Ryneth's chest contracted in a crushing rhythm, each heartbeat a hammer he could not steady. Darkness pressed from every side, an infinite void so deep it felt older than memory itself. When he forced his eyes open, the black stretched farther than he could comprehend, a nothingness that seemed to swallow thought and time alike.
Then, in that impossible silence, the first strands appeared. A massive cluster, writhing and twisting with a life all its own, unfurled before him. They were neither threads nor ropes, nor any shape he could name; each curve, each twist, each branching line felt deliberate, yet beyond intention. They pulsed with a slow, mesmerizing rhythm, a heartbeat that belonged to no being or did they ?
As he stared, the strands coiled and twined in ways that made his mind ache to follow. Some spun outward, stretching into the blackness without end; others doubled back upon themselves, forming intricate loops that seemed to trap time within their curvature. Every patch, every fork, every subtle flare of light along their surfaces shimmered with a thousand possibilities — glimpses of futures, echoes of worlds that might have been, worlds that might yet come to pass or the world's that existed. It was as if the void itself were layered upon layer of potential, folded into shapes that defied reason.
Ryneth's gaze swept across the cluster, and still, it shifted. Not in response to him, not to his fear or his awe, but as though it breathed and pulsed. One moment, a branch coiled like a living spiral, its motion slow and deliberate; the next, a dense knot of strands twisted upon itself, and for an instant he thought he glimpsed an infinity of twisting pathways, each more intricate than the last.
A sensation prickled at the edges of his mind — a low, vibrating pulse that seemed to emanate from the very strands. It was not sound, not vibration as he knew it, but a resonance that spoke in a language older than thought. Each pulse, each subtle thrum, carried the weight of countless moments, a quiet enormity that made his chest tighten further. The strands writhed independently, weaving a pattern he could not begin to follow, yet the order within their chaos seemed undeniable.
Time itself felt fluid. Seconds stretched and contracted; a single blink contained lifetimes. He wanted to turn away, to close his eyes, but the strands drew him in — not with force, but with the gravity of understanding just beyond reach. Every curve hinted at possibility. Every split, every twist, suggested a universe folding in on itself and unfolding again, endlessly. He felt both infinitesimal and infinitely observed, caught between the wonder of seeing and the terror of knowing too little.
Ryneth's own heartbeat seemed trivial against the rhythm of the strands, yet in some imperceptible way, he could feel himself tethered to their pulse. Not a control, not a connection — merely a recognition. They existed, breathing in their own fashion, writhing and pulsating, holding space as if existence itself bent around them. For the first time, he understood that this was something vast, something utterly alien.
He tried to comprehend it, tried to assign names, labels, reasons — and failed. Each attempt fractured under the sheer weight of infinity. The strands were alive, yes, but alive on a scale that dwarfed any life he had known. They moved to a rhythm not dictated by him, or by thought, or by perception — a rhythm that was, vast, unknowable, endless.
And still, he could not look away. His mind reeled, his senses screamed, and yet in that impossible darkness, with that impossible cluster before him, he felt a faint, trembling recognition. He was witnessing something eternal. Something immense. Something alive, in a way the universe had never allowed him to see — a lattice of possibility that stretched beyond comprehension, beyond time, beyond self.
Ryneth did not know what he saw. He did not know if it was threat, or wonder, or simply existence made visible. And yet, even as his chest burned and his knees threatened to buckle, he felt the impossible pull of the cluster, the hum of its pulse against the void, whispering a truth he could not yet name: that the universe was alive, in ways no mind could grasp, and he had stumbled into its heartbeat
Ryneth's chest tightened, lungs burning as if he couldn't pull air into them. The blackness, the twisting strands, the pulsing lattice — it all collapsed inward as he jerked upright.
His eyes snapped open. "What… what the hell?" he muttered, scanning the room.
Nothing. Just a small, dimly lit chamber. The walls were plastered roughly, stained in places from years of smoke and damp. A wooden beam sagged overhead. His bed, a simple mattress stuffed with straw, still smelled faintly of the night. A small table in the corner held a chipped mug, a half-empty loaf of bread, and a few scattered papers. Sunlight struggled through a narrow window, cutting thin lines across the floor.
"Just a dream… just a dream," he whispered again, running a hand down his face. Sweat clung to his brow, and his heart hammered in his chest. The strands, the infinite lattice — it had felt real. Too real. "God, that was… terrifying," he breathed, his voice barely audible over the thump of his own heartbeat.
He swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the cold, worn floorboards. "Calm down calm down calm down" he muttered to himself repetitively, trying to anchor his mind. The room smelled faintly of smoke from the hearth, wood polish, and the old linen of his mattress — ordinary, human scents. Nothing like the void of the dream.
Ryneth rubbed his eyes, letting the morning light settle in. His gaze lingered on the rough wooden chair pushed under the table, the chipped pottery, the crooked shelf holding a few jars. Nothing moved. Nothing pulsed.
And yet… even as he exhaled and tried to dismiss it, a trace of the dream remained. A faint, stubborn hum in his chest, like the echo of some rhythm he couldn't name. "Maybe… maybe it wasn't entirely a dream," he whispered, voice shaky. The thought made him shiver despite the warmth of the morning sun.
He stood fully, stretching stiff limbs, glancing around again at his modest room. Ordinary. Safe. Normal.
Ryneth swung his legs off the bed and shuffled toward the corner where a small wooden basin rested on the floor. Water sloshed faintly inside, catching the thin sunlight from the narrow window. He cupped his hands, splashed his face, and grimaced at the cold.
"Bloody hell, that's freezing," he muttered, shaking his hands.
He peered into the surface of the water. His reflection wavered with each slight movement, but it was enough. Fairly tall for his age, black hair falling in untidy strands across his forehead, pale skin, and a lean frame—not muscular, but wiry enough.
He blinked at his own gaze, ran a hand through his hair, and let out a low sigh. Ordinary. Human. Just another day.
He straightened, set the basin back on the floor, and started moving. Time to get on with the morning.
He ran a hand through his black hair, letting it fall back into place, and glanced around the modest room. The walls were rough-plastered, darkened with smoke from years of candles and the hearth. A single table held a stack of manuscripts, ink-stained papers, and a chipped mug — remnants of Mr. William's careful hand, now his to manage. The old man had been gone for a few years, but the house and its contents kept his presence alive in small ways.
Ryneth dressed quickly in a plain tunic and worn trousers, adjusting the belt around his waist. He paused to glance at the shelves lining the wall, books and scrolls spilling over each other. Each one a relic of his adoptive father's work, a reminder of the knowledge he had inherited — and the responsibility that came with it. His fingers brushed the spines of a few volumes in an absent-minded gesture, grounding him for the day ahead.
He grabbed a small satchel, slinging it over his shoulder. Inside were parchment, ink, and a few reference texts — tools of his trade. Today, like most days, he would make his way to the Arcanum of Antiquities, where he worked translating and cataloging ancient manuscripts. It wasn't a glamorous life, but it was steady, and it kept him close to the knowledge he cherished.
Ryneth paused at the door, taking a final look around the room. Alone now, yet surrounded by the echoes of Mr. William's life, he let out a small, determined sigh. With that, he stepped out into the cobbled streets, the morning air brisk against his pale skin, and began the walk to the Arcanum.