This old, well-thumbed book is wrapped in plain, scuffed leather the color of faded ink. Its corners are worn to smooth curves, and faint water stains mar the cover where years of handling took their toll. A single crescent motif, once gold-embossed, has long since faded into a dull outline at the center. Inside, the parchment pages are yellowed and fragile at the edges, covered in neat, compact lettering and the occasional ink blot. A simple cloth ribbon, its original hue lost to time, lies pressed between the pages.
The Dream-Sown Fields
The ground in the Vale of Auric had baked to a crackled crust under a merciless sun. For as long as anyone could recall, rain clouds had skirted the valley’s sky, vanishing before offering so much as a drizzle. Wheat fields once renowned for their golden sheen now sprawled as parched stretches of brown. When dawn broke each day, villagers carried on with weary determination, praying for relief in a land that seemed to have forgotten what it meant to thrive.
In a cramped cottage on the edge of the vale, an elderly woman named Korina stirred awake from a dream that clung to her like moonlight. She saw a silver shape in that vision, tall and wordless, beckoning her to a forgotten corner of the valley. When she mentioned it at morning’s meal, her daughter looked skeptical. But that same afternoon, neighbors arrived, each with the same haunted expression, all whispering of a beckoning figure hidden in their sleep. Some dismissed it as wishful thinking, a trick of exhausted minds, others were too desperate not to consider every possibility.
Ignoring the baron’s grumbling about idle distractions, Korina gathered those who believed. Rusted shovels and wooden tools in hand, they trudged beneath the punishing sun to the place they had all seen in their dreams; a patch of hard, lifeless dirt at the far edge of the farmland. Their spirits dragged as the day wore on; the pickaxes chipped at the ground to little effect, and the men and women soon glistened with sweat and frustration. Just when their last bit of hope seemed ready to wither, the soil gave way in a gurgling rush. A trickle of cold, clear water bubbled up through the cracked earth, spilling over their feet.
Word of the hidden spring spread through Auric like a flame in dried brush. Villagers came from miles around, tasting water sweeter than anything they had known in years. A hush fell each time someone approached that newly unearthed source, as though they stood on hallowed ground. Over the coming weeks, long-dead fields awakened in bursts of green. Wheat stalks rose with startling vigor, vegetables fattened in the irrigation channels, and wildflowers painted the valley in bright pinks and yellows. Even the baron, once dismissive and skeptical, lowered his taxes and praised the collective effort, though few doubted he sensed something divine at work.
In gratitude, the villagers constructed a modest archway beside the spring, carving a crescent symbol at its apex to honor the dream-goddess they believed had guided them. At night, if one listened closely, a gentle hum seemed to emanate from the structure, like a distant lullaby. Some swore they saw a pale glow around the arch and rippling across the water’s surface; evidence, they said, that Ilythia’s watchful grace still lingered in the valley. From then on, the Vale of Auric was remembered not only for its golden wheat but for the miracle that saved it—a solemn reminder that even the most desolate landscape can yield to hope when guided by dreams.
The Sleepwalker King
King Zevaris paced the corridors of his palace in silence, accompanied only by the rasp of his breath. He had not known true rest for months—no dozing off at council meetings, no drifting into half-slumber in the warm sun, not so much as a brief escape into ordinary dreams. A whisper of a curse, some said, passed down his bloodline. Others blamed a sorcerer he had once offended. Yet if he knew the source, he spoke of it to no one. To those who tried to reason with him, he offered only a tired, haunted glare.
As the weeks dragged on, his condition frayed at every seam. In his desperation to banish noise that grated on his fragile nerves, he outlawed all music in the palace city. Minstrels were turned away at the gates; travelers had to relinquish their instruments upon entering. By royal decree, chimes and bells were smashed, and the dawn chorus of birds was frightened off. At night, he prowled the courtyards like a specter, ordering servants to douse torches and still even the soft rustling of leaves. His subjects suffered uneasily under this reign of perpetual tension, unsure whether their once-benevolent monarch was a victim deserving pity or a tyrant slipping beyond all reason.
Amid the oppressive hush, an old rumor took shape in low whispers among the courtiers: the King was afraid. They noticed his shaking hands and sudden flinches, as though he might hear torment in every breath of wind. Then, one moonless night, the palace guards found their sovereign wandering barefoot through the great hall, eyes half-closed yet open enough to see. His face carried a strange serenity that none had witnessed in months. Without a word, he drifted through locked doors and shuttered rooms, as though guided by an unseen hand. Alarmed, the guards tried to rouse him, but his expression remained distant, his steps unwavering.
At last, he came to rest in the courtyard where he stood in silence, head tilted back. It is said that in those few moments of half-slumber, Ilythia joined him in a dream. Within that ethereal place, the King beheld the fear that consumed him, taking the shape of a gargantuan wraith, its eyes hollow, its limbs elongated like shadows in torchlight. Every dread he harbored was carved into its shifting form: the burdens of leadership, the weight of an unbroken curse, the guilt of having forced his people into uneasy quiet. He trembled as the wraith reached forth, but from behind him, a womanly silhouette limned in moonlight whispered reassurance. Despite the horrifying visage, she made it plain that true deliverance would only come if he confronted the specter himself.
Finding resolve he thought he had lost, King Zevaris stood firm against his nightmare, matching the monster’s stare. After an agonizing hush, a single step forward dissolved the wraith into black dust, freeing the King from its hold. He awoke at dawn to the astonished gasps of his guards, feeling the first gentle tendrils of exhaustion slip into genuine sleep. Even though he remained half-dazed, he managed a fragile, hopeful smile.
Word traveled swiftly. By the King’s command, the ban on music and noise was lifted. Bells rang through the city’s streets again, and birds flocked back to the palace gardens. Though still wary of the fragile boundary between rest and wakefulness, he gradually returned to his duties with a quieter spirit. Those closest to him saw genuine remorse for the hardships he had inflicted, and he began repairing the trust his people had lost. Overnight, the courtyard, long silent by royal decree, became a place of tranquil reflection, where travelers from far-off lands would speak in hushed awe of the night the Sleeper took pity on a sleepless monarch.
In time, the King erected a slender tower within his palace grounds, an elegant column of pale stone. At its summit, a carved crescent shimmered in starlight, forever dedicated to the goddess who guided him through a realm he had nearly lost sight of. To the end of his days, King Zevaris spoke softly of that single moment in which he felt no fear, no anger—only the reassuring grace of moonlit compassion, allowing him at last to close his eyes and drift into healing slumber.
The Bridge of Twilight
On one side of a deep gorge lay the bustling town of Brecham; on the other stood the rustic settlement of Orley’s Rest. No one could recall precisely when the hatred between them began, only that it festered with every passing generation. In tavern tales, Brecham folk derided their neighbors as backward and quarrelsome. Meanwhile, Orley’s Rest spun fearful yarns of Brecham’s so-called arcane dabblings, warning their children never to wander close to the dreaded chasm after dark. Over the years, the rift of suspicion and resentment grew almost as formidable as the physical void that separated them.
One fateful harvest season, tensions soared when each side accused the other of stealing livestock. Patrols were dispatched to the cliff edges, torches bobbing in the night as anxious citizens sought signs of cross-river raids. That week, a peculiar dream descended upon select residents in both towns. In this collective vision, they found themselves standing at opposite ends of a radiant bridge spanning the gorge. The dream bridge seemed woven from twilight itself, shimmering with subdued violet and pale silver hues. High above, the sky glowed with unfamiliar constellations, as though some otherworldly hush had blanketed reality. Step by uncertain step, the dreamers advanced until each side stood face-to-face in the bridge’s center. Instead of meeting beasts or villains, they saw men, women—even children—who wore the same uneasy blend of fear and curiosity. A faint whisper rippled across the starlit air, carrying a gentle reassurance that they were not so different after all.
At dawn, these dreamers awoke startled, each hesitant to share their experience lest neighbors dismiss them as fools. Yet such was the dream’s potency that, one by one, people admitted they had seen the same astonishing vision. In Brecham, an elder named Hallis decided to journey to the cliff’s edge with a single plank, hammer, and nails, determined to set an example. Across the gorge, a young laborer named Tella did likewise; though her family warned her that Brecham folk were undoubtedly waiting to seize and imprison her. Nevertheless, she persisted. To the amazement of onlookers on both sides, Hallis and Tella exchanged a guarded wave. Then, with shaky hands, they braced their planks against the rock, as though daring anyone to stop them. No one did. Another villager or two joined, and then more, gathering spare lumber and rope. Soon a makeshift line of volunteers formed, passing materials across a basket hoisted by crude pulleys. A day turned into a week, and hammering echoed across the once-dreaded chasm.
When the final length of timber was placed, an unexpected hush enveloped both sides of the gorge. Brecham’s mayor approached, crossing the newly forged passage with cautious strides. Meeting him halfway was Orley’s Rest’s village head, gripping her walking staff. They paused within an arm’s length, searching each other’s eyes. In that still moment, it felt as though the dream bridge and the wooden one merged into a single reality, an unspoken acceptance that shared humanity surpassed old hatreds. Without ceremony, they clasped hands in the center. A relieved cheer erupted, spreading across the cliffs as families, farmers, tradespeople, and even the local militia realized no calamity befell them for daring to reach out.
News of the bridge’s construction spread throughout the region. In the years that followed, trade and cooperation flourished between Brecham and Orley’s Rest, with schools and guilds exchanging ideas and craftsmanship. Many credited Lady of the Silver Gates’s subtle intervention for sparking the dream that dissolved decades of fear. Although few could articulate precisely how it happened, most agreed: when honest eyes finally met in the twilight, each town learned the other was anything but monstrous. The once-fabled gorge transformed into a shared meeting ground, a testament to a divine reminder that suspicion often blinds us more deeply than any physical divide—and that even bitter rivals can find unity under the quiet, guiding glow of a dream.
The Evershifting Sanctuary
In the northern highlands, where roads vanish into swirling mists and illusions prowl under half-lit skies, rumors speak of a fleeting refuge known as the Evershifting Sanctuary. Many who pursue the legend never find a trace of it, returning only with damp cloaks and uneasy dreams. A few, however, claim to have glimpsed its ancient silhouette at dusk, rising like a solemn sentinel amid crumbling cliffs. These fortunate wanderers recall the structure as part majestic shrine, part ruin; a place that seemed caught halfway between what once was and what might yet be.
A traveling bard named Serendis recorded her visit in a battered journal. She wrote of stumbling upon a desolate courtyard of moss-strangled stones just as rain-laden clouds swallowed the last light of day. By her torch’s flicker, she spotted walls that flickered too; one moment intact and pale as moonbeams, the next sagging with age and peppered with gaping holes. Though every sensible instinct cried out for her to flee, something stirred within her chest. She stepped forward, guided by an unmistakable presence of calm, as though the air itself was imbued with Ilythia’s gentle hum. The moment Serendis crossed the threshold, a gust of wind extinguished her torch. She braced for total darkness—yet a faint, silvery glow clung to the corridors, illuminating her path deeper within.
In the main hall, she discovered a group of silent priestesses, their faces veiled by gauzy cloth. They knelt around a central brazier heaped with dream-lotus petals, sending drifting spirals of fragrant smoke into the rafters. Serendis felt her racing heart slow to an even pulse, her nerves soothed as though lulled by invisible lullabies. Though the priestesses spoke not a word, they beckoned her closer. In place of conversation, they communicated through soft gestures and fleeting touches, a simple pat on her shoulder imparted a sense of welcome and profound safety. Exhausted from her travels, she allowed them to guide her to a humble cot in an adjoining chamber, where she sank into a deep, dream-woven sleep.
She awoke at dawn to a sight of eerie transformation. The once-majestic walls now showed cracks, and the floor was littered with fallen stones. Sunlight streamed through jagged apertures in the ceiling, beams dancing off motes of dust that whirled in the breeze. No priestesses knelt at the brazier, and the dream-lotus petals had shriveled to ashy remnants. Dazed, Serendis struggled to reconcile the decaying ruin before her with the tranquil haven she had experienced merely hours ago. It was as though the sanctuary itself existed in two states: one anchored in the serene fabric of Ilythia’s domain, the other bound to the inexorable march of time and neglect.
Even with the structure crumbling around her, Serendis found no fear in her heart, only a renewed sense of purpose. Before leaving, she ventured into a small alcove that had partially collapsed, spotting faint engravings of crescent symbols along the walls. She carefully sketched them into her journal, convinced these runes held secrets that might one day help others reach the sanctuary’s “intact” state. Then, with a final whisper of thanks to Ilythia, she made her departure. To this day, Serendis recounts her tale in taverns and market squares, describing how the Evershifting Sanctuary seemed to slip between two realities—offering solace to the lost in one moment, then succumbing to ruin in the next. Many scoff at her claims, labeling them fables born of delirium, but those with an ear for cosmic mysteries and the silent transitions of the dream realm suspect there is much more truth to her story than skeptics would care to admit.
The Prophetic Thread
Lady Lorienna stood on the high balcony of her ancestral keep, gazing out over the torchlit courtyards below. The autumn air carried a tinge of anxiety, for two neighboring realms had been massing armies on her borders, each claiming rights to her lands. In past months, advisors traveled from distant corners, offering grim oracles about the fate of her small duchy: some preached that victory awaited if she took up the sword; others warned that war would only bring ruin. Conflicted and exhausted, Lorienna found no solace in their conflicting prognostications. Even sleep provided little rest, for her dreams buzzed with fragments of half-formed prophecies.
One twilight, unable to still her racing mind, she lit a single candle at the altar of Ilythia—the dream-goddess whispered of in her region, known to guide mortals through life’s uncertain paths. Bowing her head, Lorienna spoke to the silent chamber. “Give me clarity,” she murmured, “or at least the courage not to fear the future.” Her words echoed against the stone walls, and weariness overcame her. She soon slipped into a deep, strangely peaceful sleep.
Within her dream, she found herself in a boundless expanse of grey haze, as if clouds had pressed close to the earth. A figure in flowing robes emerged; the faint outline of a woman whose every step left subtle ripples in the mist. She held, in her delicate hands, countless threads of light, each winding into a vast, intangible tapestry. Lorienna felt compelled to approach, her heart hammering with both curiosity and dread. When she peered closer, she saw reflections of entire kingdoms woven into the gleaming strands: bustling cities, scorched battlefields, verdant farmland. Some visions shimmered with promise; others radiated heartbreak.
The robed figure turned toward Lorienna, offering a single thread of gold. “Prophecies guide,” the goddess seemed to whisper, “but they do not bind. The future must be chosen, stitched by mortal hands.” As Lorienna touched the luminous thread, she glimpsed two colliding possibilities for her realm. One showed triumphant soldiers marching through conquered towns, yet the landscape lay burnt and desolate, with famine lingering in the wake of war. The other vision revealed a thriving trade center, where caravans from distant lands merged peacefully at her gates; though free of conquest, it demanded patience and deft diplomacy. The images blurred together until only the golden strand remained—a tangible line of hope.
She awoke at dawn with tears in her eyes, the dream’s echoes still resonant within her chest. Despite her councilors’ pressures to mobilize an army, Lorienna called envoys, forging treaties with her rivals rather than unsheathing her forces. Peace talks proceeded slowly, initially met with suspicion, but with persistence, she found allies among her neighbors. Roads once riddled with patrols soon filled with merchant wagons and travelers, bringing wealth and knowledge to her duchy. Over time, the small domain blossomed into a noteworthy center of culture and commerce, sparing it the scourge of war that ravaged other regions.
Even long after her passing, Lorienna’s heirs maintained the tradition of weaving a single golden thread into the family crest, a silent tribute to the goddess who granted their matriarch a vision of two futures—and the grace to choose one that nurtured hope. And though the tales varied depending on the bard, most agreed that in Lorienna’s darkest hour, Ilythia had extended but a gentle hint: a reminder that while prophecy can illuminate the path ahead, it is mortal resolve that shapes each uncertain step along the way.