The fire was nearly out when Rylan finally opened his eyes, his vision blurry and heavy with sleep. He hadn't planned to fall asleep outside that night, but exhaustion had made its subtle move. After the others had silently slipped into their tents, Rylan had stayed behind, sitting close to the dying flames. The quiet comfort of the warmth, combined with the gentle pressure of the book resting against his side, had eased him into a light, half-conscious state. The kind where dreams slowly drift in and out, blending with reality in strange, ephemeral ways. Now, he realized it was still dark — far darker than it should have been at this hour, as if the night itself had thickened and stretched on. Hollowmere stretched around him, dead silent and still. No insects buzzing or chirping, no wind rustling through the leaves, no distant calls of animals. The only sounds were the slow, almost mournful creak of the old trees swaying gently with the unseen breeze and the faint whisper of the tiny flame that hadn't fully gone out — the faint flicker of something that shouldn't have been there. Before him, in the ashes of the fire pit, something unexpected pulsed with faint light. It was just a single ember, glowing softly, almost as if it had a heartbeat of its own. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, it split apart. The flickering grew, multiplying into two, then seven, then nine embers. They shimmered and danced, casting flickering shadows across the dark woods. Rylan blinked, confused. That too soon felt like too little. Suddenly, he found himself somewhere else entirely, caught in a startling shift of place and time.
He was lying on stone cold beneath him. Smoke billowed heavily above, swirling like restless spirits. Around him, a circle of figures formed, blurred and shifting in the haze of heat waves, their armor shimmering oddly in the dim light. Each figure radiated a different glow—some shone with golden light, others with icy blue, a few with a deep, dark green, and some with a pale silver hue. Shadows danced behind them, like constellations etched into the fabric of reality itself. Behind these figures, standing tall and commanding, was a woman of pure light. Her hair burned white like a flame, and her eyes shone with the color of dawn, both beautiful and terrifying. She seemed to look directly at him, but it was as if she was gazing through him. She was not watching him with intention but perceiving him as part of something larger. Behind her, something moved—a creature of wings, ash, and unformed power. It was as if a dark, formless force waited just out of sight, ready to strike.
"Rylan," her voice echoed, clear and unshaken. But it wasn't her voice in the way he remembered. It sounded as if it came from somewhere deep within her, yet she still called his name. To her, it was simply the word that conveyed him — a connection beyond words. Her voice carried a weight of meaning that settled in his chest, tying him to an unseen, urgent destiny. "The flame burns again. The Ninth must fall." Her words hit him like a blow, sharp and unavoidable. Before he could respond, before he could ask what she meant, flames erupted in a circle around him. They unleashed a fierce glow, flickering wildly with crackling energy. But these flames weren't ordinary—they didn't consume or burn. Instead, they seemed to remember, to retain the power of what once was. His scream tore from his throat, not from pain but from recognition. It was a kind of primal cry, a release of something buried deep inside. He knew this place. Knew this moment. He had died here once. He felt that certainty as if a ghost from his past was whispering to him through the flames.
Suddenly, he jerked awake, waking as if pulled from a deep abyss. Gasping, drenched in sweat, his heart hammered in his chest. The vivid images from the dream still clung to him like a heavy fog. The heat of the flames lingered on his skin, warm and intense. But most of the fire was gone now. The fire pit had long been extinguished, leaving only cold ashes. Yet, the faintest trace of something remained — a mark burned into the earth near his foot. It was a symbol, drawn in scorched dirt, seven strokes forming a circle. Inside the circle, a small flame burned bright and fierce. The image lingered, frozen in the night, clear and haunting. The symbol seemed to pulse with life, as if it contained more than just markings — perhaps a message, or a warning. Whatever it was, it was undeniable: something had awakened again, unseen and silent, but watching. Rylan stared at it, his mind racing to understand what it meant. The dream hadn't been just a nightmare. It was a signal, or perhaps a memory long buried, marking the beginning of something much larger than himself.