The Temple of Dreams never truly rested, though it sometimes pretended to.
Even in its quieter hours, when the artificial moons dimmed and the silver-lit corridors softened into shadow, the place carried motion in its bones. Footsteps echoed through distant halls. Low voices murmured prayers or half-remembered incantations. Somewhere deep within the structure, bells chimed at steady intervals, marking time not by clock or sun, but by ritual—cycles of reflection, practice, and rest.
Elaine had learned to recognize its rhythm. After weeks within its walls, she could feel when the temple shifted from calm to focus, from rest to preparation.
She stood in the central training hall, boots planted against smooth marble veined with pale runes worn faint by centuries of use. The bow rested easily in her hands, familiar as breath. Ahead of her, a training construct drifted through open space: three discs layered one behind another, each rotating at a different speed, their edges phasing in and out of partial invisibility as thin veils of illusion passed over them.
Elaine drew a slow breath and let it out just as steadily.
Her shoulders ached. Her fingers were stiff from hours of repetition. Neither mattered.
She loosed.
The arrow slid from the string cleanly, threading through the first disc, grazing the second just enough to disrupt its rotation, and striking the third square in its center. Light fractured outward as the construct collapsed, breaking into fragments that dissolved before they touched the floor.
Elaine lowered the bow, rolled her shoulder once, and reached for another arrow.
The next construct formed almost immediately. Its movement was sharper this time, erratic in short bursts meant to break rhythm rather than test aim. Elaine adjusted her stance without conscious thought, shifting her weight, correcting her draw as the target twisted.
Another arrow flew.
Another hit.
Around her, the training hall moved in quiet, contained chaos. Disciples sparred in controlled pairs, illusions flaring and dissolving with each exchange. The sound of steel rang briefly before being swallowed by sigils embedded in the walls, dampening noise without dulling force or intent.
Nora leaned against a nearby pillar, bo staff resting loosely across her shoulders. She watched Elaine shatter a third construct and tilted her head.
"You're not stopping anymore," she said.
Elaine glanced back at her. "Stopping?"
"That tiny pause you used to do," Nora replied. "Right before you shot. Like you were asking permission."
Elaine smiled faintly as she nocked another arrow. "Guess I got tired of waiting."
Nora grinned. "Good. It was stressing me out."
Naeem stood a short distance away, arms folded, gaze fixed on the empty space where the construct had been. He said nothing for a moment, then nodded once.
"She's cleaner," he said. "Less wasted movement."
Elaine let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "That's the idea."
Before the conversation could continue, the atmosphere of the hall shifted.
Not sharply. Not dramatically. Sound didn't vanish, and no one called for attention. Conversations simply lowered, movements slowing as if everyone had felt the same subtle pressure at once.
Instructor Vaelor approached.
He walked with the ease of someone long accustomed to being listened to without asking for it. His robes brushed softly against the marble as he stopped beside Elaine, his gaze lingering on the faint afterimage of shattered light where the last construct had been.
"Again?" he asked.
"Yes, Instructor," Elaine replied, straightening instinctively.
Vaelor studied her for a moment, then inclined his head. "Good. You've stopped forcing the lesson."
She frowned slightly. "Forcing it?"
"You were trying to master everything at once," he said. "That kind of hunger burns people out. Now you're letting the knowledge settle first."
He gestured lightly toward the range. "You don't chase the shot anymore. You let it come to you."
Nora shifted, listening more closely now. Naeem's attention sharpened.
Vaelor returned his gaze to Elaine. "You're progressing well. Better than you think."
The words carried weight—not praise, exactly, but recognition. Elaine felt them settle uncomfortably in her chest.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Vaelor clasped his hands behind his back. "You'll need that progress. In one week, we'll be hosting a joint combat session. The Tidal Conclave will be joining us."
The reaction rippled outward.
Sparring slowed. A few heads turned. Whispers moved quickly through the hall.
"The Fall Song of Waves?" someone murmured.
Nora winced. "That's… great."
Vaelor allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile. "Freshmen only. Sentinel rank and below. This is an exchange, not a rivalry."
His gaze passed briefly over Elaine, lingering just long enough to be noticed. "Fight to learn. Not to overwhelm."
Then he turned and walked away, already focused on the next group of disciples.
Elaine exhaled slowly.
"Well," Nora said, nudging her with the end of her staff, "guess we're about to make some very confident new friends."
Naeem snorted softly. "Or enemies."
Elaine smiled, but her thoughts had already drifted.
Different Paths. A different place.
Kaelith's voice surfaced in her memory, steady and familiar. Under the same sky.
Riel's morbid stare followed, sharp and unyielding.
The memory tightened something in her chest, but it steadied her too.
⸻
The week that followed pressed down on the Temple of Dreams like a held breath.
Training halls overflowed. Corridors filled with hurried steps and murmured strategy. Even meals became quieter, conversations circling the same topic again and again.
Elaine trained until exhaustion faded into the background. When her bow arm grew unsteady, she switched to blades—short, curved daggers designed for speed and control rather than power. She practiced transitions, learning when to give ground and when to take it back, when to abandon distance and when to reclaim it.
Nora sparred relentlessly, pushing herself harder than usual, her illusions growing sharper, more deceptive. Naeem refined his timing, movements economical to the point of austerity.
At night, Elaine dreamed of waves breaking against silver shores, of moonlight stretching endlessly across dark water.
⸻
The Tidal Conclave arrived beneath a silver-dim sky.
Elaine stood with the other freshmen on the outer terrace, cloak pulled tight against the rising wind. The air shifted subtly as clouds parted, pressure building as if the world itself were making space.
The ship emerged smoothly, impossibly.
Long and elegant, its hull carved from pale blue wood threaded with veins of frost-like metal, it glided through the air as though sailing an unseen sea. Spectral oars dipped and pulled against nothingness, each stroke sending faint ripples through the sky that vanished as quickly as they formed.
Mist rolled from its sides like breath in cold air.
Disciples lined the deck in orderly rows, cloaks snapping sharply, gazes calm and assessing. The vessel slowed, descended, and settled with deliberate grace. As it did, the oars dissolved into drifting motes of water-light, leaving only a quiet hum of restrained power.
Elaine swallowed.
Around her, murmurs spread.
The Crimson March—disciples of the Scarlet Matron, known for relentless discipline and blood-soaked histories.
The Verdant Court — disciples of the Rakashasa, with wild in their bones and the green in their flesh, the Ember Syndicate, the Watchers' Accord, the Solari Covenant—
Orders scattered across the world, each shaped by their gods, philosophies, and wars.
Today, only two stood face to face.
Moon and Water.
The duels began soon after.
Elaine watched carefully from the edge of the ring, committing movement to memory. Some fights ended quickly, clean and decisive. Others dragged on, neither side willing to yield until exhaustion forced the issue.
Nora's match was fast and brutal. She closed distance instantly, illusions fracturing her opponent's sense of space as her bo staff struck again and again. The fight ended with a sharp disarm and a stunned concession.
Naeem's was quieter. His sickle flashed twice. His opponent yielded without protest.
Elaine felt a brief surge of pride.
Then her name was called.
She stepped into the ring, heart steady.
Her opponent was skilled, disciplined, but not exceptional. Elaine controlled the pace, denying him the chance to dictate distance, forcing him into mistakes he didn't realize he was making until it was too late.
When he rushed her, she slipped inside his guard, blade flashing at his wrist before retreating again.
The fight ended with her arrow resting lightly against his throat.
Clean.
She barely had time to step back before another voice rang out.
"I'll take the next match."
The air shifted.
A disciple stepped forward from the Tidal Conclave ranks, presence heavy and undeniable. Water gathered faintly around his feet without conscious effort. Crimson markings traced along his forearms, pulsing softly beneath his skin.
Gods-chosen.
"Ivar Thornefall," he said, spear resting easily in his hand.
Elaine's pulse spiked. Fear flickered—sharp, brief.
She stepped forward, burying her fear.
The ring felt smaller the moment Ivar stepped into it.
Water gathered at his feet without command, shallow and restless, as if the stone itself remembered the sea. The crimson markings along his forearms pulsed once, faint but unmistakable, then settled beneath his skin like embers banked under ash.
Elaine forced her breathing to steady.
Across the ring, Ivar studied her with open curiosity rather than disdain. "You fought well," he said, voice calm, almost conversational. "I won't insult you by holding back."
She tightened her grip on her bow. "I wouldn't want you to."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face—then something like approval.
The signal was given.
Ivar moved first.
Not with a charge, but a measured step forward, spear angling just enough to threaten every line of approach. Water followed his movement, sliding across the stone in a thin, whispering sheet that clung to Elaine's boots the instant she shifted her weight.
She reacted on instinct.
Elaine leapt backward, loosing an arrow mid-motion. The shot was clean, precise—aimed for the shoulder joint where armor gave way to flesh.
The arrow never reached him.
A hardened current surged up and across Ivar's body, the water thickening into a translucent barrier just long enough to deflect the shaft before collapsing back into motion.
Elaine landed, already moving again.
She fired twice more in quick succession, forcing him to adjust his footing. One arrow shattered against the spear haft. The other grazed his side, drawing a thin line of red that steamed faintly where it met water.
Ivar smiled. Not mocking. Interested.
"Good," he said, and advanced.
The water surged.
It snapped around Elaine's ankles, not freezing her in place but stealing just enough balance to matter. The spear came next—fast, controlled, aimed not to kill but to corner.
Elaine twisted aside, the blade whispering past her ribs close enough that she felt the pressure of it. She rolled, came up low, and fired again from a crouch.
Too slow.
The spear struck her bow mid-draw.
The impact rang through her arms, numbing her fingers. She released the weapon without thinking, letting it fall as she surged forward instead, daggers flashing into her hands.
Close range.
This was where fear tried to take her.
She didn't let it.
Elaine slipped inside the spear's reach, blades slashing toward tendon and wrist. One strike bit deep, blood spraying across the stone. Ivar hissed—not in pain, but surprise—and crimson light flared along his arm.
Strength answered skill.
He backhanded her with the shaft of the spear, the blow carrying far more force than his frame suggested. Elaine flew, hit the ground hard, and rolled instinctively as water slammed down where she'd been a heartbeat before.
Her ribs screamed.
She forced herself up, breath ragged, vision narrowing.
Ivar didn't rush her.
He advanced steadily, water rising higher now, swirling around his legs like a living thing. Where it touched the blood on his arm, it darkened, thickening, lending weight to every movement.
"Yield," he said—not unkindly. "You've proven your point."
Elaine wiped blood from her lip and shook her head.
Not yet.
She moved again, faster than before, slipping left as she threw a dagger not at him, but at the ground beside his foot. The blade struck, embedding deep.
Elaine followed it.
She slid across the wet stone, ducking beneath the spear as it cut the air above her head, and drove her second dagger into his thigh.
This time, he roared.
Crimson power surged, raw and violent, and the water around them exploded outward. Elaine was thrown back again, skidding across the ring until her shoulders struck the barrier hard enough to steal the air from her lungs.
She sagged for half a heartbeat.
Ivar was already there.
The spear pinned her shadow to the stone, its tip stopping a breath from her throat.
Water pressed in from all sides, heavy and unyielding.
Elaine's vision blurred.
She could hear the crowd now—murmurs, sharp intakes of breath, Nora's voice somewhere in the noise, tight with worry.
Ivar leaned closer, breathing hard, blood dripping freely from his wounds. His expression had changed—no longer calm, no longer amused.
"You adapt fast," he said quietly. "Faster than most."
Elaine met his gaze, chest burning, hands trembling.
"Not fast enough," she rasped.
He hesitated.
Then lifted his hand.
"Yield."
The word echoed.
The water fell away. The pressure vanished. The spear withdrew.
Elaine collapsed to one knee, blades slipping from numb fingers. She stayed there for a long moment, breath tearing in and out of her chest, before forcing herself upright.
She had lost.
But she was still standing.
As healers rushed forward and the crowd slowly found its voice again, Elaine tilted her head back and looked up at the silver sky stretched endlessly above the temple.
Under the same sky.
She smiled faintly