Mist clung to their ankles as they stepped into the basin.
The dreamweaver district didn’t announce itself. It revealed. Slowly. Like a memory surfacing.
Structures rose from the fog—woven from threadlight and memoryglass, their shapes shifting gently as Elara passed. Some resembled homes. Others, thoughts. One pulsed like a heartbeat, its walls breathing in and out.
Elara reached for Calvinus’s hand. He took it without hesitation.
The air was thick with scent—lavender, ash, something like rain on stone. It wasn’t weather. It was emotion. The district didn’t reflect the sky. It reflected them.
A child-shaped figure drifted past, translucent and humming. It didn’t speak. It simply paused, tilted its head, and vanished into a doorway made of song.
Elara whispered, “Are they real?”
Cal
