The Vault's great gate hadn't been opened in centuries.
It wasn't a door in the usual sense—it was a spiral of threads woven into the air itself, sealed tight by ancient will and memory. But now, it pulsed faintly, reacting to Eloryn's touch like a heartbeat recognizing its own blood.
Fenn squinted at it. "So this is the world-between-worlds? Looks like someone tied time into a knot and said 'good enough.'"
Pennrick stood beside her, shouldering a massive satchel that clinked suspiciously. "Technically, the Dreamwilds exist in the liminal folds between conscious memory and lost potential. Reality doesn't so much 'exist' there as have a strong opinion."
Maren checked his sword, then looked to Eloryn. "You're sure you're ready?"
"No," she said honestly. "But that's never stopped me before."
Lys approached the gate last, his presence still strange—anchored and unanchored at once. He offered Eloryn a curved shard of memoryglass.
"It will anchor your form if the Dreamwilds try to rewrite you."
"Rewrite me?" she asked, eyeing the shard.
"Memories don't like unfamiliar threads walking around their domain. They'll try to… interpret you."
Fenn raised an eyebrow. "Interpret? Like a metaphor?"
"Or a horse made of bees," Lys said, deadpan.
"Oh good," Fenn muttered. "Bee horses. My favorite form of metaphorical death."
Eloryn closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
Since the lattice rewove, her sense of memory had expanded. She could feel the Dreamwilds now—a sea of shifting stories, unmoored destinies, lives unlived whispering like wind. It frightened her, yes. But it also called her.
Because the Gloam was out there.
And if her power had woken it… then she would be the one to face it.
The gate pulsed once more.
Eloryn reached out.
Threads unwound before her like silk in starlight, creating a path—not of stone or shadow, but potential. Each step shimmered.
She turned back, meeting each of their gazes in turn—Pennrick, steady and worried. Fenn, smiling bravely but clearly buzzing with nerves. Maren, protective and unreadable. And Lys—calm, but with that quiet ache in his eyes that suggested he knew more than he was saying.
"I don't know what we'll find," she said. "But I know why we're going. Not to fight fate. Not to rewrite the world. But to find the truths buried too deep for memory."
"And maybe punch a shadow monster," Fenn added helpfully.
Eloryn grinned. "That too."
They stepped through the gate together.
And the Vault vanished behind them.
The Dreamwilds opened like a story half-told—skies that bent backward, trees made of forgotten lullabies, rivers that flowed through mirrors. Nothing made sense. But everything had meaning.
Eloryn felt the world shift to accommodate them.
Then a voice whispered from the wind: Oracle.
They had arrived.
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