritual density of those who approached. Anyone with a fully formed, mortal-defined Dream Core would be rejected as predictable. Anyone corrupted by raw, chaotic divinity would be rejected as dangerous.
Erevan, however, had a cracked, mirrored Core reflecting centuries of stillness and pure, cold logic. He was a paradox—neither mortal nor divine, just knowledge wrapped in flesh.
He did not pray, nor did he use force. He merely thought a sequence of numbers—the universal constant that defined the distance between his broken Dream Core and the nearest sliver of Ashes of Dreams he had just absorbed.
The obsidian door slid open without a sound.
The Vault of Whispers was nothing like the smoky gambling dens of old. The main chamber was circular, the walls lined with petrified arteries that pulsed with a faint, internal light. It was quiet. The clientele, draped in dark silks and robes of purified ash-fiber, sat at small tables engaging in hushed, intimate commerce. They weren't playing for currency.
They were trading commodities of the soul: perfect memories extracted from the dying, future predictions stolen from low-level prophets, and, most importantly, unstable knowledge.
Erevan moved through the room like a ghost. His tattered hood and threadbare robe were startlingly out of place among the finery, yet no one challenged him. His stillness and the sheer weight of his presence—the lingering Authority—commanded silent respect.
He searched for the distinctive psychic trace of his stolen methodology. The residual static was here, stronger now, but fragmented, having passed through multiple users. It led him not to a high-roller, but to a dealer—a woman sitting at a table made of polished bone that looked disturbingly like a child's ribcage.
The dealer, who introduced herself simply as Lyra, had eyes that held the flat, dead sheen of someone who had looked too deeply into the Abyss for profit. She specialized in "psychic futures"—wagers placed on the fate of others' Dream Cores.
Erevan approached her table.
"I am looking for a specific commodity," Erevan said, his voice quiet enough that only Lyra heard it above the low hum of the Vault.
Lyra smiled, a professional, chilling gesture. "Everything has a price in the Vault, traveler. What do you have to trade? A perfect sin? The memory of true kindness? Or perhaps something more unique?"
Erevan placed his hand flat on the table. He didn't offer a coin or a memory. He offered a fraction of his expertise—the cold, undeniable truth of the cosmos.
"I offer a warning," Erevan stated. "You are dealing in a methodology called the Dream Diver's Embrace. The foundational key being sold is incomplete, flawed, and will result in the annihilation of the user's psyche within three weeks of consistent use. You are selling delayed self-destruction."
Lyra's smile vanished. Her eyes, which had been so flat, narrowed. "That is valuable information, if true. But a warning is not a trade. What do you require in return for this risk assessment?"
"The source of the flaw," Erevan replied, his gaze unwavering. "The one who provided the incomplete key to the black market. I only need a name, or a symbol."
Lyra laughed softly, a dry, rattling sound. "That knowledge is the most heavily guarded commodity in the Spire. It is priceless."
"Priceless," Erevan repeated. He leaned forward, and for the first time since his awakening, he unleashed a tiny, controlled sliver of his genuine, terrifying intellect.
He didn't speak. He simply used his Authority to project a single, terrifying thought directly into Lyra's mind: The perfect mathematical formula for turning her own Dream Core into the flaw she is selling.
Lyra recoiled violently, knocking over a crystal cup of dark liquid. Her hands flew to her temples, and her controlled psychic defenses flared, then instantly shattered against the surgical precision of Erevan's logic. The brief exposure to the absolute, heretical structure of his mind showed her an inevitable descent into cosmic non-existence.
She understood in that instant that the man before her was not a threat of violence, but a threat of truth.
"A courier," Lyra gasped, clutching the table edge. "Not a name. A symbol. He works for the Sovereign Collective. They wear the sigil of the Weeping Eye—a white tear on black silk."
She pushed a small, smooth stone—a solidified droplet of high-grade, Dream-Crystal Ash—across the table toward him. "Take this. This is payment for the stabilization of my own mind. Now leave."
Erevan took the stone. It felt warm and pure—a vast improvement over the chaotic fragments he'd taken from the cultist. He didn't absorb it yet; he simply let it rest in his palm, feeling the steady hum of concentrated authority.
"The Weeping Eye," Erevan murmured, filing the symbol away. "A fitting motif for a slave of the true betrayer."
He turned and left the Vault of Whispers. The patrons, pretending to be absorbed in their secret games, only dared to breathe once the obsidian door had hissed shut behind him.
Out on the luminous, crystal-paved street, Erevan crushed the Dream-Crystal Ash in his hand. The energy flowed into his shattered Core—not as a chaotic rush, but as a cool, structuring flood. He felt the cracked mirror strengthen, smoothing out one fracture.
He was still weak, still a fraction of his former self, but he had a name, a symbol, and a small dose of high-grade power. The next step was clear: locate the Sovereign Collective and find the courier who wore the Weeping Eye. The chain of betrayal was pulling tight.