Whatever Zavien had been dreaming fractures without warning. Sound dulls first. Colour drains next. The edges of his dream begin to soften, then unravel entirely, as though someone has drawn careful fingers through wet paint. The ground beneath him loses its certainty. The sky deepens; darkening not into absence, but into depth.
Stars begin to surface, but not scattered, gathered.
Midnight clouds stretch wide and endless, their undersides lit with a slow pulse of silver and violet. Constellations spiral into view, wheeling in deliberate arcs across a sky too vast to belong to any mortal horizon. At the center of it all, she stands, already there, the axis around which the heavens seem to turn. Her dark hair drifts as though suspended in water, constellations threading through its length. Starlight clings to her skin, catching at collarbone and wrist, pooling at her feet like liquid moonlight.
One slender hand lifts—not commandingly, but invitingly—and the galaxies behind her tilt ever so slightly toward her gesture. "Come," she says softly.
Stars begin to surface, but not scattered, gathered.
Midnight clouds stretch wide and endless, their undersides lit with a slow pulse of silver and violet. Constellations spiral into view, wheeling in deliberate arcs across a sky too vast to belong to any mortal horizon. At the center of it all, she stands, already there, the axis around which the heavens seem to turn. Her dark hair drifts as though suspended in water, constellations threading through its length. Starlight clings to her skin, catching at collarbone and wrist, pooling at her feet like liquid moonlight.
One slender hand lifts—not commandingly, but invitingly—and the galaxies behind her tilt ever so slightly toward her gesture. "Come," she says softly.
