Chapter 7: A Stranger that Invades

When Aldia finally wakes up for real, the world is solid again, but just barely.

Her skull still throbs, a deep and pulsing ache, but the pain in her side is worse—hot, raw, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

She inhales sharply, the breath like broken glass in her ribs. The Mirehound had done alot of damage and then...The Veil.

She slowly forces herself upright. Her surroundings come into focus, piece by piece.

A ruined space, but not entirely collapsed. The walls are still standing—mostly. A large, open room, once a great hall, perhaps. The ceiling holds, though cracks spread through its stone ribs like veins. What remains is broken, but not yet dead.

A table, overturned. Shelves, half-empty. A single lantern, its glow faint and flickering, barely holding back the dark.

And next to her is a low wooden side table, battered by time. Her dagger sits atop it. She grabs it immediately, knuckles going white around the hilt.

A soft laugh.

"You wake up bleeding and your first thought is a weapon? Stars above, you're predictable." A barely familiar voice said mockingly but it was not unkind.

Aldia's gaze snaps towards the voice.

And there she is.

Liora leans against the far wall, arms folded, watching Kaelen with faint amusement.

She is tall and sharp, her presence lean, poised, like a knife balanced on the edge of a table.

Her hair is dark, tangled, half-pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, strands escaping like they have a mind of their own. Her eyes—impossible to pin down—shift in the low light, somewhere between deep amber and burnt gold.

She wears a long coat, layered and buckled, dark fabric lined with intricate embroidery that catches the dim glow of the lantern. A few silver rings glint on her fingers, tarnished but well-worn. A knife, slender and wicked, rests at her hip.

She does not move closer.

As she does not need to.

The space between them is already too thin.

Aldia tightens her grip on the dagger, forcing steel into her voice.

"Who are you?" Her hands are shaky from the incident.

Liora tilts her head slightly, as if considering the question. "No 'thank you for not letting me bleed out in the dirt'? She asks smirking.

Aldia's jaw clenches. "I don't thank people I don't trust." Her voice is flat.

Liora's lips curl, just slightly. "Fair."

A pause.

Then—

"Liora."

She says it easily, smoothly, like the name is a well-worn coat. Like it may or may not be the truth.

Aldia exhales slowly, her grip on the dagger not loosening.

"What do you want?" Aldia wants to sound harsh, and strong, not wavering but the wound and the pain is not helping at all.

Liora pushes off the wall, stepping towards the lantern, passing through its dim glow.

The flickering light catches on the intricate embroidery along her coat, symbols Kaelen does not recognize, stitched in silver thread.

"Not much. Just... to see what the city's ghost looks like up close." Casual, too casual.

Aldia's breath stills. Her fingers twitch against the hilt of her dagger.

"What did you call me?" Her voice is low, but sharp.

Liora watches her for a beat, eyes gleaming in the low light. Then she smirks "You walk through walls. You disappear when people try to find you. And now, you survive the Veil."

She passes by Aldia, hands at the back.

"What else would I call you?" Her voice is low, smily but Aldia feels a mocking.

Aldia doesn't answer. She doesn't get the chance to. The pain in her ribs sharpens, a searing, unbearable heat. Her vision wavers, the ache in her head rising like a wave about to break. She barely registers Liora moving.

Something cool presses against her lips, the taste bitter and sharp, tinged with something earthy.

"Drink. Unless you like the feeling of your insides tearing apart." Liora's voice is soft and steady.

Aldia does not want to drink. She is not sure. The disgustingly smelling drink could be anything. And yet she fails to argue because she desperately want the pain to be gone.

So she drinks.

The bitterness settles deep, curling in her stomach, spreading a strange, numbing warmth.

Her body begins to relax. The pain doesn't vanish, but it dulls—bearable, manageable.

Liora watches her, head tilted.

"Good girl." Liora is amused.

Aldia glares at her.

Aldia lies down as the medicine takes its effect, the pain gradually loosening its grip on her nerves.

__________________

The sky above Eidolon is not a sky at all, but a shifting canvas of impossible colors. It breathes, swirling in hues of gold and indigo, deepening into violets that drip like ink into a vast ocean of stars. The landscape is just as unsteady; floating spires, twisting pathways that exist only when stepped upon, cities that flicker between ruins and splendor, depending on the dreamer.

Orin stands at the edge of a glasslike lake, though he knows better than to call it water. The surface does not ripple when he moves. Instead, it remembers. His reflection does not mimic him—

Instead, it lingers.

It watches.

Orin does not flinch.

He knows better than to let a dream see him hesitate. "Not in the mood for whatever this is," Orin mutters, unimpressed.

The lake does not listen.

The reflection moves again—not his own.

Something familiar flickers like a candle struggling against the wind.

Orin's breath stills.

Aldia.

Orin's breath stills.

The image is blurred, half-formed, struggling to exist within Eidolon's shifting reality. He sees her only in fragments—her dark coat, torn at the sleeve; her sharp, wary eyes; the blood smeared along her side, stark against pale skin. She looks hurt, exhausted.

But she should not be here.

Not in Eidolon.

Not in his dreams.

Not inside a world that feeds on memory and illusion. "You're not real. This isn't real," Orin mutters to himself.

The words feel wrong. He wants them to be wrong. But this—this place, this world—it does not show what is real.

Only what it wants him to see.

Yet, the reflection does not vanish.

Instead—

It speaks.

Aldia's Voice is fragmented, distant, as if spoken through water, "I walked through."

Orin freezes.

She walked through.

Through what?

Through Eidolon? Through a dream?

Through the Veil?

No.

She couldn't have.

A sharp pulse of unease spikes through his chest, not fear, but something close. He knows better than to believe what Eidolon shows him. He knows better than to trust a world that speaks in half-truths and hallucinations.

But this feels different.

Real.

Wrong.

He takes another step toward the water, but the reflection twists, distorts. The lake is no longer a lake. It is an abyss, deep and endless, churning with unseen things.

The unease sharpens.

Then he hears a whisper.

Not Aldia's.

Not his own.

Something else. Something cold.

Unknown Whisper, soft, ancient, curling in his bones, "She is not meant to be here."

Orin's pulse pounds in his ears. The ground fractures beneath him. The lake shatters.

And the world swallows him whole. Orin has fallen before. Through nightmares. Through memories. Through the empty spaces between thoughts.

But this is different.

There is neither ground nor the sky.

Only falling.

Eidolon's landscape shreds around him, reality unraveling in strips of silver and violet.

He does not land.

He does not wake.

Instead, he is pulled deeper. Through layers of memory that are not his own. Through echoes of voices he has never heard. Through something ancient, something waiting.

For a moment—just a moment—Orin is sixteen again. Standing at the edge of the world, the Veil burning, a body in his arms.

A promise breaking.

Then it's gone, ripped from him before it can take root, before the past can sink its claws too deep.

Orin does not pray. Prayers are for people who believe in gods that listen. But for the first time in years, he wishes someone, something, would answer.

And then, a voice does.

Unknown Whisper, closer now, curling against his ribs, "Wake up, dreamer."

Orin's eyes snap open.

And the nightmare begins.