Seasons came and went across the marshlands, their passing marked not by the tolling of bells or the march of time, but by the subtle shifts of the water's mood. Mist that once carried dread now curled soft and silver. The wind hummed with a strange harmony. The birds returned in spring, nesting in the reeds, and their songs no longer broke into silence when the fog rolled low.
The marsh had changed, and with it, so had Corren.
He lived in the half-ruined chapel on the rise—the last standing remnant of the Circle's sanctuary. Moss grew thick over its stones, and roots curled through its floor like the veins of the earth itself. Every morning, he woke before dawn, walked the border paths, and listened.
The Warden's song lingered faintly in the world. Sometimes he heard it in the wind's sigh, sometimes in the rippling of the water. Always, it brought a calm ache to his chest.
He'd aged, though the years seemed strange here, untethered to the passage of days. His beard had gone silver, his eyes weary but bright. The marsh had a way of reshaping everything it touched. It had slowed his body's fading, stretched time thin around him.
And though the world beyond forgot the name of Liora of the Circle, he never did.
One evening, as the sun sank red behind the reeds, he noticed something new. The marsh's reflection was wrong—not in color, but in motion. The water moved though the wind was still, small waves rippling outward from the heart of the Dreaming Mire.
He knelt, pressing a palm to the surface. The water was warm.
"Liora?" he whispered.
The ripples stilled, and for a heartbeat, he thought he saw her—just a shadow beneath the glass, her hair trailing like golden flame. But then the vision was gone.
The Beast's echo stirred faintly in the back of his mind, though he had not heard its voice in years. The balance shifts, it whispered. The dream stirs again.
Corren rose slowly. "Why now?"
Because something seeks her power. Something remembers what slept.
He looked out across the marsh. The wind had begun to rise, pulling fog from the edges, swirling it into slow, deliberate spirals. Beneath the distant hills, thunder grumbled.
He clenched his jaw. "Then I'll stand where she stood."
That night, he went to the Circle's ruins. The stones glowed faintly, whispering like an old breath. He knelt among them and traced the familiar sigils with his fingers.
Once, these had bound the marsh. Now, they sang with it.
He closed his eyes. "Liora. If you can hear me—guide me."
The ground trembled softly. A single thread of golden light lifted from the soil, winding up his wrist like a living thing. It pulsed with warmth, familiar and bittersweet.
A voice followed, distant yet unmistakable: You are not meant to fight alone.
He froze. "Liora?"
Not her voice, the Beast murmured. But born of her memory. The marsh remembers.
The light sank into his skin, leaving a faint shimmer behind. And then the vision struck—sudden and searing. He saw flashes: a forest of crystal beyond the marsh, roots made of glass, and at its heart, a figure chained in shadow. Not the Sleeper. Something smaller. Younger.
A child, bound and weeping in darkness.
Corren gasped and stumbled back. "What was that?"
The dream finds new form, said the Beast. The world's wounds do not vanish; they change shape. You must find where it grows.
He gathered his sword, the steel dull with age, and stood. "Then we go."
For days, he journeyed northward, through the marsh's narrow veins and out into the low hills. The land there was barren—scorched where lightning had struck years ago, cracked and dry from strange heat. But in the cracks, something luminous grew: thin tendrils of silver vine that pulsed faintly with life.
Where they touched the soil, it shimmered as though alive.
He crouched beside one, tracing it with a gloved hand. The moment he touched it, a whisper filled the air—not from the marsh, but from beneath the ground.
Help me.
The voice was young. Frightened.
Corren looked around, sword half-drawn. "Where are you?"
Silence answered.
Then, faintly, he heard the rustling of reeds—though there were none here. He followed the sound to a hollow in the rock, half-hidden by thorn roots. Inside, the air glowed faintly.
The vines converged there, their light pooling into a shallow basin of water. In its reflection, he saw not his own face, but a child's—pale, wide-eyed, her hair white as frost.
She looked at him as if through glass. "Please," she whispered. "They'll wake it."
Before he could speak, the image shattered.
He returned to the marsh that night, his thoughts a storm. Maren's echo greeted him by the altar, her form half-light, half-shadow.
"You've seen it," she said.
"What is it?" Corren demanded. "Who's the child?"
"A remnant," Maren replied. "The dream's last shape. When Liora sealed the Sleeper, fragments of its mind remained scattered. One took root beyond her reach—beyond the marsh. It grows, feeding on memory."
"Then why call to me?"
"Because you are the last tether she left. The dream can't open the seal alone. It needs someone bound by the Warden's name."
Corren's blood ran cold. "It wants me."
Maren's eyes softened. "It wants her through you."
He turned away, gripping his sword. "Then I'll end it before it can take more."
"Be careful," Maren whispered. "Dreams don't die—they devour."
He set out again before dawn. The world beyond the marsh was waking to strange omens: storms that moved against the wind, fires that burned cold, animals fleeing the forests. Everywhere, the air trembled faintly, as though the boundary between waking and dream had thinned.
By the third night, he found it—a fissure in the hillside, glowing faintly blue. Inside, a faint hum vibrated the stone. He stepped carefully into the dark.
The tunnel opened into a chamber of roots and light. At its center stood the child from the vision, her body half-submerged in a pool that glowed from within. She looked up as he approached, her eyes wide and frightened.
"They said you'd come," she whispered.
"Who?" Corren asked, keeping his distance.
"The ones that sleep. They said the Warden forgot me."
Corren's chest tightened. "The Warden didn't forget. She died to keep you safe."
The girl shook her head. "No. She left me behind."
The water darkened around her feet, shadows rippling outward like oil. Her reflection split, revealing other faces beneath it—hundreds of them, all Liora's, twisted and broken.
"She's still dreaming," the child said, her voice deeper now. "And I'm the dream she refused to end."
Corren drew his sword. "Then you're not a child."
Her eyes gleamed gold. "No. I'm what comes after the dream."
The cavern trembled. The light in the pool flared, and from its depths rose shapes—ghosts of beasts and men, fragments of nightmare coalescing into flesh. Corren swung his sword, the steel cutting through one, but more formed, pulling themselves from the water like ink made flesh.
He backed away, chanting the old binding phrases Maren had taught him. The symbols glowed faintly on his blade. Each word steadied his resolve.
But then the girl screamed, and the light turned gold. The marsh itself seemed to hear.
A voice filled the air—familiar, heartbreakingly so.
Corren… stop.
He froze. The voice wasn't the child's. It was Liora's.
"Liora?" he whispered.
If you strike her, you strike me.
The child's eyes blazed. "She's part of me now. You can't separate us."
Corren faltered, torn between the sword in his hand and the ache in his heart. The Beast's voice stirred faintly. Do not hesitate. The dream wears her voice to chain you.
But the girl was crying now—real tears, shining gold. "Please," she whispered. "Help me. I don't want to dream anymore."
Corren dropped his sword. The glow dimmed.
He stepped forward slowly. "Then wake."
The girl reached for his hand. "You'll come with me?"
"Yes," he said, though he didn't know what that meant.
Her fingers touched his, and the world exploded into light.
When the light faded, he stood once more by the marsh. But it was different now—vast, endless, glowing from horizon to horizon. The water rippled beneath a sky of gold. Liora stood before him, her form whole again, her eyes filled with tears.
"You shouldn't have come," she said softly.
"I couldn't let it end without you."
She smiled faintly, sorrow in every curve of her mouth. "You always were stubborn."
The air trembled around them. The child appeared again, standing at Liora's side, holding her hand. "You promised I could wake," she said.
Liora nodded. "You will. But not in this world."
Then she turned to Corren. "The dream has one last door. It must close from both sides."
He understood instantly. "You mean—"
"Yes. Someone must stay."
The marsh wind rose, carrying the scent of rain. Corren took her hand. "Then we'll stay together."
She looked up at him, eyes shining gold. "Then the world will sleep peacefully."
The sky brightened, filling with golden fire. The marsh shone like molten glass. The child's form dissolved into light, her laughter fading like a song.
Liora leaned her head against Corren's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For remembering me."
The light swallowed them both.
When dawn broke over the Dreaming Mire, the world was quiet once more. The water lay still, glowing faintly beneath the mist.
At its heart stood two figures, entwined and motionless—shaped of light and shadow, their reflections endless beneath the calm surface.
And from the reeds came the faintest whisper, like breath carried by wind:
Sleep and do not dream.