There is no beginning.
Shya opens her eyes inside a white sky that does not glow, does not dim, does not resemble anything that should exist. It stretches in every direction like a sheet of light poured by an unseen hand. No sun. No moon. No shadows—
until she moves.
Her hair spills behind her in a long black tide. When it brushes the ground, the white marble beneath it ripples, as though it has been waiting centuries to touch her again. Rivers of darkness stream from each strand, slow and deliberate, sliding across the floor in quiet, elegant currents.
They do not stain.
They do not corrupt.
They belong.
She feels it instantly—
that this place is not reacting to her.
It is recognizing her.
The marble under her bare feet is warm, polished smooth, veined with faint gold patterns that shift if she looks at them too long. Buildings rise in the distance—towers and arches carved from the same seamless white, stretching into the sky like bones of a world too perfect to be mortal.
There is no sound.
But there is presence.
A soft breeze moves the silk hanging from distant columns. It carries no scent, no temperature—just a familiar pressure that slides against her skin like the brush of a memory she never lived.
She walks.
The city shifts with her.
Every step triggers a faint tremor beneath the marble, like something vast turning in its sleep far beneath the surface. The air thickens, then steadies. A balcony forms where she looks. A staircase curves toward her before she reaches it. The path does not wait—
it anticipates.
Far above, the sky flickers—just once—
a black pulse, brief as thought, like her darkness was reflected back at her.
Something stirs in the distance.
She feels warmth.
Not here—
not in this cold, silent perfection—
but far away.
A sun rising somewhere she cannot see.
A heartbeat not hers.
A pull.
She pauses. The rivers of darkness pause with her.
For the first time, the city breathes in.
She exhales, and the marble beneath her cracks—
thin, perfect fractures that spread like frost—
then mend themselves in a single blink.
It feels like a greeting.
And she feels, inexplicably—
home.
Warmth wakes her.
Not heat—
something older.
The air tastes like green before storms, like rain before it learns how to fall. Talora stands ankle-deep in soft grass that glows faintly beneath her feet, each blade lit from within. It bends toward her, as if relieved.
The landscape around her is endless.
Rolling hills shimmer with light that seems to rise from the earth itself. Trees stand in the distance—tall, impossibly tall, their leaves made of translucent green fire that sways without wind.
A river curves through the valley, wide and slow, but its water is not clear—
it's luminous emerald, thick like molten gem, swirling in beautifully lazy spirals.
She touches nothing.
Plants bloom anyway.
A single breath draws warmth from the ground; flowers spiral open in bursts of gold and green. Petals float upward instead of falling, drifting like tiny lanterns until they dissolve into light.
Her footsteps leave behind trails of blooming grass, which breathe, stretch, and settle as though settling back into the rhythm of a world long denied its pulse.
She feels no fear.
Only familiarity.
And something like relief.
On a hill above her, a structure grows—
not built, not carved—
grown.
Alive.
A palace of arching roots and glimmering emerald stone rises slowly, as if waking with her. Vines twine through its pillars, leaves catching the light in a thousand shifting shades of green-gold.
She feels no need to approach it.
It already knows she is here.
She lifts her hand; sunlight gathers in her palm. Not sunlight—
something warmer, softer, older.
Across the horizon, she senses cold.
Perfect, crystalline cold.
Steady and sharp.
She doesn't see anyone.
But she recognizes the sensation, the same way one recognizes their own reflection.
A pull.
A mirror.
Her counterpart.
The air around her warms in response.
Her breath deepens. The grass at her feet grows taller, brighter, shimmering with gold dust.
Somewhere far beyond the glowing hills, something darkens—
not a threat, not a warning.
A balance.
She closes her eyes.
The world brightens.
The Grey Fog
It does not descend.
It rises.
A thin silver mist begins pooling at the edges of both worlds—
first dust, then smoke, then something thicker, older.
Not dead.
Not alive.
An in-between that hums with threads of memory and forgotten truths.
Shya's marble city barely reacts—
the fog slips through it like it's already familiar.
Talora's world brightens against it—
the fog cuddles up the hills like a cat stretching in a sunbeam.
Neither girl sees it clearly.
But both feel its presence.
Both feel each other more clearly because of it.
Cold meeting warmth.
Light meeting dark.
Creation meeting destruction.
Not colliding.
Not mixing.
Orbiting.
Becoming aware.
The fog pulses once—
a single ripple across two impossible landscapes.
A reminder:
Not awake yet.
Not together yet.
But soon.
The dream continues.
And continues.
And continues.