Caspian and Zach walked through the hallways in silence. The long corridor stretched ahead of them like the interior of a slumbering beast—dimly lit, echoing with the hollow tap of footsteps against the marble floor. The tower's architecture towered oppressively overhead, its ribbed arches and iron sconces casting elongated shadows along the stone walls. Caspian's loafers struck each tile with deliberate rhythm, the sound reverberating down the passageway in dull pulses that seemed louder in the stillness.
Though his body glistened with a sheen of sweat from his sparring session, Caspian's demeanor was composed. Calm. There was a slight lift in the corners of his mouth—subtle, but telling. The kind of quiet satisfaction born not from triumph, but from having endured something and come out whole.
Zach, however, moved with rigid shoulders and a clenched jaw. His footsteps were heavier, less measured, and he walked just a pace behind Caspian, as if resisting the urge to step ahead and confront him outright. The fluorescent ceiling lights buzzed quietly above, flickering once—briefly, like a hesitation—before stabilizing. The silence between them grew more strained with every step.
Then Zach cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet.
"Are you still set on carrying out your plan?" he asked, his voice low but urgent. There was hope in it, thin and flickering, like a dying ember.
But no "no" came.
"Yes I am," Caspian answered sharply, his tone a blade unsheathed.
Zach stopped walking for a moment, stunned by the decisiveness of the reply. He resumed his stride a second later, but his expression had darkened.
A heavy silence followed, thick as fog, until Zach spoke again—louder this time, unable to hold his frustration any longer.
"I heard your conversation with the Nathan, the guardian of the Library of Nightmares. What you want to do is completely selfish!" His voice echoed through the corridor, breaking against the stone like a wave against rock.
"You are the Devourer of Dreams, do you not understand what that is?!" Zach snapped, suddenly stepping in front of Caspian, blocking his path. His face was drawn, voice sharp with exasperation.
"You only have 2 tasks as a Devourer. Firstly, you help others, and often destroy for others. A king needs help waging a war, for the right price, you can help him. Same goes for if people want your protection. Despite the namesake, The Devourer of Dreams does nothing but inspire dreams in others. It is a noble job, meant to help anyone who can afford it. Secondly, you fight Nightmares, which you refuse to do, and instead befriended a lunatic who enjoys watching children die over and over again." Zach yelled angrily.
"Your powers are only meant for others, regardless of if it is to cause harm or good, you are only meant to be used. You, along with every past Devourer, are tools for the human race to use the regulate conflicts. Without a competent Devourer, humans will eventually start becoming Devourers themselves, and if that happens, nobody can stop the reckoning that will come."
Caspian's stare was cold and unwavering, but his voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
"What powers!?" he asked, his voice sharp with frustration, nearly a shout. "Because so far, you have only taught me useless things!"
The words hung in the air like a challenge hurled into a storm. Zach didn't answer immediately. His expression was unreadable—caught somewhere between calm calculation and something darker. Without speaking, he turned on his heel, the fabric of his coat whispering against the air as he moved. His left arm extended slowly, deliberately, toward the long window that spanned nearly the entire wall beside them.
Outside, the horizon stretched endlessly, veiled in a haze of pale sunlight and wind-swept clouds. Zach's fingers, pale and calloused, pointed toward a peak in the far distance—a lone mountain that pierced the sky like a jagged fang. The stone was dark, ancient, and forbidding, rising in defiance against the slow crawl of time and erosion.
He murmured something then—soft and strange. The syllables were delicate, like notes plucked from an unfamiliar instrument. A forgotten language, perhaps. A whisper from a time before records.
And then the world exploded.
Light—pure, unfiltered, apocalyptic—burst outward in an instant. Not merely bright, but obliterating. It surged through the corridor like divine fire, swallowing every shadow, erasing form, definition, and thought. Caspian's vision vanished in a single, blinding flash. The color white became everything—weight, sound, presence. It wasn't just seen. It was felt. It pressed against his eyes like molten glass, searing and suffocating all at once.
His ears were assaulted by a soundless roar—a pressure that surged inward, like the universe itself had inhaled and collapsed. No thunder followed, no tremor. Just a crushing, humming nothingness. Static poured into his skull, buzzing in his teeth, vibrating along his bones. He staggered, instincts locking his limbs before he could fall.
His breath caught. His muscles seized. For a single, terrifying moment, Caspian thought he might die—not from pain or violence, but from sheer sensory obliteration. As if reality itself had been unraveled and redrawn in the span of a heartbeat.
Then—suddenly—it was over.
The light receded, rolling back like a tide. Sound returned slowly, like waking from a dream. The corridor stood before him once more, hushed and perfectly still. Nothing seemed out of place. Not a single object had moved. And yet—
Something was gone.
Zach didn't say a word. He simply gestured once more to the window, his expression quiet, unreadable.
Caspian, still reeling, stepped forward slowly. The glass was cool beneath his fingertips as he steadied himself and looked out.
The distant valley remained. Trees still trembled in the breeze. The farmland lay scattered beneath low-hanging clouds, and thin trails of smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys.
But the mountain—The mountain was gone.
Where once it had loomed, black and indomitable, now only absence remained. A chasm. A vast, gaping wound carved into the bones of the earth. The jagged ridgeline had been severed clean away, replaced with nothing but a shadowed crater rimmed in smoke. It was as if the mountain had never existed—swallowed by some impossible force and erased from time.
"T—the mountain is gone!?" Caspian said, the words catching in his throat.
"Devourers have even greater power," Zach said, whimsically, though there was an edge beneath the calm. "That is why you must never use your powers selfishly."
He raised his hand again, and this time, he snapped his fingers.
There was no detonation, no violence. Just light. A gentle, shimmering pulse, like moonlight rippling across a still lake. It rolled outward in concentric waves, phasing through matter and sky. Time seemed to slow. The wind outside halted. The clouds paused in their drifting.
And then, without fanfare or thunder—
The mountain returned.
Stone rose from the earth as though breathed back into being. Crags reformed, the ridge reassembled, and ancient snow reappeared across the peak in a delicate sheen. The scars of its absence vanished as if rewritten by an unseen hand. It stood once again, silent and immense, just as it had before.
Caspian didn't speak. He couldn't. He stared, unmoving, as if the mountain might vanish again if he looked away.
Even as they resumed walking, his eyes remained fixed on that distant peak, searching for some flaw in the illusion—some seam in the tapestry of what he had just witnessed.
But there was none.
Only silence.
And the overwhelming knowledge that Zach had not shown him power to intimidate—
But to remind.
They continued down the corridor in silence, neither man speaking, until they arrived at the door to Caspian's quarters. He pulled the key from his pocket, turned the lock, and pushed the door open.
A burst of frigid air rushed past them.
He had forgotten to close the windows.
The wind, cold and biting, swept through the room like a phantom. Caspian shivered and strode inside quickly, crossing the spacious chamber to latch the windows shut. Outside, clouds curled low over the mountaintops, stained pink by the fading light. The wind howled faintly through the glass.
He walked to the sink, the soles of his shoes brushing softly over the polished floor. With one hand, he turned on the tap. Water surged out in a chaotic stream, splashing violently against the basin as steam began to rise in the chilled air of the room. Caspian leaned forward, resting his weight on trembling forearms.
He splashed cold water across his face, again and again, until droplets clung to his lashes and jawline. Then, slowly, methodically, he ran wet fingers through his hair, soaking it until it clung to his scalp in silver strands. Each movement was heavy, deliberate, like he was trying to anchor himself to the present moment.
His chest rose and fell rapidly.
He stood up straight, catching sight of himself in the mirror—the dim light casting sharp angles across his face. He lifted the hem of his shirt.
And froze.
The bruises were gone. Not faded. Gone.
"Shit," he hissed, low and urgent.
He spun away from the mirror with sudden purpose, stalking across the room toward his violin case. The air shifted around him—cooler, tense. Zach's attention sharpened, noting the urgency in Caspian's steps, the quickness of his breath.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Zach asked, confused.
Caspian didn't reply. He flipped open the latches of the case with practiced precision and pulled out a heavy syringe, gleaming faintly under the overhead light. Alongside it, he withdrew a small vial containing a thick, opaque purple fluid. Its color shimmered faintly, as if alive.
Zach took a half-step closer, wariness creeping into his voice—but Caspian was already loading the syringe. The vial clicked softly into place, the fluid swirling up into the chamber as he tilted it vertically.
Then, without hesitation, he drove the needle into the side of his neck.
His body tensed for a brief second. A faint hiss escaped the plunger as the substance entered his bloodstream. The vial emptied. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders easing, but his hands still shook faintly.
He returned to the mirror.
Lifted his shirt again.
The bruises were back. Deep purple, red, and yellow. Jagged reminders of impact and strain. Unhealed. As if they'd never been gone.
Caspian breathed a sigh of relief at sight of the bruises, which left Zach perplexed.
"Can you tell me what the hell you just did!?" Zach demanded, his voice no longer confused—just sharp and growing colder by the second.
Caspian turned toward him and paused.
He met Zach's eyes—deep, stormy blue locked onto stormy blue. The silence between them was weighty, pressing like fog around glass.
"Fixed something," Caspian said, each word chosen with surgical care, like he was trying not to betray the wrong truth.
Zach stared, searching his expression for any shift—any crack in the stillness. But there was nothing. No lie. No evasion. Just the same, distant calm.
He didn't trust it. But he couldn't disprove it, either.
Without another word, Caspian walked past him. His steps were smooth again, his composure returned. He slipped into his suit with mechanical precision—dark fabric tailored close to his frame. He adjusted the collar, fixed the cuffs, buttoned it closed. Every movement was efficient, minimal. The act of dressing not as preparation, but armor.
Then he returned to the violin case, but this time, his hand moved to a small, hidden side pocket.
He reached inside and withdrew a single object—a small, oval-shaped locket made of aged steel. The surface was scratched in places, polished in others from constant handling. He lifted it up toward the waning light that streamed in through the tall windows.
The clasp gave a soft click as he opened it.
Inside was a faded photograph. A young girl, caught mid-turn, sunlight bleeding into the lens and obscuring most of her face. But the hair—long, snow-white, and impossibly soft—was unmistakable.
Just like his.
Caspian's fingers hovered over the image, not touching it, but close. Reverent. The silence that followed was different from before—gentler. Something quieter than grief, but heavier than memory.
Zach's voice softened. "Who is she?"
Caspian didn't speak right away. His breath caught in his chest. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a faint smile—tired, distant, a shadow of something remembered.
"Someone you can hopefully meet one day. But not today, or any day soon," Caspian replied.
Zach tilted his head slightly. "And why not soon?"
The locket clicked shut.
Caspian looked down at it, then back at the mirror—at his bruises, his hollow eyes, the shadows beneath his skin.
"Because…" he said, letting the word hang for a heartbeat too long, his smile fading in the process.
"…She is dead."