Waelz's skin prickled like a thousand cold insects crawling beneath it. He took in a sharp, shallow breath, goosebumps breaking across his arms. His shoulders hunched as his eyes flicked from corner to corner, searching the candlelit gloom as if shadows themselves were leaning in to listen.
"Priest Devornor… what exactly do you mean?" His voice was low, trembling, as if even asking might call something dangerous into the room.
The priest didn't blink. His tone stayed perfectly flat, measured, like a man lecturing over an open book.
"Dreams aren't only your subconscious running wild," he said. "They're also tied to your spirituality. The dream-world is a bridge — things pass through it constantly, things far beyond mortal comprehension. That's why most dreams vanish the moment you wake: your spirit and your subconscious erase them, protecting you from truths too dangerous to bear. And this…"
Waelz inhaled again, cold as iron. That… that explains a lot. But still…
"Priest Devornor," he whispered, his throat catching, "this nightmare isn't something I forget. It's not fading. It's not half-remembered. It's alive in me. Always fresh. Always raw. Like claws tearing my mind apart. It's ruining me."
The priest didn't even lift his head. "Please don't interrupt me again when I'm speaking," he said calmly. No heat, no anger — just fact.
"…Alright, Father," Waelz muttered, shrinking into his chair.
Devornor nodded once, then continued without pause, his tone unchanging.
"This is called Veletric's Principle of Mortality… or Morality, depending on which school of thought you follow."
He reached into a dark corner and drew out an earthen jug, setting it softly on the table. Then came two glass cups — fragile, modern, almost alien in the damp flicker of candlelight. Water poured into them slowly, the sound thin and deliberate.
"Veletric," Devornor said, "was a devotee of Orrin, the god of Reason. A psychiatrist, a brilliant man — obsessed with the relationship between the soul and the mind. The Principle was his greatest work. He believed dreams were bridges, not accidents. Doorways into the mental sphere — what philosophers call the immaterial realm of your own mind. But he went further. He believed dreams could also reach the soul itself."
He glanced briefly at Waelz, sharp and calculating, then returned to his glass.
"In the ancient days, schools of both religion and occult thought taught that the spirit plane could, through the soul, reveal glimpses of things yet to come. A rare phenomenon. They called it the Prophetic Response of the Spirit Plane."
Not very original, Waelz thought sourly, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.
Devornor stopped pouring, looking up. His brow arched. "Are you listening?"
"…Eh? Y-yeah, I'm listening," Waelz stammered.
"You looked like your mind was elsewhere."
"No, no — I've got chaotic focus," Waelz said quickly, gesturing vaguely.
"Chaotic focus?" Devornor repeated, raising one eyebrow.
"It just means I look distracted when I'm not. Trust me, I'm following."
"…Very well." Devornor turned back to his notes. His voice slowed, heavy. "These dreams of yours… they aren't random. They're not afflictions. They are a kind of revelation. A spiritual one."
Waelz blinked, his brows pulling tight. "Revelation? What revelation could someone like me possibly receive? I was twelve when it started. And isn't the Church against this? Doesn't the Holy Book say: 'Trust not, and abolish ye, the visions of the unknown — for they are filled with dangers'? That's preached all the time."
For the first time, Devornor's lips curved — not kindly, but with the faint patience of an adult humoring a child. He spoke in a language Waelz didn't recognize:
"Jhia ark emlam talle yamnu."
Waelz blinked. "What?"
"It means, 'One must open their eyes to the truth if they truly seek it.' An Old Jephean proverb. Older than the Second Era of the Fifth Period." The priest's smile vanished as quickly as it came. "So. Do you want to know the cause of your torment?"
Waelz frowned, his thoughts racing like wildfire. But when the storm settled, he found only one answer. His voice was firm. "I want to know. The cause — and the end."
For a flicker of a moment, Devornor smiled again. Then his face hardened, expression cold and unimpressed. The room seemed to chill; the light dimmed, the air grew still. The flames of the candles stood unnaturally calm, as if holding their breath. Devornor's voice deepened, heavier, almost ancient in itself.
"In the beginning was naught but the Celestial Mother, Ene. And beside her was Adharm, her husband, the Foreigner.
From their union came the gods. But when Adharm passed into death, Ene was overcome by grief, and her source was lost. The gods, mourning, took from her very being to fashion creation. From her heart, her spirit, her soul, her flesh, her blood, and her all, they forged seven heavens above and seven earths beneath. And from these, they wrought the world called Irene."
Devornor's voice did not stumble. He recited the Genesis of the Church of Architecture as if it lived on his tongue.
"Father," Waelz muttered, "why tell me what everyone already knows? Even a newborn would've heard this before."
"You will listen until I finish," Devornor said, calm, firm. "That is respect. And this is for your deliverance, if you truly wish to be free of your torment."
He drew a slow breath, and again his tone shifted into the cadence of scripture:
"Among the heavens and the earths of Irene, pride arose. The heavens exalted themselves above their makers; the earths praised their own fruitfulness beyond their source.
The gods beheld and grieved. And so grace was withdrawn. Many fell. Some remained faithful.
Those stripped of grace fell into depravity, birthing imperfection, birthing chaos, birthing the dark things and the dark beings.
Yet the gods offered salvation in rebirth, redemption in ascent, but condemnation for the blasphemers. So it is written in the ThirdJheid Script, Standards 2 through 7."
Waelz stayed silent now, though his gaze never left the priest.
Devornor lowered his voice. "Do you know of Delda the Condemner, and Mahten the Deceiver of Ashmalut?"
"They were false prophets," Waelz replied carefully, "from the Afghanhar revolt. Second century, Sixth Period, Fourth Era. They preached false gods, false salvation — moral corruption disguised as freedom."
"Correct," Devornor said, nodding once. "But they weren't merely liars. They weren't even insane. They were cultists, vessels for a spirit of chaos from the blood-hell. It granted them power and forbidden wisdom, so they could feed it sacrifices of the righteous. That is why they gathered followers. That is why their words spread. Spirits like these live to deceive the young — to use them, to twist them, to lure others into the same net."
He sipped calmly from his glass, then set it down. His eyes locked onto Waelz's, steady and unflinching.
"And I'm certain," he said, voice like iron, "that one of these spirits has taken an interest in you. Very certain."