The morning following the shared dream was draped in a strange, shimmering silence. The Silver-Crest Manor, usually a place of sharp echoes and the cold weight of duty, felt momentarily softened. The four of them moved through the early hours like sleepwalkers who had found a secret path back to a home they had never officially lived in.
Nyx sat at the small breakfast table in their private nook, her fingers tracing the rim of a ceramic mug. In the dream—the Nice Dream, as she had already begun to label it in the quiet corners of her mind—the mug had been blue, chipped at the handle, and filled with a tea that smelled of wild mint. Here, the silver chalice was cold and formal, but the memory of the blue ceramic felt more real.
"I can still feel the sun on my neck," Malphas murmured. He w
