The room feels different once everyone is gone.
Quieter.
But heavier, too.
Varien doesn't speak right away. She moves to the window, nudges it open a little further, and lets the cool spring air drift in. Outside, the murmur of voices fades as the others head back toward the road — toward fields, chores, ordinary lives.
"Come," she says gently. "Walk with me."
I blink. "Now?"
"Now."
She takes the old book back to the cupboard, returning it to its high, hidden place. Then she wraps her robe closer around herself, tucks a stray silver hair behind her ear, and opens the door.
I follow her outside.
The sunlight feels louder after the stillness of the room. The fields stretch out in soft greens, the poplars stand tall, and the path curls like a thin ribbon between them.
We walk in silence for a while, side by side.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I don't know where to start. I don't even know what I want from this — comfort? Answers? An excuse to pretend it meant nothing?
Varien is the one who finally breaks the silence.
"You seem far away today," she says. "Farther than your feet have walked."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"I didn't sleep," I admit.
"A restless night?"
I laugh weakly. "More like a… horrifying one."
Her gaze shifts to me. Not sharp. Just open.
"Tell me."
We keep walking. The road dips slightly, the stones worn smooth by years of footsteps.
"I had a dream," I begin. "No — not just a dream. A nightmare. It felt too real."
The words start slowly at first, but once they begin, they don't stop. I tell her about the darkness, the dead land, the heavy air that felt like it was pressing my lungs shut. About the willow tree, standing alone in that colorless world.
I tell her about the shadow.
"How did it look?" she asks quietly.
"I don't know," I say, frustrated. "It was… a shape. A blur. Always a little out of reach. Like it wanted me to see it and not see it at the same time."
"And it spoke to you."
"Yes."
"What did it say?"
The memory of that voice crawls up my spine.
"It knew my name," I whisper. "It called me Sibefer. It knew where I was from. It mocked Mythandri — called it a land of traitors. It said I was always left behind. Always waiting. It told me I was… foolish for believing that if I stayed good and still, I could reach paradise someday."
My throat burns.
"I've thought those things before," I admit. "In my own head. About people. About this place. About how ungrateful and cruel people can be, even when they pretend to be kind."
Varien's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes deepens — like a shadow passing over still water.
"And then?" she prompts.
"Then it spoke of the future," I say. "Of everything being overturned. Of a wave that would break everything I believe in. It said… it said I would only be a witness. That I'd stand at the edge of something I couldn't name."
We pass a low hedge. The wind rustles through it softly. A bird startles and darts away.
My steps slow.
"There was one moment," I add, "when I shouted — in the dream — asking if anyone was there. If I was completely alone."
"And?" Varien asks.
"And no one answered," I say. "No one but the shadow."
My voice cracks on the last word.
Varien stops walking.
We stand by the edge of a field, the soil freshly turned, the scent of earth rising around us.
"How did it end?" she asks, her tone even softer now.
"It gave me a name," I say.
The hairs on my arms lift just remembering it.
"A name?" Her gaze sharpens. "Whose?"
I look down at my hands.
"At first I thought it was just another word in the dream," I whisper. "But when I woke up, I still remembered it. Clearly. Like it had been carved somewhere inside me."
I swallow.
"The shadow told me to remember it. Said that one day it would shake my silent world."
Varien's face has gone very still.
"What name, Sibefer?"
For a heartbeat, I think about lying.
Then I think of the way that voice felt in my bones.
"Fodiser," I say quietly. "It called itself Fodiser."
The wind dies.
Everything — the field, the road, the distant river — seems to hold its breath.
Varien's steps falter.
She reaches for the hedge with one hand, steadying herself against it as if the ground has shifted beneath her feet. The color drains slightly from her face.
"Say it again," she murmurs.
"Fodiser," I repeat, a little louder this time. "Does that… mean something to you?"
Her lips press together.
For a moment, I think she won't answer.
Then she says, "I don't know. Maybe. I'll have to think on it."
She starts walking again, but her steps are slower now, her gaze unfocused — as if she's staring at something that isn't there.
It feels as though I've thrown a stone into a very deep well and I'm waiting, heart pounding, to hear whether it ever hits the bottom.
"Varien," I ask, "have you ever heard that name before?"
She doesn't look at me.
"I've heard many names in my life," she says quietly. "Some of them I hoped never to hear again."
That answer is not an answer at all.
But it's enough to confirm what my fear has been whispering since dawn.
This wasn't just any nightmare.
And Fodiser is not just any name.