In the small room above the hardware shop, Kael's sleep had become the focal point of a growing mystery for Uncle Borin. It was no longer just an inexplicable slumber; it had become the living barometer of the village's health. Weeks of careful observation, furtive nighttime checks, and daily trips delivering tools and supplies had revealed to Borin a truth far too unsettling to ignore.
Kael lay peacefully in his bed, breathing slowly and steadily. Yet his stillness, once so unsettling, now seemed almost reassuring. The boy's expressions had changed: no longer just the neutral rigidity of a deep sleeper, but sometimes a slight twitch of the lips, a hint of a smile. Other times, an almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging someone only he could see.
One morning, Borin approached the bed with a bowl of fresh water, tired but vigilant.
"My boy… what are you doing in there?" he murmured, as if speaking to a dream.
Kael's face did not move… but his fingers trembled slightly, a faint shiver, almost a sign.
Borin held his breath. "If you can hear me… do what you must. I… will do my part."
The boy's skin had taken on a livelier tone, and his hands, though relaxed, no longer appeared as drained as in the early weeks. These small but significant signs had not escaped Borin's careful eye. And their correlation with what he observed outside was now impossible to deny.
At first, he had attributed the slight improvements in his clients to simple fluctuations in their illness, but the regularity had become too obvious. The village center seemed to breathe a little easier. Minds appeared a little clearer. Nightmares were slightly less suffocating.
Every morning, while preparing his deliveries, his thoughts inevitably returned to Kael.
Descending the stairs, Borin muttered to himself, "If only you could give me a clear sign… but perhaps this is your way."
Then, armed with his basket, he walked through the streets of Aris.
The first clients, those just a few meters from the shop, showed increasingly evident signs of improvement. Old Mara opened her door with unusually bright eyes.
"Borin… I've slept like I haven't in years!"
"Must be your new pillow," he replied, offering a small smile.
"Silly," she laughed. "The pillow wouldn't have given me a clear mind. Yesterday I told Lia the story of the Great Harvest… without forgetting a single name!"
Lia held up a drawing bursting with colors. "Look, Borin! No more ugly spirals… see?"
Borin nodded slowly. "Good job, little one. Keep it up."
But as he moved further from the shop, the situation worsened. In the village outskirts, peasants had sunken faces, slow movements, voices faint as if spoken through a veil of ash.
One of them, Tomas, stopped him. "Borin… don't you have a remedy? Something that… I don't know… could give us a little strength back?"
"If only I did," the hardware man lied, for the truth was far too absurd to speak.
It was as if a wave of healing emanated from the room above. It had to be Kael.
And someone, in the darkness between realms, had sensed it.
The Whisperer, an emissary of corruption operating along the border between worlds, had intensified his hunt in the waking realm. These were no longer just "exploring shadows." Now, more concrete, veiled, and taciturn figures, hoods pulled low over their faces, were increasingly spotted at the village's edges.
They were the Silents, more skilled and stealthy than the Errants.
Human agents deeply corrupted by the Ash, emptied of will, reduced to pure instruments. They were not aimless wanderers; they were emissaries of a precise, ruthless search. They moved with sober, measured motions, without hesitation.
They moved unhurriedly, surveying the houses, questioning with empty stares. Their hands brushed objects, walls, and doors, as if sensing invisible vibrations. They sought a resonance. An echo. A hidden signal.
They did not know who Kael was.
They knew no face, no name, no home.
They only knew that a source of resistance existed that was weakening the flow of the Ash. And it had to be found.
One evening, as Borin closed the shop, he saw one of the Silents beyond the fence. Motionless.
"Need something?" he shouted, trying to sound tough.
The figure did not respond.
It did not tilt its head, nor move a finger.
It simply… stood there.
Then it turned silently and slid into the darkness like a dissolving shadow.
Borin held his breath. "You will not enter here… not while I am here."
Yet even as he said it, he knew his voice trembled. These presences were neither thieves nor vagabonds. They were not even truly human. And they felt no fear.
One night, the guards tried to stop them.
It happened at the old stone bridge, where three Silents were crossing slowly, as if in a trance.
"Stop!" shouted the captain of the guards, thrusting his spear forward. "Show your faces!"
The Silents halted, not out of obedience, but due to a mechanical interruption of their step. They remained still as the soldiers advanced.
"Speak!" commanded one of the young militiamen.
Silence.
Absolute.
One soldier, frustrated, tried to grab the nearest Silent's arm.
The hand passed through the cloak as if the body beneath were elusive, slippery. The Silent rotated his torso with a fluid, unnatural movement, avoiding the touch without any aggressive gesture.
One step to the right.
One step back.
Nothing more.
The soldier tried to block him again, but the Silent was already beside him, then behind him, then on the other side of the bridge. He did not run. He did not jump. He just walked… and the world seemed powerless to stop him.
The captain cursed under his breath.
"He doesn't want to fight," one of the militiamen said.
"No," replied the captain. "And he doesn't want to be touched."
"Then what is he?"
"A seeker," said the captain. "And we are not his prey."
The guards stood on the bridge, terrified and helpless, while the Silents continued their slow march, dissolving into the night fog.
Deep in the Foundation Depths, Master Elian felt it all, the mounting pressure. The currents of the Dream Realm whispered ever more insistent warnings, like taut cords vibrating on the verge of breaking.
"They are approaching… much faster than expected," he murmured, consulting a luminescent glyph that pulsed irregularly.
An acolyte approached hesitantly.
"Master… the Silents have crossed the third barrier."
"I know."
"Do you… want to warn Kael?"
Elian closed his eyes, troubled. "Not yet. His spirit is on the edge of the final Threshold. Interrupting him now would be more dangerous than the threat itself."
For days, he had worked tirelessly to create a strengthened Veil of Sleep, an ancient, nearly forgotten technique.
"If I succeed in completing it," he explained to the acolyte, "his body will appear like that of an ordinary sleeper. No anomalous resonance. No direct trace."
"But master… this might delay his awakening."
"I am aware." His voice cracked slightly. "Every choice is a risk. And this is the heaviest I have ever borne."
He looked into the darkness of the chamber, as if he could see Kael from a distance.
"Forgive me, boy. But it is the only way."
The circle around Aris was tightening.
The battle was not fought only in the Dream Realm.
The threat was creeping into the waking world.
And in the small room above the hardware shop, Kael continued to sleep… unaware that the entire village breathed to the rhythm of his heart.
The battle for Aris was not fought only in the Dream Realm; it was about to erupt, one way or another, even in the silent hardware shop.
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