Chapter 9 – The Dream-Sick Lands
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The land beyond the Cradle of Shards was wrong.
Not broken.
Not poisoned.
Worse.
Dream-sick.
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Anterz and Elaria moved through a world that refused to agree with itself.
Paths shifted while they walked them.
Trees bent inward, whispering half-formed prayers in a dozen tongues.
Rivers flowed backwards in fits and starts, coughing up broken statues of kings who had never ruled.
Above it all, the sun spun faster than it should, throwing long shadows that moved against the light.
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For two days they walked without speaking much.
Words bent strangely here.
Even saying the wrong thing could anchor a false memory into reality—shape the land, summon impossible beasts, trigger fractures in space and thought.
It was safer to be silent.
Safer to let memory flow past without biting.
But safer didn't mean safe.
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On the third night, they camped near a hollow where once, long ago, a village had stood.
Now it was just a pit.
A wound.
The walls of the hollow were stitched with fragments of buildings, bones, and books—all swirling slowly, pulled inward by something unseen.
A reminder.
Not everything the Choir King touched wanted to become.
Some things collapsed under the weight of too many pasts.
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Anterz sat by the fire, Valteris laid across his lap, silent.
Elaria stared into the flames, jaw clenched.
Finally, she spoke, voice hoarse.
"How much longer can the world survive this?"
Anterz didn't lie.
"Not long."
She nodded slowly, as if confirming something she already feared.
"And if the fractures don't stop?"
He looked up at the spinning stars.
"Then memory will overwrite everything."
"No future," she said.
"Only an endless past."
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That night, Anterz dreamed.
Not of gods.
Not of battles.
He dreamed of Rayn.
Standing atop a hill of glass, staring down at Anterz with eyes filled with sorrow.
"You left me behind," Rayn said.
Anterz shook his head.
"You chose to stay."
Rayn smiled bitterly.
"And look what bloomed."
He opened his chest—and from it spilled thousands of tiny, singing mouths.
The dream shattered.
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Anterz woke before dawn, sweat cold against his spine.
Elaria sat across from him, already awake.
"You dreamed him too," she said.
He nodded.
Neither spoke his name.
Some wounds reopened themselves if spoken aloud.
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By noon, they reached the riverbed.
Or what had once been a river.
Now it was a mirror.
Water flat and unmoving, reflecting not what was above it—but what could have been.
A world where the Tower never fell.
Cities whole and laughing.
Skies filled with gods who smiled and lied.
Elaria knelt at the edge.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
Anterz crouched beside her.
"It's a trap."
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He touched the surface.
Ripples spread.
And from the center of the river, something rose.
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A figure.
Tall.
Clad in ragged armor stitched from broken dreams.
Face hidden by a helm of cracked glass.
The figure moved like memory—graceful, hesitant, inevitable.
It carried no weapon.
It didn't need one.
Because Anterz recognized the stance.
The tilt of the head.
The weight of presence.
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It was Rayn.
Or what was left of him.
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Elaria gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
Anterz stood slowly.
The figure stepped onto the shore.
Removed its helm.
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Rayn's face was unchanged.
Same crooked smile.
Same tired eyes.
But when he spoke, it wasn't his voice.
It was a chorus of Rayns, overlapping and whispering through cracked memory:
> "You left me in the heart of the Tower."
> "You walked away from the throne."
> "You unmade the future I died for."
> "Now let me show you what you refused."
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Anterz stepped between Elaria and the dream-Rayn.
He raised Valteris.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
The dream-Rayn smiled wider.
"No, you're not."
He raised a hand.
And the river-mirror exploded outward.
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From its depths came more versions of Rayn.
Rayn crowned in fire.
Rayn chained to the Tower.
Rayn leading armies of fracture-born.
Rayn weeping blood, cradling broken gods.
Each one real in this place.
Each one angry.
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Elaria backed against a tree that wasn't there a moment ago.
Anterz braced himself.
Valteris pulsed in his hand.
> "You cannot kill what is already a memory."
> "You must choose the truth."
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The dream-Rayns circled them.
Humming.
Singing.
Weaving the world tighter.
Anterz closed his eyes for half a second.
Breathed.
Remembered.
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The real Rayn had stayed by choice.
Had smiled when the Tower fell.
Had said, "This is enough," before the end.
That was the truth.
Not these fractured regrets.
Not these fabricated blames.
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He opened his eyes.
And saw the dream-Rayns hesitate.
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Anterz stepped forward.
Lowered Valteris.
And spoke, not to the ghosts—
But to himself.
"I did not leave you."
"You chose your ending."
"And I chose mine."
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The river-mirror cracked.
The false Rayns screamed—thousands of voices shattering into the sky.
The land shook.
The trees dissolved.
The riverbed caved in, sucking the illusions back into the earth.
And standing alone, where the dream had been, was a single stone.
Smooth.
Carved with two words:
> "FORGOTTEN TRUTH."
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Elaria stumbled forward, tears streaking her cheeks.
Anterz caught her.
Held her.
Said nothing.
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They moved on at sunset.
The dream-sick land receded behind them.
But the echoes of it clung like cobwebs.
Proof that the fractures weren't just creating new horrors—
They were weaponizing memory itself.
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At camp, Elaria finally spoke.
Her voice cracked.
"He... he died believing in us."
Anterz nodded.
"Then we have to honor it."
She looked at him, fierce through her grief.
"How?"
He tightened the strap on Valteris.
"We find the source."
"We find the Choir King."
"And we make sure memory belongs to the living again."
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Far beyond the horizon, in the hidden places of the world, fractures pulsed faster.
The past, the might-have-been, the dreams and nightmares of gods—
They were not sleeping.
They were marching.
And Anterz and Elaria were now the last anchor against the flood.
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