The world had changed again, subtly but unmistakably. The rivers flowed clearer, the stars burned brighter, and in the hushed hours before dawn, one could almost hear a soft singing in the air—a harmony woven between earth and wind, as if the world itself was exhaling after a long, dreamless sleep.
Auren wandered north, away from the marsh that had birthed him anew. He did not know why his feet carried him there, only that the call persisted, a pulse beneath the rhythm of his heart. His staff hummed faintly with each step, resonating with something vast and unseen.
He crossed plains of pale grass that shimmered silver under moonlight. Every so often, he felt the world ripple—as though the veil between what was and what could be had thinned. Once, while walking near a frozen stream, he saw the water briefly turn gold, and the reflection of a woman's face shimmered across the surface before vanishing into the current.
He did not speak of it. There was no one to hear him now.
It was in the third week of his journey that Auren came upon the River Beneath the Sky.
He first saw it at dusk, from the crest of a ridge. The valley below was vast, filled with silver mist and low-lying trees, but cutting through its heart ran a river that gleamed with starlight—not reflected light, but its own. Each ripple glowed softly, and in its depths he glimpsed what seemed to be constellations swirling like slow-burning fireflies.
He descended, entranced.
The closer he came, the stronger the pull in his chest grew, until he could feel his pulse echoing the rhythm of the river itself. The air buzzed with energy; his every breath shimmered. When he reached the bank, he knelt and touched the surface. It was warm—not with heat, but with life.
A whisper brushed against his thoughts.
You remember, don't you?
He drew his hand back, heart pounding. The voice was not sound—it came from within, as if the river spoke directly to his blood.
"Who are you?" he asked aloud.
The reflection of what was. The dream unbound.
He frowned. "Liora?"
No. She sleeps in the stars. But her echo flows in me.
Auren looked down into the water. His own reflection shimmered, then shifted—his face overlaid by another's, eyes burning gold. The shape's lips moved in time with his.
"The world is healed," he said softly. "Why do you still call?"
Because memory is not peace, the voice replied. There is still a wound beneath the dream. A root that bleeds beneath the river.
He leaned closer. "Then show me."
The river obeyed.
Light flooded his vision, and the ground vanished beneath him. He fell through stars, through images and voices, through fragments of a history long erased. He saw Liora forging the last seal with her dying breath, saw Corren holding her hand as the marsh consumed them both. He saw the beast—the unshaped thing that had once been both creation and curse—breaking apart into threads of light.
And beneath it all, deeper than any dream, he saw something else.
A black root.
It writhed like a living serpent, embedded in the heart of the world, its tendrils reaching up through every memory, every dream. Where it touched, light dimmed. Where it coiled, voices stilled.
He gasped and staggered backward out of the vision, falling to his knees on the shore.
The river's glow dimmed, as though exhausted.
"What is it?" he whispered.
The First Shape, the river murmured. What existed before the dream began. The mother of all form, and the hunger of all unmaking.
Auren looked up, the wind whipping his hair. "I thought it was gone."
It cannot be destroyed, said the voice. Only forgotten. But now that the world remembers, so does it.
He stared into the depths. "Then I must find it."
No mortal can walk that deep.
"I'm not mortal anymore," he said quietly. "Not entirely."
The river was silent for a long time. Then, a current swirled around his ankles, glowing faintly. Then you must follow the current north, until the river ends where the sky begins. There you will find the Gate of Reflection—the mouth of the First Shape.
Auren rose, steadying himself with his staff. "And if I don't return?"
Then the world will sleep again, until another dreamer wakes.
He nodded once. "Then I'll go."
The river carried him.
He walked for days, following the glowing current through forests of pale stone and valleys where light bent in strange ways. Sometimes he saw figures walking beside him in the mist—Liora's silhouette, Corren's shadow—but when he turned, they were gone.
Once, he crossed a field where time seemed to hesitate. The grass bent and unbent in slow motion, and the sun hung motionless in the sky. In that place, he felt the pulse of the world itself—sluggish and labored, as though something ancient strained against the edges of being.
He quickened his pace.
At last, he came upon the Gate.
It was not a structure of stone or steel, but a vast circle of water suspended in midair, its edges rippling as if stirred by an unseen hand. Beyond it, he saw nothing but darkness and faint lights—like stars under the sea. The sound it made was like breathing.
Auren stepped closer. "So this is where it began."
The river's voice echoed faintly around him. All things begin and end here. Will you enter?
He hesitated. He could feel the pull of the darkness beyond, vast and infinite. His heart raced.
Then he remembered Liora's words: You must decide how it wakes.
He drew a deep breath and stepped through.
Silence.
For a moment, there was nothing—no air, no light, no ground. Then the world rippled into being. He stood in a vast expanse of black glass, and above him hung rivers of light like veins across a cosmic body.
At the center of it all, a single shape writhed—a colossal mass of shadow and gold threads, pulsing like a wounded heart. Every pulse sent ripples through the air, warping the light.
Auren fell to one knee, clutching his chest. The markings beneath his skin burned.
The shape turned toward him. No eyes, no mouth—only presence. Its voice came as a vibration through the air.
"You carry the echo."
Auren struggled to his feet. "I carry their memory."
"Memory is weakness."
"Memory is what made the world," he said. "It's what you forgot."
The shadow surged forward, tendrils of darkness lashing toward him. He raised his staff, and golden light burst from its tip, forming a barrier. The tendrils struck, sizzling on contact.
He shouted over the roar. "You are not creation—you're the wound left behind when the world was born. But I am what came after. I am what remembers!"
The barrier cracked. The shadow howled, shaking the void.
"Then remember this."
It plunged into him.
Pain unlike anything he had known tore through his mind. Images cascaded—every dream, every nightmare, every form the world had ever imagined. He saw himself as stone, as fire, as beast and storm. He saw humanity's first thought, first fear, first song.
And beneath it all, the whisper of Liora's voice.
Shape it, Auren. Don't let it shape you.
He gasped, clutching his chest, and with trembling hands raised his staff. The markings on his arms blazed white. He drove the staff into the ground.
The light erupted—pure, blinding, soundless.
The shadow screamed, its form unraveling into a storm of color. Threads of black and gold twisted, clashed, then merged. The air became molten, the void trembling.
Auren screamed with it, pouring every fragment of himself into the act—not to destroy, but to change.
To remember differently.
When the light faded, silence returned.
He opened his eyes. The void was gone.
Beneath his feet flowed a gentle stream of gold and blue, winding through an endless meadow beneath a sky full of unfamiliar stars. The pain was gone.
The voice of the river whispered one last time. You did not destroy the Shape. You taught it how to dream.
Auren smiled weakly. "Then maybe it'll dream kindly this time."
The wind brushed against his hair. He felt warmth—a hand on his shoulder, a whisper in his ear.
Rest, Warden.
He closed his eyes. The stars shimmered once, like eyes closing.
When dawn came to the waking world, a new river was seen flowing north from the Mire—a river of gold, winding beneath the horizon and vanishing into the sky.
And those who drank from its waters dreamed not of beasts or sorrow, but of a world remade in harmony—where creation and memory walked hand in hand.
No one knew his name. But the stories began again, whispered in every corner of the world.
They all began the same way:
Once, the world forgot itself.
And a dreamer taught it to remember.