Miles away from Luna's quiet suburban home, where the morning sun cut through the thick, dewy forest canopy in blinding vertical shafts, a cluster of Hooded Figures gathered.
The air around them was cold, despite the morning warmth, and their voices were low and filled with simmering frustration. They stood near a natural stone outcropping, their dark cloaks blending into the shadows.
"The connection is severed," hissed one figure, known as the Emissary, whose voice carried a gravelly impatience. "Her sleep was empty. No echo, no visual, not even the slightest tremor of influence. The thread is gone."
"Impossible!" snapped another, shorter figure, Cipher. "The dream pathway is the most reliable channel! The trauma inflicted on the Observer's heir—Atlas—should have acted as the perfect siren call, forcing the Keeper's heir to acknowledge the danger in her sleep. She should have been overwhelmed by our presence!"
The senior member, Oracle, stood slightly apart, leaning on a staff carved from dark, twisted wood.
"The parents. They have used the Warding Thread," Oracle stated, the name of the artifact delivered with sharp contempt.
"Rose was paranoid, but thorough. They strung the Filament of Silence across the door frame. It acts as a static shield, filtering the cosmic noise. While the girl is under its protection, the dream-channel is effectively severed."
"So, the delicate, psychological approach is dead?" Emissary spat, the silk of his hood rustling.
"We spent months preparing the illusion, crafting the perfect, alluring figure to draw her in! The boy's pain was meant to be the key, and now we are locked out by a piece of tarnished metal?"
"Worse," Oracle corrected.
"The thread is ancient. It is sacred and potent. It doesn't just block us; it calms her mind. She wakes up believing it was all a random accident, a simple nightmare. They have successfully forced her back into complacency and logic."
A tense silence fell over the group. The sounds of the forest—the chirping of unseen birds, the rustle of leaves—seemed impossibly loud.
"We have wasted time," Cipher hissed.
"The window is closing. The Alignment requires both heirs to be fully aware and on their destined path. If she remains focused on logarithms and school tests, the convergence will fail."
Oracle slammed the base of the staff against the rock with a dull thud. "Then we change tactics. If we cannot reach her through the path of sleep, we will approach her through the path of waking life. Her parents have shielded the house, but they cannot shield the whole world."
"How, Oracle?" Emissary questioned, his frustration momentarily replaced by focus. "We cannot materialize and simply hand her a cryptic message."
"No," Oracle said, turning toward the sunlit path. "But we have already activated the Observer's heir. He is injured, enraged, and hunting for answers. He is no longer Atlas the scientist; he is Atlas the hunter. We must now ensure that his path crosses hers. We will use physical anchors—clues that appear mundane, but which are charged with enough energy to overcome her logic and lure her out from under the Warding Thread."
Oracle lifted a hand, and the tip of the staff began to faintly shimmer with the same heat-haze Luna had seen in her dream.
"The time tickles away. We must provide the impetus. We will lead the hunter to the Keeper. Go. We must approach Luna through other, tangible means to communicate and follow their paths before it is too late."