09. Sanctum of still waters

The river whispered under the moon’s gaze, curling along its banks like a slumbering serpent. Cre stood alone, wrapped in the surreal weightlessness of the dreamscape. The water shimmered, reflecting not only the sky but something else—something waiting. A rustling from the nearby tree sent a shiver through him. Then, a figure emerged, descending from the tangled branches with eerie ease.   Friend.   Cre’s breath hitched. This was their first encounter in the realm of dreams, yet it felt inevitable, as if the moment had always been destined. They spoke of power—Cre’s power—and what it meant to wield it. Friend’s words were deliberate, guiding, pressing him to consider the nature of his choices. He urged Cre to read—to seek wisdom in the written word before deciding his path. And when Cre’s eyes fluttered open, the dream dissipating like morning mist, he found something resting beside him: a book, bound in blackened wood unlike anything he had seen before.   Elsewhere, Lia drifted into her own dream. She was drawn again to the towering tree, the one that haunted her nights with silent familiarity. But tonight, something was different—panpipe music wove through the air, delicate yet charged with strange energy. The Fool emerged from the shadows, the sharp glint of mischief in his eyes. He spoke cryptically, warning her to watch over Lark, for trials loomed in his future that would demand the presence of a friend. Their exchange danced between riddles and instruction, his words teasing, urging her to harness the magic within her and learn control.   And then there was Lark.   His dream was far from peaceful. Belathor stood before him—just as he remembered—but he was slipping away. Vines lashed around his form, dragging him back, choking the space between them. Only a single thread connected their hearts now, fragile and thin as fate itself. A shadow descended, wings slicing the air—a crow. In one swift motion, its beak severed the thread, sending pain ricocheting through Lark’s chest. The crow settled on his shoulder, indifferent to the agony it had wrought, as the ground beneath him shifted. He was rising, pulled away as Belathor was consumed by the writhing green.   The vision expanded outward, revealing a set of enormous scales suspended in the void—him and Belathor standing on opposite plates. A pair of vast, owl-like eyes gazed upon them with silent judgment, and then a voice echoed through the darkness:   “It is time to let go.”