As Caspian and Layla walked home in the dead of night, the moonlight lay soft upon the wet pavement, fractured by the brass streetlamps casting elongated shadows across the ground. Rainwater glistened in gutters, reflecting fragments of neon signs and the dull amber of traffic lights. The world had quieted, stripped down to its bones—no club music, no voices, just the hum of electricity and the distant rumble of a night train threading its way through the sleeping city.
Layla gradually slowed her pace until it matched Caspian's, falling into step beside him without a word. They walked like that for a time—companionable silence, neither rushed nor hesitant.
They turned down a narrower street where the nightlife had fully retreated, and the signs of Nimerath's wear began to show. Cracks split the sidewalk like veins, and the buildings leaned a little too close together, crowding the sky into a narrow strip above. A flickering light buzzed above a shuttered barber shop, and a mural of a weeping angel, defaced with graffiti, loomed over a street corner.
Caspian's eyes scanned the rooftops instinctively. "This isn't the same city when it's quiet."
"It's never really quiet here," Layla said. "Just resting between screams."
A cluster of people loitered outside a corner market still open despite the hour. One of them, a wiry man with oil-streaked hands and a lopsided beanie, raised a hand as they passed.
"Layla. That you?"
She turned her head. "Merrit."
He trotted up beside them, a smile breaking across his face. "Didn't think I'd see you in this part of the district again."
"Just passing through," she said. "You still fixing vents for half the slums?"
"Someone's got to." Merrit glanced at Caspian, curiosity flickering. "New friend?"
Caspian nodded but said nothing.
"He's alright," Layla said. "Just bad at introductions."
Merrit grinned. "Well, if he keeps walking with you, he'll learn fast." Then, more quietly, "Be careful. Some of the local enforcers are jumpy tonight. Rumor says a Blackwood operative tore through a club not far from here."
Layla's eyes flicked to Caspian. "Thanks for the warning."
Merrit patted her arm, then disappeared back into the cluster, calling over his shoulder, "Come by sometime. It's not the same without your yelling."
They kept walking, rounding the corner and ducking into a side alley where the ground sloped downward toward the river. Pipes ran along the walls like skeletal limbs, and stray cats darted between trash bins, their eyes catching the light like twin embers.
"You know everyone in this city?" Caspian asked.
"Just the ones who matter," she said.
Past the alley, they emerged into a dim courtyard flanked by abandoned brick buildings with ivy creeping through shattered windows. Someone had set up candles along the base of a crumbling fountain, and a few figures huddled close to the stone, wrapped in threadbare blankets, sharing warmth more than space.
One of them—a pale woman with tangled silver hair—raised her head and met Layla's gaze. She offered a small, almost regal nod.
Layla returned it.
"She used to be a violinist," Layla murmured as they walked past. "Played at the old opera house before the riots. Lost her family and just… never came back from it."
Caspian didn't speak, but his eyes lingered on the woman until the courtyard was behind them.
They crossed a narrow bridge next, its iron rails slick with rain. Beneath them, the river pulsed dark and steady, a mirror fractured by the current. The bridge groaned under their steps, an old sound, like something ancient remembering it had to bear weight.
"So many ghosts in this city," Caspian said at last.
"They never really leave," Layla answered. "They just settle into the bricks."
As they entered a better-lit district closer to the Tower, the buildings grew taller, sleeker—less personality, more power. Cameras turned subtly to follow their progress. A security drone buzzed overhead and vanished behind a building's steel edge. The shadows here were artificial, cast by design rather than neglect.
"We're close," Layla said, her voice quieter now, the intimacy of the slums giving way to the silence of surveillance.
They passed a man asleep in a parked car, steam curling against the windshield. A dog padded silently alongside them for half a block before veering off into an alley.
As the Blackwood Tower came into view, rising like a solemn sentinel against the night sky, Caspian and Layla slowed their pace. The streets here were wide and clean, their surfaces polished smooth by the recent rain. The lights from the tower's upper levels reflected in the glossy black asphalt, stretching like pale ribbons toward the horizon. The hum of the city faded behind them, leaving only the faint rustle of wind through the lampposts and the distant, hollow clatter of a train turning somewhere far across the district.
They reached the base of the stairs leading up to the Tower's front entrance, but neither moved to climb them just yet.
Layla tilted her head back, eyes scanning the sky. Between the towering buildings and their spiraled antennae, a wedge of stars was still visible, silver pinpricks suspended in the deep blue canvas. The moon hung low, caught in the curve of an antenna dish, its light soft and pale like breath on glass.
"I love nights like this," she murmured. "When the city stops trying to be louder than everything else."
Caspian followed her gaze. "It's easier to think when the sky is empty of noise."
She gave a small smile. "I used to lie on the rooftop of our old building when I was little. Stare at the sky for hours. Made the world feel bigger. Like everything I was afraid of was too small to matter from up there."
"I used to do the same," he said quietly. "Only the stars looked different back then. War changes the air, the color of the light. Makes everything feel closer, like it's pressing down on you."
Layla turned to him. "And now?"
He took a breath. "Now it feels… distant again. Like the city's learning to breathe."
They stood in silence a moment longer, wrapped in the hush of midnight and cold metal and forgotten echoes. A breeze stirred the hem of Layla's coat, tugging softly at the strands of her hair. She crossed her arms, but not from cold.
"Thank you," she said.
Caspian looked over.
"For walking me home," she added, voice gentler. "You didn't have to."
"You would've been fine on your own."
"Probably," she agreed. "But I didn't want to be."
He didn't respond right away. Instead, he turned his eyes back to the stars, letting the quiet settle again between them. No tension. No distance. Just presence.
"You don't talk much," Layla said after a pause, "but when you do, it sticks."
He almost smiled. "Then I guess I should be careful what I say."
She nudged his arm lightly with her shoulder, more gesture than force. "You're alright, Caspian."
He didn't answer, but she saw the flicker in his expression—something softer, something real.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, stepping back toward the door. "Assuming I don't vanish again."
"No promises," he said, though his tone was low and warm.
She disappeared through the glass doors, and they sighed shut behind her with the faintest hiss.
Caspian remained where he was, hands in his coat pockets, eyes lifted once more to the sky. The moon had begun to drift behind the tower's spire, casting long shadows over the polished stone. The stars shimmered faintly above, muted by the haze of city light but visible nonetheless—steady, indifferent, ancient.
The city held its breath.
Slowly, Caspian descended the few steps leading to the main courtyard and sat down on the lowest one. The stone was cool beneath him, damp from earlier rain, but he didn't seem to notice. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and reached into the inner pocket of his coat.
His fingers found the familiar worn edge of a folded paper—the note Julius had left behind.
He drew it out slowly, unfolded it with care. The creases were sharp, the ink slightly smudged near the edges. He didn't read it. Not again. He already knew every word. Every stroke of the pen. But still he stared down at it for a long moment, the paper trembling faintly between his fingers.
A sigh slipped from his lips. Quiet. Measured. Tired.
He looked up again, eyes tracing the ragged edges of the skyline, then beyond, to the stars that refused to vanish even beneath the weight of Nimerath's steel and smoke.
Above him, the sky remained—dark, vast, and patient.
And beneath it, alone on the steps of Blackwood Tower, Caspian sat with the silence, the letter, and a thousand thoughts too heavy for words.
A faint breeze stirred the stillness, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and distant smoke. It curled low through the courtyard, sweeping up a small handful of brittle, curled leaves—amber and ash-brown, remnants of some long-dead season. They rose a few centimeters into the air, dancing briefly in the moonlight before scattering again along the steps.
Caspian sat quietly, elbows on his knees, the night wrapping around him like a second coat.
Then, from the shadows to his left, a voice broke the silence.
"So... that was the infamous Layla Blackwood?"
The voice was unmistakable—sharp-edged, familiar, laced with smug amusement.
Caspian turned his head quickly, eyes narrowing.
Zach was perched on the stone ledge that framed the tower's western façade, reclined like a man without a care in the world, his back against the rain-speckled window, one leg dangling freely over the edge. A half-folded newspaper rested lazily in his lap.
"You know," Zach continued, tapping the page with a gloved finger, "a proper instructor always does his homework. And by homework, I mean thorough research on the people his students seem… interested in."
Caspian's expression was unreadable. "So you're stalking her."
Zach feigned offense, lifting a hand to his chest in mock injury. "Stalking? Please. I prefer the term 'investigative surveillance.' Has a much more noble ring to it, don't you think?"
Caspian exhaled sharply through his nose. "Sounds like something a creep would say."
Zach chuckled and folded the newspaper with exaggerated care before tucking it behind him. "Touché. But I'm not here to debate semantics."
Caspian gave a slow yawn, stretching his arms above his head before letting them fall to his sides again. "Then what are you here for? Boredom? Or just trying to haunt me into insomnia?"
Zach leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting—less mirth, more purpose.
"Firstly," he said, wagging a finger, "don't yawn in the presence of brilliance. It's rude. Secondly…" He paused, then added, with theatrical gravity, "I came to give you a warning."
That caught Caspian's attention. He straightened up slightly. "A warning?"
Zach nodded solemnly, though the glint in his eye never dulled. "About your upcoming dream, of course."
Caspian blinked. "Dream? You're being cryptic again. You do that a lot."
Zach smirked. "And you never listen the first time. Let me spell it out for you, then—though I do love watching you flail around in confusion."
Caspian rolled his eyes with a groan.
Zach continued. "Every so often, the Devourer receives a dream. Not someone else's—your own. But unlike those you enter to observe or mend, this one's different. It's... personal. And because it's yours, it's exponentially more dangerous."
Caspian frowned. "It's still just a dream."
"Yes, and no," Zach replied, tilting his head. "Dreams and reality bleed together for you. That's your whole job, remember? So any damage you take in this dream… sticks. Wounds. Broken bones. Pain. All of it. Real."
Caspian processed that in silence, the weight of it settling in his gut.
"So," he said slowly, "with a serious enough injury…"
"You could die," Zach finished flatly.
The words echoed.
Caspian swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the night's silence pressing in from all sides. "So how do I survive it?"
Zach stood then, brushing dust from his coat as he stepped down from the ledge. He walked a slow arc around Caspian, hands clasped behind his back, like a professor circling a lectern.
"It's simpler than it sounds," he said. "Dreams have rules, whether they admit it or not. You'll wake up somewhere. Somewhere unfamiliar, but built from fragments of things you know. And in that place, there'll be something—or someone—waiting for you."
"Waiting?" Caspian echoed.
"Yes. Sometimes they're hostile. Sometimes not. It depends, usually, on how you treat them. How honest you are. How afraid."
"So be polite and hope I don't die," Caspian muttered dryly.
Zach chuckled again. "Something like that."
Caspian raised an eyebrow. "That's all?"
Zach paused mid-step and turned back toward him.
"Oh. Right. One more thing."
His tone darkened slightly.
"If you ever hear a voice speaking in a language you don't recognize… leave. Immediately. Don't try to understand it. Don't look for the source. Just run."
Caspian stared at him. "Why?"
Zach's smile faltered for the briefest moment. "Because whatever speaks that language doesn't belong in your dreams. Or anyone's."
A quiet stillness settled between them.
Then, as Zach prepared to vanish as abruptly as he'd arrived, he glanced back over his shoulder and added, with surprising softness, "She seems like a good one, you know. The girl. Layla. Keep her close. People like her don't show up often."
Caspian looked up, caught off-guard by the sincerity in his tone.
It was the first time he'd seen Zach smile without the usual twist of irony or mockery. Just a quiet curve of the mouth. Real. Uncomplicated.
Then, as quickly as the breeze that had heralded his arrival, Zach began to fade—his silhouette dissolving into the rising wind, replaced once more by the scattering of brittle leaves.
A single crumpled page from his newspaper fluttered to the ground in his place, catching briefly on the edge of the steps before blowing down the street.
Caspian exhaled slowly and stood.
He turned to the doors of Blackwood Tower, one hand brushing over the cold brass handle—but paused. The lights inside were soft and dim, the warmth of the foyer visible through the glass, but it didn't call to him just yet.
Instead, he descended the stairs again and sat, this time on the middle step, the stone chilled beneath him.
He reached into his coat pocket.
From within, he drew the note—Julius's note—creased and folded with care. He didn't open it. Just held it in his hands, staring down at it as the breeze lifted the edge slightly, like it wanted to read it too.
Then he leaned back, resting his weight on his palms, and tilted his head toward the sky.
Above him, the stars shimmered faintly through a break in the clouds. Cold. Distant. Patient.
He let the silence take him again, deeper this time. No more voices. No more warnings. Just the ache in his chest, the note in his hand, and the question he didn't yet know how to ask.
What the hell am I walking into?
The stars didn't answer.
They never did.