When he finally looked up, whatever warmth or uncertainty had once lingered in his expression had been hammered flat. His face was rigid, hardened into stone.
Caster had considered himself lucky.
He had entered the Dream Realm naked, as most did, and had dropped straight into a jungle of bleached white bones—jagged ridges formed from colossal remains, some ancient and some disturbingly fresh. Yet fortune, fickle as it was, had granted him several Memories from the outset. His current armor had been one of them. That alone had likely saved his life.
It had taken him two days.
Two days of fighting, running, hiding, and bleeding to escape the bone ridge. Nightmares had prowled between the skeletal arches, and more than once he had felt unseen eyes tracking him through the fog. By the time he reached the Dark City, exhaustion had settled deep into his bones.
There, he had been found by four other Sleepers.
They called themselves Hunters.
They recognized him as new immediately. Before he could speak, they had surrounded him, blades drawn—not aggressively, but not passively either. Their expressions were neutral, flat, practiced. He had answered their questions under the edge of steel, each response measured, each omission carefully chosen.
The interrogation had been brief.
And humiliating.
He had endured it in silence, carving every slight into memory and vowing repayment at a later date. Afterward, they had escorted him through the city to their base of operations: the Bright Castle.
At first, the sight of it had filled him with exhilaration. Pale stone walls rose proudly against the darkened sky, lanterns glowing warmly along its battlements. For a fleeting moment, he had allowed himself to hope.
That hope was swiftly extinguished.
One of the Hunters had laughed and explained that the Bright Castle was not their Citadel—merely a place of shelter, a waystation for the living. The true Citadel lay to the west: a colossal crimson tower that pierced the clouds like a blade driven into the sky.
No one went there.
No one returned.
Except, apparently, a small group of ancient survivors led by someone known only as the First Lord.
Caster had expected his fortunes to change once he revealed his heritage.
They did not.
If anything, the mockery had intensified. The Sleepers around him sneered openly at the mention of a Legacy, dismissing his status as irrelevant within the Dream Realm. Still, one of them—clearly more curious than respectful—had asked which Great Clan he served.
When Caster answered Song, the atmosphere had shifted instantly.
The four Hunters had fallen silent.
Their expressions did not soften, but something cautious and heavy entered their gazes. The next thing Caster knew, he was being escorted elsewhere, guided through unfamiliar corridors, and then left alone in a room with her.
He had recognized Seishan immediately.
Though many years his senior, and missing for nearly a decade, every daughter of Ki Song was known among vassal clans—and even among rival Domains. Their names were spoken with reverence, envy, and fear in equal measure. Seeing her in person was something else entirely.
Her beauty matched—and surpassed—the rumors. There was a sharp, effortless grace to her, something honed rather than inherited. Caster had felt his mouth go dry at the sight of her, his heart racing despite himself.
He had recovered quickly.
Training asserted itself. He had bowed, addressed her properly, and paid his respects as befitted the daughter of his Matriarch. At first, Seishan had been cordial. Not warm, but not cold either. Distant, perhaps—but attentive.
Encouraged, heart elevated, Caster had spoken of his mission.
He had come to find and slay Changing Star of the Immortal Flame Clan.
He had expected surprise. Confusion. Perhaps even approval.
Instead, he had been met with ice.
A cold rebuke. A sharp, merciless scolding that had stripped him bare and left him kneeling under invisible pressure. Even now, replaying the exchange in his mind, Caster could not fully grasp where he had erred.
He knew—acknowledged—that invoking Ki Song's name so freely had been presumptuous. He had admitted as much. He had accepted that punishment, deserved or otherwise.
But why had Seishan reacted so strongly?
Why such outright hostility at the mention of Changing Star?
He was not even certain the girl had been sent to this region of the Dream Realm yet. All he had asked—nothing more—was that Seishan remain alert. That she keep an eye out for Changing Star and assist him if the girl appeared.
That was all.
And yet, Seishan had responded as though he had committed some grave transgression.
Caster clenched his jaw.
Whatever the reason, one thing was clear now.
This mission was far more complicated than Lord Anvil had made it seem.
Once Caster had fully disappeared from her sight, Seishan finally allowed herself to exhale.
The sigh she released was long and unguarded, carrying with it a weight she had refused to show while he was present. She lifted a hand to rub at her brows, irritation seeping through the cracks of her composure. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing that one of her sisters were here.
Anyone would do.
Revel, with her sharp instincts and sharper tongue.
Hel, whose silence hid an iron resolve.
Beastmaster, reckless but dependable when it mattered.
Any one of them would have eased the burden, if only by sharing it. Someone she could trust. Someone who understood what it meant to be a daughter of Ki Song.
Her thoughts drifted briefly, unbidden. She wondered how they were faring now—whether any of them had reached Transcendence yet, or stood on the threshold of it. A rarer thought followed, almost absurd in its softness: had any of them found love?
Seishan dismissed it almost immediately.
An unlikely prospect, given their shared disposition and upbringing. Even if one of them cared little for such matters, their mother certainly would. Any suitor would have to be, at minimum, the heir of a first-rate Legacy Clan. Excellence was not encouraged in their household—it was demanded.
Seishan turned the corner—
And stopped.
Her steps faltered as she took in the figure waiting there.
Tall and lean, almost unnervingly perfect in proportion, Sasrir stood with his arms crossed, his back resting casually against the stone wall. The ever-present veil of shadows clung to his form, obscuring his face and shoulders like a living shroud. At the sound of her footsteps, the darkness rippled faintly, as though reacting to her presence.
Greeting her.
"Seishan," said the Reaper of the Forgotten Shore.
His voice was calm.
And, impossibly, it carried warmth.
Seishan blinked once.
She had not known the shadow-man capable of such inflection toward anyone other than Adam. The surprise lasted only a heartbeat before she reined herself in and shifted smoothly back into composure.
"How can I help you, Sasrir?" she asked, folding her hands neatly in front of her. A polite smile curved her lips, flawless and measured.
Unlike Adam—whose natural charm and glib tongue slipped effortlessly past defenses—Sasrir relied on brute oppression and fear to dominate conversation. It was no less effective as a tactic, but against Seishan it was ill-suited. She was accustomed to monsters, both subtle and overt.
Which raised a question.
Why was Sasrir here instead of Adam?
"I heard you brought a new Sleeper to your room," Sasrir said, tilting his head slightly. Beneath the shadows, the faintest motion suggested a raised brow. "And a man at that."
Seishan's smile did not change at all.
She was well used to Sasrir's crude insinuations, his habit of unsettling others to knock them off balance. "Yes. Caster of the Han Li Clan. A subordinate Legacy under my mother," she replied smoothly. "I did not ask for him to be brought. Gemma's Hunters found him, and once he revealed his allegiances, they escorted him directly to me. They meant to be helpful, I imagine."
"You should thank Gemma later, then."
"Indeed I should."
A lull followed.
Seishan had successfully sidestepped Sasrir's opening probe, and he did not immediately press further. To her, the silence felt conspicuous. To Sasrir, it likely meant nothing at all—he was the sort of man who could dine in a hall of corpses without discomfort.
Eventually, he moved on.
"I bring a message from Adam."
Ah.
So this was it.
The exchange before had merely been a warm-up—an appetizer before the true purpose revealed itself. Seishan inclined her head slightly, though her eyes sharpened with interest.
"He has grown awfully comfortable delivering messages through you," she observed lightly. "Does being used as an errand boy not bother a man of your caliber, Sasrir?"
"Not in the slightest."
The answer came without hesitation.
Her attempt at provocation died quietly on the stone floor between them. As always, Sasrir remained frustratingly impervious.
"Well then," Seishan said, tilting her head. "Out with it. What does the Preacher want from me today?"
"To keep an eye out," Sasrir replied evenly, "if any of these three people are spotted in the City, the Labyrinth, or the Castle."
He listed them without pause.
"A blind blonde woman.
A short man with black hair and black eyes.
And a woman with silver hair and grey eyes."
Seishan's expression tightened as she processed the descriptions. Her gaze narrowed, fingers curling subtly against one another. Then she snagged on the last detail.
"Silver hair and grey eyes?" she repeated.
"Yes," Sasrir said. "And a pretty face."
The shift was immediate.
Seishan's smile vanished. The teasing ease drained from her posture as she stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Sasrir was only slightly taller than her, and she looked up into the place where she knew his eyes resided beneath the veil of shadow.
Her voice, when she spoke again, was cold and precise.
"And tell me, Sasrir," she said quietly, "what would Adam want with the last of the Immortal Flame Clan?"
Sasrir held her gaze without falter or hesitation.
"What's it to you?"
Seishan's ruby lips curved upward into an intoxicating smile as she disengaged from their silent contest and took a step back. The tension did not leave—she merely chose to wear it more elegantly.
"Sasrir," she said lightly, "it is true that Adam and I have known each other for two years now, and that we have helped one another more times than I can count. I appreciate his actions and his endeavors—both within the Castle and beyond it. Believe me, I wished to cull the abuse of the Hunters and the Guards as much as he did."
Her smile softened, briefly sincere.
"But my priority has always been my sisters. That could not change."
She gestured vaguely toward the surrounding corridors. "Still, thanks to you and him, the people live better lives. Not good lives—merely the lives they should have been living all along."
"Yet," Sasrir said flatly.
The word cut cleanly through the air.
Seishan's expression sharpened.
"I may find Adam admirable," she continued, voice now edged with steel. "I may find him endearing. I may even find him cute." Her eyes narrowed. "But I also know he is a man capable of as much cruelty and ruin as he is benevolence and charity."
"Have you eaten something strange, Seishan?" Sasrir interrupted, any lingering warmth drained from his tone. This, at least, felt familiar. "With all this rambling and your sudden declarations, I'm starting to think I should take you to Kido for a medical examination. It isn't that time of the month for you, is it?"
Seishan wrinkled her nose in open disdain at the crude deflection, but she did not retreat.
"Do not try to hide from this, Sasrir," she said coldly. "Tell me what you and Adam are really planning to do with Nephis."
Silence fell.
For a brief moment, Seishan expected him to simply dissolve into shadow and vanish, as he had done countless times before. Instead, Sasrir slowly unfolded his arms.
"Can I trust you?"
The question struck harder than any insult.
Seishan froze, eyes flickering as thoughts and calculations raced behind them. Possibilities stacked atop one another, risks weighed against necessity. Five seconds passed.
Then she answered.
"If not me," she said evenly, "then who else?"
It was not empty confidence. Who had misled Gunlaug and Harus for months without being discovered? Who had fed Adam information from within the Castle? Who had quietly protected the Outer Settlement and Adam's followers while Gunlaug had him detained?
Sasrir studied her for a long moment.
Finally, he spoke.
"Adam believes the Immortal Flame is the key to finally taking the Crimson Spire," he said. "But he does not trust Gunlaug not to do something stupid when she appears."
Seishan's eyes darkened.
"The Bright Lord has given up on ever returning," Sasrir continued. "He is content to play king among rubble and corpses. But Nephis threatens that stability. She will need an army to assault the Crimson Spire."
He paused.
"Gunlaug's army."
"You speak as if you have already seen it," Seishan said, frowning.
Sasrir did not respond.
Instinctively, she heightened her senses—listening for changes in his breathing, the rhythm of a heartbeat, the subtle shifts of blood beneath skin.
She found nothing.
It was the same every time. Sasrir was a void where a living body should have been, a black hole that swallowed perception itself. As though he had no organs at all—or none that functioned in any way she could comprehend.
And that, more than his words, unsettled her.
"Fine," Seishan said at last.
The word fell into the silence like a stone into deep water. She had stood motionless for several heartbeats, eyes unfocused, posture relaxed yet coiled—silent contemplation masking the rapid calculus unfolding beneath. When she spoke again, her voice was level, stripped of teasing and pretense alike.
"Tell me what you have planned," she continued, lifting her gaze to Sasrir's shadow-veiled face, "in detail."
Sasrir did not answer immediately.
The corridor was empty, the stone walls old and scarred, carrying faint echoes of distant movement from the Castle's depths. Torchlight flickered weakly, casting elongated shadows that bent unnaturally toward Sasrir, as though acknowledging their master. He studied Seishan in silence, weighing her words, her posture, the subtle tension in her shoulders.
This was no casual concession.
Seishan did not agree lightly—not to Adam, not to anyone. The fact that she had asked for details rather than assurances was itself an answer.
"At present," Sasrir said finally, "the plan is incomplete."
Seishan's eyes narrowed slightly, but she did not interrupt.
"Adam is certain of three things," Sasrir continued. "First: the Crimson Spire cannot be taken by force alone. Too many have tried. Too many have failed. Even with every Sleeper in the Forgotten Shore going at full throttle, we cannot defeat both the Crimson Spire and the Dark Sea that way."
"Which is why you need the Lord Shards" Seishan filled in it blanks.
"Precisely."
"But you are missing two."
"Nephis has one already-she will acquire the last one for us too."
Second finger.
"Second: the Immortal Flame carries the Lineage of the Sun God-"
Seishan's eyes widened, "How did you-!"
"Don't interupt" Sasrir warned coldly, shutting her down before she could start. Seishan obediently swallowed her words and waited for him to continue, though inside, her thought process had shifted yet again.
"Nephis carries the Sun God's power just like the rest of her family. She is practically the antithesis of all Corrupted, and will be the most important piece in taking the Spire."
Third.
"And third: Nephis herself will not submit to Gunlaug. Not now. Not ever."
Seishan exhaled softly through her nose. "That much is obvious. I have never met her, but if she has inherited the qualities of either her mother or father, then Changing Star will never bend."
"Which is why," Sasrir went on, "Adam intends to remove Gunlaug from the equation before Nephis ever has to deal with him directly."
That earned a reaction.
Seishan's brows rose by a fraction. "Remove," she echoed. "You mean depose."
"Adam means dismantle," Sasrir corrected calmly. "Gunlaug's authority rests on fear, monopoly of force, and control of supplies. None of those survive prolonged instability."
"You are describing a coup," Seishan said coolly.
"I am describing inevitability," Sasrir replied. "Gunlaug has already lost the future. He simply does not know it yet. And besides, I thought you entered this partnership two years ago knowing this day would come?"
Seishan folded her arms, expression thoughtful. "And Nephis?"
"She is the catalyst," Sasrir said. "Adam intends to prop her up as the figurehead. Before you ask why not me or him- Adam is well liked but lacks enough recognized power. I have power, but...well, I don't need to explain what most people think of me."
He elaborated without prompting.
"When Nephis arrives, Adam intends to ensure three outcomes. One: she is kept out of Gunlaug's immediate reach. Two: she is made aware of the true state of the Castle and the Spire. And three: she is presented with allies who will help her accomplish her goals."
Seishan's lips thinned. "You mean to shape her choices."
"We mean to limit Gunlaug's," Sasrir replied. "If Nephis is forced into a corner, she will burn her way out. That much is certain. The collateral would be catastrophic."
"And Adam believes he can…guide her?"
Sasrir paused.
"Adam believes," he said carefully, "that Nephis is not blind to suffering. Nor is she blind to opportunity. If presented with the truth, she will choose action."
Seishan was quiet for a long moment.
"You are gambling," she said eventually. "On Nephis' temperament, whom none of us have even met let alone heard of before today. On timing. On Gunlaug's reaction. On the assumption that the Castle does not tear itself apart in the meantime."
"Yes."
She looked at him sharply. "You speak as if failure is acceptable."
"We win either way " Sasrir said. "Either Nephis overthrows Gunluag and leads the Sleeper Army home, or Gunlaug wins and is forced to march on the Spire anyways to quell remaining dissidents. There will be blood: the only question is where it spills, and who controls the aftermath."
Seishan closed her eyes briefly.
In her mind, she saw fire climbing a crimson tower. Saw armies breaking. Saw sisters she could not afford to lose.
When she opened her eyes again, they were cold and resolute.
"And what," she asked, "is my role in all this?"
Sasrir inclined his head slightly.
"You are insurance," he said. "Against Nephis being eliminated too early. Against Adam misjudging her. Against Gunlaug acting faster than anticipated."
Seishan gave a short, humorless laugh. "You make it sound so flattering."
"You are the only one here," Sasrir said evenly, "who can speak to Nephis without chains attached: you are both from powerful Legacy Clans. And the only one Gunlaug cannot afford to move against openly."
That, at least, was true.
Seishan was silent again, then nodded once.
"Very well," she said. "I will watch. I will intervene if necessary. And I will not betray you."
Her gaze sharpened.
"But understand this, Sasrir. If Adam's plan turns Nephis into nothing more than another sacrificial piece—if he pushes her toward ruin for the sake of his grand design—then I will not merely withdraw my support."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping.
"I will oppose him."
The shadows around Sasrir stirred.
"I would expect nothing less," he said.
High above the rest of the Castle, in a chamber long abandoned by all but one man, an observatory overlooked the Dark City.
Its tall, arched windows were open to the morning air, letting in the faint chill of dawn and the distant murmur of life far below. From this height, the City looked almost peaceful—streets reduced to pale lines, ruined towers softened by shadow. Beyond them, the horizon burned slowly as the sun rose, spilling gold and amber across the world.
A pale white hand reached out and plucked an apple from the fruit bowl beside him.
The bowl held six apples in total, each one red and unblemished, arranged with deliberate symmetry. It was the only object resting upon the old lacquered table, its surface scarred by time but carefully maintained.
The hand lifted the apple to a bearded mouth, and a single, crisp bite was taken.
The man sat back in his chair, posture relaxed, one hand holding the apple while the other rested idly on his lap. As the sun climbed higher, its light painted his golden hair and beard in a soft, almost reverent glow, as though the dawn itself had chosen him as its canvas.
His blue eyes remained fixed on the horizon.
They did not soften.
They did not brighten.
There was no ripple of emotion in them at all, making it impossible to tell whether he appreciated the beauty before him—or merely acknowledged it as another predictable phenomenon.
He ate the apple calmly, bite by measured bite, unhurried. When only the core remained, he flicked his wrist and tossed it out the open window. It vanished soundlessly into the void below.
With his hands now free, motes of silver light began to gather in the air above his palm.
At first, they were scattered and indistinct. Then they flowed together, forming a thin stream. The stream condensed, hardened, and finally resolved into a single solid object.
A gemstone of red coral.
It shone with a deep, rich scarlet light, dim yet profound, as though something ancient slept within its depths.
The man rolled the gemstone across his fingers, testing its weight. He tossed it into the air once.
Caught it.
Again.
And again.
On the fifth catch, he closed his hand around it and brought his other hand up, propping his chin upon his knuckles. His gaze sharpened just slightly, the first hint of intent cutting through his impassive calm.
The corner of his lips curled upward.
"Should be about that time, huh?"
Local GreetingsChapter TextSunny lifted his gaze toward the giant, ominous castle looming ahead.
Up close, it was even more unsettling than it had appeared from afar. Dark stone walls rose like the ribs of some colossal beast, jagged and uneven, bearing the scars of age, battle, and neglect. It did not look like a place meant for humans—more like a relic left behind by something vast and cruel.
And yet.
What he saw before the gates proved him wrong.
Dozens of people—perhaps a little fewer than a hundred—milled about the open ground before the castle, forming what could only be described as a shantytown. Makeshift shelters leaned against ancient stone, patched together from scavenged wood, torn canvas, and bits of metal. Smoke curled lazily from crude fire pits. Life, stubborn and fragile, clung to the place.
They were young. All of them.
Seventeen at the youngest, late twenties at the oldest—Sleepers, every last one. Their faces were thin, their bodies lean in the way that came from long hunger and constant danger rather than discipline. They wore a mismatched collection of garments: rags held together by desperate stitching, rough furs taken from slain creatures, and clothing that could only be Memories, judging by their strange cuts and impractical designs.
Sunny swallowed.
Beside him, Nephis stood silently, her silver hair catching the light of the pale sky and fluttering softly in the slight breeze. Her grey eyes were fixed on the castle and the settlement around it, calm and unwavering, as though she were already committing every detail to memory.
A step behind her, Cassie scrunched her nose.
Sunny noticed it immediately and felt a familiar, inappropriate urge to reach out and poke it, just to see her reaction. He restrained himself with some effort. Cassie could not see the scene unfolding before them—not unless a vision chose to show it to her. The knowledge stirred something uncomfortable in his chest.
Pity.
He hated that feeling.
Sunny knew it was wrong. Cassie was strong—stronger than most—despite her Flaw. She endured things he could scarcely imagine, and she did not deserve to be looked down on, even silently. And yet, no matter how much he tried to reason with himself, the instinct lingered.
Human nature, he supposed.
"We're finally here," Nephis said at last.
Her voice was slow and steady, carrying a quiet weight as her gaze swept across the land before them. "After all this time. All this struggle. We've reached the castle Cassie saw in her dream."
"Aye," Sunny nodded, eyes still fixed on the crowd. "But this doesn't look like the Citadel. If it were, everyone here would already be back in the Waking World."
Nephis did not argue.
"No matter," she said dismissively. "Then we'll use it as a forward base to reach the actual Citadel. What matters is that we're close."
She paused, then added, "Now we only need to deal with the rest of the prophecy."
At her words, Sunny's gaze drifted toward Cassie.
He remembered the night clearly—how she had spoken in a quiet, trembling voice, describing a dream she did not fully understand herself. A city beyond the Dark Sea. A castle within it. Salvation waiting at the end of the journey. Back then, he had not truly believed her. Not completely. It had sounded like hope dressed up as certainty.
And yet… here it was.
Every detail unfolding exactly as she had foretold.
Sunny felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"So this," he thought, staring at the looming castle and the people gathered beneath it, "is the power of Fate?"
The idea filled him with equal parts awe and dread.
If this much was inevitable—if even their suffering and struggle had been written into the world's design—then what choice did any of them truly have?
Ahead of them, the Dark City waited.
"I don't suppose you have any more prophecies to share with us now, do you?" Sunny asked, forcing a strained smile.
Cassie did not respond.
At first, Sunny thought she was simply ignoring him—lost in thought, as she often was. But when the silence stretched on, he turned his head to look at her.
The blonde girl was staring past him.
Straight past him.
Her unfocused eyes were fixed in the direction of the Castle itself, toward its dark heart, as though she were trying to look through layers of stone and shadow alike.
"Cassie?" Sunny said, unease creeping into his voice.
"Huh?" She blinked, startled, and turned her head slightly toward the sound of his voice. "Oh—sorry. What were you saying?"
"I asked if you had any other prophecies," Sunny replied.
His Flaw asserted itself immediately, forcing the words from his mouth again despite his sudden desire to take them back. "Any other prophecies."
Cassie furrowed her brows, her expression turning thoughtful. After a moment, she shook her head.
"No," she said softly. "Sorry. My vision cut off as soon as we reached the Castle. From here on… I'm as blind as you are."
She paused, the meaning of her own words settling in. The irony was not lost on her. A faint, self-deprecating smile curved her lips.
"Well," she added quietly, "you know what I mean."
Nephis reached out without hesitation and took Cassie's hand, her grip gentle but reassuring. She gave it a soft squeeze.
"In that case," Nephis said, her voice calm and unyielding, "let's go."
She looked toward the settlement and the looming walls beyond it.
"We should introduce ourselves to the locals."
Sunny stared at her.
If he did not know Nephis better—if he had not walked beside her through death, fire, and madness—he would have sworn she had just made a joke.
As they reached the opening of the settlement clustered outside the castle walls, they immediately drew attention.
Heads turned. Conversations faltered. More than a few people paused outright, eyes lingering on the newcomers with open curiosity and thinly veiled caution.
Sunny could not really blame them.
Among the three of them, he was the only one who looked even remotely normal.
Nephis stood out first and foremost. Her silver hair caught the light even under the gloomy sky, impossible to miss, and her presence carried a quiet intensity that made people instinctively give her space. Her beauty was sharp, wrought from steel rather than softness, and she wore the armor she had claimed weeks ago after slaying a Centurion-class creature. The sleek starmetal plates fit her perfectly, accentuating her figure without sacrificing function, the faint sheen of the material lending her an almost otherworldly air.
Cassie, somehow, drew just as many stares.
She looked like an ethereal doll carved from pale porcelain, fragile and unreal. The blindfold wrapped around her eyes only heightened that impression, making her seem mysterious rather than diminished. And then there was the golden rope coiled securely around her waist—its unnatural luster unmistakable even to the untrained eye.
That alone was enough to spark whispers.
Sunny felt his shoulders tense.
'Crap,' he thought. 'They don't think we're slave traders, do they?'
For a few seconds, his mind ran wild, spinning through increasingly unpleasant possibilities. He imagined misunderstandings escalating into drawn weapons, tense standoffs, accusations shouted in the street.
Then he forced himself to breathe.
Calm down, he told himself. Panicking won't help.
He straightened his posture, carefully keeping his expression neutral, and followed just half a step behind Nephis. Whatever impression they made, intentional or not, there was no undoing it now.
They had only advanced a few dozen meters into the settlement when a small group moved to intercept them.
Four figures stepped into their path—all men. Three of them were clearly guards, but the fourth stood apart in a way that immediately drew Sunny's attention.
He had matted brown hair and watery blue eyes, pale and unfocused, like ice on the verge of melting. His face was thin, worn not by age but by exhaustion and quiet resignation. Unlike everyone else in the settlement, he wore no armor at all. Instead, he was dressed in a simple white robe, its fabric plain and clean, embroidered only with thin black stitching along the hems.
Around his neck hung a wooden cross.
At the sight of it, Sunny frowned.
The symbol stirred an unpleasant sense of recognition. It reminded him of the mural they had seen underground, deep in the catacombs—the one depicting eight figures standing before a golden cross. This one was different, though. Crude. Unremarkable. Plain wood, worn smooth by fingers that had worried at it too often.
Still, the resemblance was enough to make his skin prickle.
The three men flanking the robed figure were unmistakably security. They wore thick leather armor reinforced with metal casing along the chest and shoulders. Each held a spear in hand, with a short sword hanging at the waist. Their stances were disciplined, cautious rather than aggressive.
One of them lingered slightly behind the others.
A horn hung at his side, and Sunny had no doubt that a single blast would summon every guard within the Castle. Judging by how carefully the man kept his distance—and how the other two positioned themselves between him and the strangers—he was wary of them.
Very wary.
"Hello there, strangers," the man in the white robe said, smiling as he raised a hand in greeting. His tone was gentle, practiced. "Are you new here? Cast into this hellhole by the Spell during the solstice?"
Nephis studied him calmly.
Her gaze flicked briefly to the guards, looking past their weapons to the way they held themselves, measuring threat and intent alike. After a moment, she nodded.
"Yes," she said evenly. "We just crawled our way out of the Coral Labyrinth and made it into the City. May I ask— is the Gateway inside that Castle?"
The man's smile faltered.
It did not vanish, but it tightened, becoming thin and strained. His watery eyes filled with something like sorrow.
"I am sorry to disappoint you, miss," he said softly, "but I am afraid you are unlikely to ever escape this place."
Sunny felt the air shift.
Seeing the expressions of the three newcomers darken, the man hurried to elaborate.
"What you see behind me is the Bright Castle," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "It is ruled by Lord Gunlaug and his lieutenants, who command the Host—the collection of the strongest and most versatile Sleepers on the Forgotten Shore."
He turned slightly, indicating the ramshackle dwellings around them.
"Those of us who cannot make the cut live out here, in the Outer Settlement."
His voice did not carry bitterness—only tired acceptance.
"Sadly, the Castle is not the Gateway," he continued. "That lies within the Crimson Spire, which you can see over yonder."
He pointed westward, toward where a distant, crimson shape pierced the horizon like a wound in the sky.
"Over the years, many have tried to breach it and return to the Waking World," the man said. "Every single one has perished. Both the First and Second Lords failed to conquer it. And so the Third Bright Lord—Gunlaug—forbade any further attempts."
There was a faint tightening around his eyes.
"In his words, such expeditions were a waste of precious materials and talent. After all," he added quietly, "dead Awakened lose everything. Their Memories and Echoes shatter upon death."
He looked back at them, his expression solemn.
"So Bright Castle's losses are not merely measured in people each time an expedition fails."
"This Gunlaug doesn't let anyone try to assault the Spire?" Nephis asked, her voice carrying a subtle edge—an emotion Sunny couldn't quite place. It wasn't anger or fear, but something sharper, more controlled. "Not even those who are unaffiliated with the Host?"
The man in the white robe licked his lips and hesitated, as if weighing every word before allowing it to leave. "Ah… Lord Gunlaug hates to see precious lives wasted," he said carefully. "To him, such time and effort can be far better spent improving the system here, so that everyone may live better lives—rather than squandered on an impossibility, like conquering the Gateway."
Nephis's brow furrowed slightly. "So… nobody is allowed at all?"
The man's gaze flicked briefly to the three guards behind him before settling back on her. "That is the Lord's ruling, yes."
There was no warmth in his tone, no room for negotiation. The law of the Bright Castle, like the stones of its walls, was unyielding.
"The Bright Lord's decree…" Nephis repeated softly, almost to herself. For a moment, her voice dropped to a whisper, as though she were testing the weight of the words. Then she lifted her head, her face once again smooth and unreadable. "How long, do you know, has Gunlaug been in the Forgotten Shore?"
The man blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. He hesitated, then answered with a thoughtful frown. "Well… around a decade, I suppose. He became the Third Bright Lord eight years ago. He arrived in the same generation as Lady Seishan, though he is slightly younger than Tessai, who used to be the oldest Sleeper here."
"Used to be?" Sunny asked, his tone sharp with curiosity.
The man glanced at him briefly before nodding. "Yes. Used to be. Tessai was killed a little under two years ago. So now, either Seishan or Gunlaug would be the oldest Sleepers still alive. And among the most powerful, without a doubt."
Sunny found that easy to believe. Spending nearly a decade in the Forgotten Shore—surviving its horrors, fighting Awakened and Fallen creatures, scavenging Memories and Echoes from countless battles—would give anyone obscene strength. Enough time to fill multiple Soul Cores. Enough time to become something far removed from an ordinary Sleeper.
A knot tightened in Sunny's stomach. His unease had nothing to do with logic or evidence; it came straight from his gut. And his instincts, unfortunately, had an impeccable track record. Bright Castle felt wrong.
"Excuse me," Cassie suddenly spoke, her quiet voice cutting through the tension. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I don't think we got your name?"
The man froze for a heartbeat, then his eyes widened. He slapped his forehead in an almost comical display of embarrassment. "Ah! Of course. My apologies. Please forgive my forgetfulness—I meant no offense."
"None taken," Nephis replied smoothly.
"Ahem." He straightened, clearing his throat. "My name is Giorlanio. And these—" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder "—are my protection. Please, pay them no mind."
Easier said than done, Sunny thought darkly.
One of the guards was staring at him with thinly veiled hostility, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Sunny glared back just as fiercely, fingers clenching at his side.
What are you looking at, bastard? he thought, pouring the challenge straight into his gaze.
The guard grimaced, clearly catching the intent, but did not look away. They locked eyes in a silent contest, neither willing to yield.
"Changing Star," Nephis said calmly, introducing herself.
Her True Name rang out clearly, echoing through the air like a struck bell.
Giorlanio tilted his head, confusion written plainly on his face. It took him a few seconds to process what he had heard. Then his eyes widened in shock, and he took an unconscious step forward.
Sunny tensed instantly, raising an arm as if to intercept him, but a subtle gesture from Nephis stopped him cold. He hesitated, then reluctantly relaxed.
"Changing Star?" Giorlanio whispered. "Is that… is that your True Name?!"
Sunny understood his reaction all too well. For a Dormant to possess a True Name was exceedingly rare. Historically, those who received one so early were destined for greatness, assuming they survived long enough. Many Saints of legend had once stood exactly where Nephis stood now.
While a True Name was no guarantee of the future, it was as close as one could get.
"Yes," Nephis replied simply.
Just as she had done back at the Academy, she showed no hesitation in revealing it.
Giorlanio visibly trembled. He struggled to compose himself, then turned to Sunny and Cassie with a newfound respect in his eyes. "And… and you two are?"
"Cassia," Cassie said gently. "But please, call me Cassie."
"Sunless," Sunny answered, despite himself. "But I prefer Sunny."
He grimaced inwardly. He had never intended to reveal his full name—but his Flaw had other ideas, forcing the truth from his lips.
Hearing that neither of them possessed—or at least revealed—a True Name, Giorlanio's expression faltered for just a moment before he recovered with impressive speed.
"Well," he said, straightening his robe, "Lady Changing Star, on behalf of the Bright Lord and the Host, I welcome you to Bright Castle. If you have the time, I can introduce you to the rules of this place. It is best to learn them as soon as possible, to avoid… mishaps."
Nephis gave the three guards a brief, cool once-over, her expression flat and unreadable.
"Reveal away."
The rules, as Sunny had expected, were simple enough.
To enter the Castle required two Soul Shards, with an additional shard due every twenty-four hours thereafter. Bedding was provided—assuming one could find an unclaimed spot—but food, tools, and other comforts all required further payment. Large sections of the Castle were strictly off-limits, their boundaries clearly marked and aggressively enforced. As for social hubs, most interaction took place in the Cafeteria and the Memory Market, where Memories, Echoes, and information changed hands with equal frequency.
Giorlanio also provided a concise overview of the power structure governing Bright Castle: the Host.
Artisans formed the backbone of this improvised society, responsible for crafting equipment, maintaining infrastructure, and ensuring that the Castle continued to function at a basic level. Handmaidens handled miscellaneous labor, but Sunny quickly realized they were anything but ordinary workers. They were trained personally by someone named Seishan, whose name was spoken with an equal mix of fear and reverence. Whatever their duties entailed, Sunny doubted they were soft targets.
The bulk of the Castle's fighting force consisted of the Guards. According to Giorlanio, they relied more on raw strength than discipline or refined skill. Above them stood the Hunters and Pathfinders—elite combatants tasked with mapping viable routes through the surrounding hellscape and hunting down the monsters that sustained the rest of the Castle. They answered to a man named Gemma.
Each of these groups had its own leader, all of whom reported directly to Gunlaug. In theory, they were equals. In practice, Giorlanio admitted, subtle power struggles simmered constantly beneath the surface.
As Sunny listened, a detail began to gnaw at him.
Giorlanio had named the leaders of the Artisans, the Handmaidens, and the Hunters—but he had conspicuously skipped over whoever commanded the Guards. He had also neglected to mention his own affiliation.
Sunny frowned, studying the man more closely.
Nephis had noticed as well.
For the briefest instant, silver fire flickered in her eyes. Then, once Giorlanio finished his explanation, she spoke, her tone calm but unmistakably probing.
"And what about you?" she asked. "Which faction do you belong to?"
Giorlanio openly scanned Nephis, a self-confident smile settling on his face as his thumb gently stroked the wooden cross hanging from his neck. The gesture was slow, almost reverent.
"Me?" he said lightly. "Well, I don't belong to any official 'faction,' so to speak."
"But you do belong to something," Nephis pressed, her gaze steady and unblinking. Every part of her demeanor radiated blunt insistence.
Giorlanio's smile tightened. Behind him, the guards shifted their footing, leather creaking softly, though none of them reached for their weapons.
"Yes," he admitted after a pause. "I do associate with a group, if that is what you are asking." He drew in a breath, then continued carefully. "We are… something of a self-help collective. A place for those who have nowhere else to go, or for those who feel their skills are undervalued. People join us to improve themselves, to find purpose."
He spread his hands slightly. "We also provide charity. Aid for those in dire need—food, medicine, even paying the Castle entry fee when necessary. And before you ask, we demand nothing in return. Donations or assistance are always welcome, of course, but only within one's sustainable limits."
Sunny wasn't the only one who felt a deep sense of incongruity settle in his gut. A group like that sounded less like something born in the hellscape of the Forgotten Shore and more like a social program from the Waking World. It felt misplaced—too clean, too orderly for a land ruled by desperation and scarcity.
Cassie voiced the doubt that hung unspoken between them.
"Does such a group really exist?" she asked, her brow furrowing.
At her question, Giorlanio laughed and lifted the cross around his neck. "See this? This is the mark—"
He froze mid-sentence, realization dawning a heartbeat too late. The air grew awkwardly still as silence fell between them, thick and uncomfortable. Neither side seemed quite sure how to proceed.
Then Cassie spoke again, her tone calm and unoffended. "It's alright. I understand how difficult it can be to explain things to someone without eyes. Please, continue."
Giorlanio coughed into his fist, clearly relieved, and nodded. "Yes. Well… every member of our group wears a wooden cross to symbolize their membership. If you remain here for any length of time, you'll certainly see more of us. We have around twenty members inside the Castle itself, and another fifty living out here in the Outer Settlement."
"And the white robe?" Sunny asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice.
"Ah." Giorlanio glanced down at himself. "That is simply something some of us wear to emulate our leader. He dresses the same way, and, frankly, it's quite stylish. We commissioned a few Artisans to make replicas. Adam doesn't mind."
"Adam," Nephis said, her voice clipped and precise. "Your leader?"
Giorlanio nodded. "Yes. Our leader—and the Forgotten Shore's unofficial Fifth Lieutenant."
Sunny's eyes narrowed slightly.
"In an official capacity," Giorlanio continued, "he serves as the Bright Lord's aide. Essentially an assistant, handling minor affairs and administrative matters on Gunlaug's behalf."
Sunny sensed that Giorlanio had relaxed after all that talking. It was almost impressive—what a prolonged, civil conversation could do to lower a person's guard. Feeling that the moment was right, Sunny decided to press on the one detail the man had conspicuously avoided earlier.
"By the way," he said casually, "who did you say the leader of the Guards was? I didn't quite catch it."
Giorlanio's smile dimmed at once. The change was subtle, but unmistakable. Still, to his credit, he maintained his composure, keeping his expression open and polite. Watching him, Sunny was reminded of the scammers and confidence men who sometimes appeared in the Outskirts—people who survived by smiling through discomfort and danger alike. Giorlanio's self-control rivaled theirs.
For a few seconds, he seemed unwilling to answer. However, being scrutinized by three people—one of whom was blind, yet somehow felt the most piercing—eventually cracked his defenses.
"The former leader of the Guards was Tessai," Giorlanio said at last. "But he was killed. His replacement is Sasrir." He hesitated, then added, "Sasrir is also Adam's confidant. His right-hand man."
His tone grew grave. "Take my advice: don't fight him. Don't provoke him. Don't cross him in any way. He has killed more than a dozen of his own people for disobedience, and he is always one bad day away from spilling blood. Only Adam can control him. Even Gunlaug and Harus find him impossible to rein in."
"Harus?" Nephis repeated, immediately catching onto the unfamiliar name.
Giorlanio blinked. "Ah. Right. I suppose I forgot to mention him. Harus is the Bright Lord's executioner and his most trusted lieutenant—ranked above the other four. However, since he does not lead a faction of his own, most people do not count him among them. Before Sasrir appeared, Harus was widely considered the most terrifying and lethal Sleeper on the Forgotten Shore. Not necessarily the strongest, but the deadliest."
He exhaled softly. "Now, though, the Reaper has taken that distinction. At least in the stories people tell."
"And you're saying only Adam can control him?" Sunny asked, openly skeptical. "No offense, but how does that even work? Is Adam stronger than Sasrir?"
This time, Giorlanio did not seem reluctant to answer.
"No one knows," he said simply. "Adam and Sasrir arrived together one day, and they have been inseparable ever since. Whatever Adam tells him to do, Sasrir does. Without question."
Lowering his voice, Giorlanio leaned closer. "Keep this to yourselves, but the real reason Gunlaug made Adam his assistant is because he is terrified of Sasrir. Adam is a leash. A very delicate one."
The revelation stirred complex emotions in both Sunny and Nephis. Cassie, however, remained silent, her expression unreadable.
Nephis was the first to speak. "And how do the other lieutenants feel about this arrangement?"
"Harus and Aiko are indifferent," Giorlanio replied. "Adam and Sasrir were Hunters originally, so their relationship with Gemma remains close enough. As for Seishan…" He hesitated, then smiled thinly. "There are rumors that she and Adam are involved. They appear quite close."
Sunny raised an eyebrow. "I'm no expert on religion," he said, "but aren't priests supposed to avoid relationships? Or at least marriage?"
Giorlanio coughed and waved his hand dismissively, as though brushing the concern aside. "Adam is not an ordained priest. He was raised in a religious institution, but never formally inducted. He is… flexible when it comes to ritual and doctrine. He follows a moral code more than scripture."
"Can you even call that religious?" Cassie asked quietly, doubt lacing her words.
Giorlanio hesitated, then deflected. "We all believe in the Lord," he said vaguely. Before any of them could press further, he straightened and took a step back.
"I must return to the Castle now," he said, regaining his earlier politeness. "I wish you a pleasant day—and a tolerable stay in the Forgotten Shore. God bless, strangers."
With that, he turned and gestured for his guards to follow, leaving behind far more unease and questions than reassurance.
Sunny turned to look at Nephis. "What now?"
"Now?" she looked at the gate of the Castle up ahead, manned by three Guards in heavier equipment thatn the ones protecting Giorlanio. "Now, we enter the belly of the beast, of course."
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