Luna didn't fall asleep.
She was pulled under.
One moment, she was lying on a cot in the makeshift infirmary—Sector Seven's old library, now patched with synth-tarp and smelling of antiseptic and burnt paper. Kai had insisted she rest after the Circle of Ash. "You look like you're holding your bones together with spit," he'd said, tucking a blanket around her shoulders.
She'd smiled weakly. Closed her eyes.
And then the floor vanished.
Not like falling. Like being unspooled.
She landed softly on glass—not solid, but liquid-smooth, reflecting not her face, but scenes: a city of floating towers crumbling into stars; a child with her eyes planting a seed in ash; a woman in silver robes standing between two armies, hands raised, bleeding from both palms.
"Welcome home," said a voice.
Luna spun.
