That night, the stars flickered strangely above Luneth.
They did not fall. They did not vanish.
They shimmered—soft and unsure, as if the sky itself had begun to wonder.
And in five separate corners of the world, five children dreamed.
In the highest tower of Lucerion, Liceriana stirred beneath white-veiled linens. Her hands curled loosely over her chest, her breath calm. In her dream, she walked a long corridor of mirrors—each one flickering with golden light.
But the last mirror showed not her face.
It showed a weeping tree, glowing silver in the dark.
She reached for it—and the glass did not shatter.
It pulsed.
In Indoria, Thalassia dreamed beside a gently rippling pool. She stood barefoot on the surface of the water, watching raindrops fall upward.
From the depths rose a single thread of light—pale blue, humming faintly.
When she touched it, she felt not water, but warmth.
A child's laughter echoed through the mist—brief and distant.
In Pyrian, Kai Orithia kicked in her sleep, blanket tangled around her legs.
She saw fire, as always—but it did not roar.
It danced, low and glowing, forming a single path across black stone.
At its end was a soft white glow, like the ember of a new forge… or the breath of something just born.
She clenched her fists in the dream.
"I'll protect it," she muttered, even if she didn't know what "it" was.
In Zephyra, Lilith stood in a field of windflowers.
She was not alone.
Four shadowy figures stood beside her—children, like her, though she could not see their faces. Their hands all reached toward the sky.
And there, high above them, floated a silver thread, twisting slowly, quietly pulsing.
It dipped down—passing through each hand.
But when it reached her, it tugged.
Softly. Like someone asking to be found.
She awoke with her hand outstretched.
Far away, in the heart of the Whispering Vale, a child no one remembered turned in her sleep.
No dreams, no visions.
Only stillness.
But around her, the ancient trees whispered.
They're beginning to remember.