Bound by Dreams

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Caelum

I don’t think I ever meant to fall asleep.

It happens quietly now—like stepping into a shadow and realizing too late it had a door behind it.

One moment I’m lying in bed, half-listening to the sound of Droselle beyond the window: the hiss of steam vents, the grind of ward-beasts patrolling the lower districts, the distant pulse of dragon wings slicing through smoke-smeared sky. The next, I’m somewhere else entirely.

And it doesn’t feel like dreaming. Not in the way people describe it. There’s no fog, no absurdity, no unraveling logic. Just… continuity. One breath follows the last. One heartbeat becomes the next. It’s like I’m walking from one room into another in a house I don’t remember building but somehow know every inch of.

Caelum.

That’s the name I use there. It fits like something old and half-forgotten, worn in at the edges, but still mine.

In Droselle, I am no one special.

I blend in. I walk the gray stone streets, keep my hood pulled low. I recite my lessons, reinforce spell seals, avoid eye contact. I do what’s needed, nothing more. That’s the rule. That’s how you survive.

The city is too brittle for softness, too full of teeth for dreaming.

But in the other place…

The world knows me.

Not by name. Not in any way that can be spoken aloud. But it knows my shape. The way I walk. The rhythm of my breath. The particular shade of silence I carry with me.

When I move, the wind stirs. The trees sway as if greeting an old friend. The rivers hush to listen. It’s not loud. Nothing ever is there. Even the magic moves like music half-heard through walls—but it recognizes me.

At first, I tried to fight it. To wake up. To return to the world I was told was real.

But now… now I find myself waiting for it. Needing it.

The moment my eyes close in Droselle, I begin listening for that first sign—sometimes it’s a breath of warm air, tinged with honeysuckle. Sometimes the shimmer of starlight filtering through lavender mist. Or the familiar hum of the dream-borne river.

The worlds don’t bleed together—but I do.

More and more, I find myself forgetting which place came first. Which version of me is the real one.

It’s not just the landscapes that draw me. It’s something else. Something I haven’t touched yet, but I can feel it like a thread tugging gently behind my ribs.

Her.

I don’t know her name. I’ve never seen her face. But I feel her.

She leaves traces.

Once, I walked through a grove of whisper-leaves and heard two sets of footsteps—mine, and one just ahead, softer, lighter, like a song walking beside me. Another time, I passed under a stone bridge and caught a glimpse of a reflection that wasn’t mine—gone the moment I looked up. I find places that feel recently warmed, where the petals have only just stopped trembling.

And when I’m close to wherever she’s been, the air grows denser. The light gets strange—more vivid, more aware. Colors I didn’t know how to name unfold like secrets along the path. The magic sings higher. Finer. As if tuning itself to her presence.

She is not part of this world the way I am. She belongs to it.

And somehow, I think… I belong to her.

But I haven’t followed. Not yet. There’s something in me that holds back. Not fear. Not even hesitation. It’s reverence. Like the way you might approach a temple after years of exile. You don’t run in shouting. You wait. You earn your steps.

Last night, I woke in the garden of clock-flowers again. The blooms opened in perfect rhythm—one per second—filling the space with gentle ticking, like the world was keeping time for us.

I sat beneath the silverleaf arbor. The air was warm, soft with dew. Somewhere in the distance, I heard music—just a few notes, like someone humming to themselves while walking through moonlit corridors.

I didn’t chase the sound.

I just sat, knees drawn to my chest, watching the petals open, watching time unravel in tiny, delicate increments.

And I thought:

What if this isn’t dreaming? What if this is the life I forgot? What if I only sleep when I’m in Droselle, and wake when I’m here?

It scares me, a little—how easy that answer feels. How right.

Because Droselle is growing dim in my memory. I still know the streets, the names, the spells. But I don’t feel them in my bones the way I used to.

And this place—this impossible, luminous place—it’s becoming more than a dream. It’s becoming a home I never knew I lost.

Some nights, I whisper her name into the air—even if I don’t know it.

Just a sound. A shape of breath. Hoping she’ll hear me. Hoping the wind will carry it to her, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll whisper back.

Not yet.

But soon.

The stars are shifting. The rivers are waking. The air trembles like it’s holding a secret.

Something is coming.

And this time, I don’t think I’ll be alone when it arrives.