Bound by Dreams

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Caelum

The morning skies burned crimson when I woke.

Dragons had passed in the night—their fire left long smears across the clouds like claw marks. I could still hear their distant cries echoing off the mountain ridge, low and ancient, like a warning carried on wind. In Droselle, red skies meant to stay alert. Red skies meant someone hadn’t made it back.

I sat up slowly.

The stone floor was cold beneath my feet, and the breath that left my mouth curled into mist. Magic surged low in the air—old and thick, like it had been waiting all night for someone to speak it. I didn’t.

My coat hung by the door, still dusted with ash from yesterday’s errands. I shook it out and fastened the bronze clasps with callused fingers. The fabric was heavy with protective runes, most of which had dimmed by now, their glow faint like dying embers.

Downstairs, the hearth flickered lazily. My mother stood over a pot of bitterroot tea, her back to me, shoulders wrapped in silence. She hadn’t spoken much since the last raid. Her magic had been spent saving the neighbor’s house from burning. That kind of casting takes more than energy—it takes pieces of you you don’t get back.

We ate in quiet. A scrap of bread. A smear of firefruit jam. Just enough to count.

The city groaned as it woke. Droselle was a place built of stone, smoke, and spellsteel—where dragons soared between towers and ward-beasts patrolled the alleys after dusk. The sky was never fully clear, always swirling with soot and sparks. Magic here wasn’t graceful. It was survival. It came in pulses, in teeth, in iron and fire.

As I stepped into the street, a wyvern scout passed overhead, its wings casting sharp-edged shadows. Children ducked behind crates. I didn’t flinch. This was normal.

At the edge of the marketplace, a caster was selling storm glass charms—tiny orbs that held pieces of bottled lightning. People passed without glancing. No one had time for pretty spells anymore. They wanted shields. Blade enchantments. Sigils that could hold back dragon flame or quiet the cries of the dead.

I moved through the crowds unseen, as always. But lately, it felt different. Like my eyes lingered longer on cracks in the walls that hadn’t been there before. Like I could hear whispers in the stone beneath my boots. Like I was walking through a place that had already started forgetting me.

I used to feel rooted here. Now, I felt… untethered.

That night, after lessons and errands, after fixing the sigil lock on our front gate, I sat by my window and watched the twin moons rise over the rooftops. The larger one, Aegra, was full tonight—its light catching on the scales of a roosting drake perched on the bell tower across the street.

I didn’t sketch that time. I just sat.

The air was thick with heat and old magic, humming quietly under my skin like a heartbeat I didn’t know was mine. And slowly, without meaning to, I let my eyes fall closed. No spell. No ritual. Just sleep.

And when I opened my eyes again—

The dragons were gone. The skies were quiet. And the grass beneath me sang a song I hadn’t heard before.

I sat up too quickly and nearly fell back again. The air smelled like fig blossoms and moonlight. Like memory and stories half-forgotten. The sky above me stretched wide and gentle, not the gray of Droselle but soft lavender blushing into gold.

I knew this place.

Not in the way you know your home. But in the way you know a name you’ve never said aloud. Aetherra.

That name rose in my chest like a breath I’d been holding since birth. I had heard the stories. The myths. Aetherra—the hidden land that existed behind dreams, where the veil of the world grew thin and magic wove itself into the roots of trees.

But I’d never known it looked like this.

I stood slowly, my boots sinking slightly into moss that glowed faintly underfoot. To my right, a brook murmured as it passed over stones carved with runes I couldn’t read. To my left, fig trees bowed under the weight of silver fruit, their branches tangled with whisper-vines.

And ahead of me—

A figure.

She stood in the clearing not far from where I had woken, draped in a gown that shimmered with twilight. Her hair caught the wind like it belonged to it. There was something old about her, not in age, but in presence—as if time moved differently around her.

She hadn't seen me yet.

I didn’t move. I barely breathed. I wasn’t sure why, but something told me not to speak.

Instead, I watched.

She stepped forward slowly, kneeling by a cluster of glowing blue flowers. Her fingers hovered just above them, and I saw the petals stretch toward her touch. Magic clung to her like mist—subtle, woven into the seams of her movement, not showy or bright. Just… there.

Familiar, somehow. As if I’d met her in a story my mother never finished.

My hand found the hilt of the dagger still sheathed at my side—out of instinct more than fear. And yet, I couldn’t imagine this place allowing harm. Not the way Droselle did.

Still, I remained hidden.

She looked up suddenly. Not at me. At the sky.

The wind changed. The brook hushed.

And something in the distance called my name—not with sound, but with a pull.

Aetherra.

I wasn’t dreaming.

I was remembering something I hadn’t lived yet.