The words twisted and shimmered on the page, alive with some strange internal rhythm. Lucas felt them pulling at his mind, not in a way that hurt, but as if they were unraveling something inside him—threads of memory, emotion, even identity.
The apartment dissolved around him. One breath, and he was home. The next—and he was somewhere else.
It was dark at first. Not the absence of light, but something deeper—like he was floating in ink, suspended in a silence that had weight. Then came the sound. Distant. Melodic. The echo of a lullaby he couldn't quite place. And with it, the world began to take shape.
A city bloomed around him, but it was nothing like the steel and glass skyline he'd left behind. The structures here seemed to rise and fall like breath, shifting as though unsure of their own solidity. Towering spires twisted like corkscrews into the sky, some built from bone-white stone, others from glass that reflected a thousand unfamiliar moons. Streets curved without logic, and the sky above rippled with colors that had no name.
He stood on a platform of obsidian glass, floating above a massive, churning ocean of clouds. The air tasted of electricity and dreams. Something fluttered past him—an origami bird made of fire—and vanished into the mist.
Lucas staggered, his breath catching in his throat. The pendant around his neck glowed softly, casting a circle of warmth around him.
"You're here," said a familiar voice.
He turned. The masked man had followed him—or perhaps was waiting for him all along. Here, the man's coat seemed woven from starlight and shadow, and his mask no longer shimmered—it bled light.
"This is the Threshold," the man said. "The skin of the Dreamweaver's Realm. A place between the real and the unreal. You'll need to learn fast if you want to survive."
Lucas clenched his fists. "I didn't ask for this."
"No one ever does."
They walked.
As they moved, the landscape shifted around them—rolling hills formed from whispered secrets, a forest of trees that shed memories instead of leaves. In the distance, Lucas saw a floating island tethered to the sky by chains of thought, and beyond that, a crumbling citadel shaped like a screaming face.
"This world is built from dreamstuff," the man explained. "It listens to the emotions of those who enter. Fear sharpens it. Anger warps it. Memory shapes it."
Lucas glanced at a passing statue. It looked eerily like his mother. She had died ten years ago.
"I'm going insane," he muttered.
"No. You're becoming lucid."
They reached a gate—an archway of living stone, pulsing with veins of light. It hummed with energy that made Lucas's skin crawl.
Beyond it stood a city carved from crystal and shadow: Somnara, the last known stronghold of the Lucids.
"You're not alone here," the masked man said. "Others like you exist. Dreamwalkers. Nightmare-born. Even the Awakened."
"But why me?" Lucas asked again.
"Because something ancient is stirring. Nyxaleth, the Sleepless One, has begun to wake. It feeds on the fear that leaks into this world from yours. If it breaks through…"
He didn't need to finish the sentence. Lucas had already seen the darkness at the edge of his dreams—the shape that watched, always waiting.
"What do I do now?" he asked.
The man handed him a key—small, silver, engraved with the same symbol as the pendant. It burned slightly in Lucas's palm.
"You learn. You survive. And you open the Grimoire when it calls to you. It will reveal more in time."
The ground beneath him shifted. The dream was pulling him deeper, like undertow.
"You'll find allies in Somnara," the man said, voice fading as the world rippled again. "But beware—not all who dream want to wake."
The gate opened.
And Lucas stepped through.