The Voice That Knows Your Name

The mural on the ceiling was still shifting.

Lucen stared at it, trying to hold on to what he’d just seen — a door, deeper than the last, cracked open in the dark. And something behind it, waiting.

Not with claws.

Not with fangs.

But with a voice.

“Next,” the girl had said.

But this didn’t feel like a trial.

It felt like a warning.

They left the origin chamber in silence. The corridor behind them had quieted, but the air felt thicker now, like the space between thoughts had stretched too far.

Lucen touched his chest, feeling the faint echo of Seren mindal — the spell that helped him remember. But even that memory… shimmered, like it wanted to be forgotten again.

The girl glanced at him.

“You heard it, didn’t you?” she asked.

Lucen nodded. “A voice. It called me by name.”

“Not Lucen,” she said softly.

He met her gaze. “No. Not Lucen.”

They stopped at a balcony overlooking the silver courtyard. But even here, something was wrong.

The tree’s leaves had dulled. The bruised sky above had cracked — thin lines of darkness bleeding through like old paper.

Lucen tried to breathe deep.

But the air didn’t move.

“I keep remembering things I never lived,” he said.

She stayed silent.

He turned toward her. “Visions. A staff. A name I don’t know how to pronounce. And a throne made of silver stone.”

“That wasn’t a vision,” she replied.

Lucen froze.

“That was a warning.”

The sky above groaned.

The cracks widened.

And then — Lucen heard it.

Lucen.

But not in sound.

In thought.

The name rippled through his bones, like a breath spoken directly into the space between heartbeats.

Not Lucen. You know your name. Say it.

He staggered back, clutching his head. The world spun — but only inside him. The girl rushed to his side, grabbing his arm.

“Don’t answer it.”

Lucen gasped. “It’s… inside my mind—”

“It’s not your voice. It’s his.”

Say it. Remember. You wanted to.

“STOP!” Lucen shouted.

But the voice didn’t leave.

It only laughed.

Lucen woke.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. But he was lying in a room he didn’t recognize.

Dark stone walls. Faded tapestries.

No windows.

Just a mirror.

He stood up slowly, approaching the mirror — and stopped.

It didn’t reflect him.

It reflected the throne again.

And someone was sitting on it.

Him.

But older.

His eyes gold. His expression blank. His hands glowing faintly with silver threads — threads that moved like they were alive.

Lucen raised his hand.

So did the reflection.

But not in sync.

The mirrored version smiled — cold and regal.

“You asked who you are,” it said.

Lucen’s mouth went dry.

“You are what the Veil remembers.”

The mirror cracked.

Lucen stepped back as the world shattered again — and suddenly he was standing in the courtyard once more.

The girl was already there, waiting beneath the tree.

“You saw it,” she said.

Lucen nodded, dazed. “Me. But… not me.”

She closed her eyes. “One of the versions the Veil can shape you into — if you let it.”

Lucen looked at his hands. “Why is it showing me this?”

“Because you remembered too early,” she said. “The Veil is trying to balance itself. And he—” she paused, “—he uses imbalance.”

Lucen’s voice was quiet. “The One Who Waits?”

She didn’t nod.

Didn’t need to.

“He’s not just watching anymore,” Lucen said. “He’s speaking.”

She looked away. “Then it’s begun.”

They sat beneath the tree. The silver leaves didn’t move. Not even when Lucen exhaled magic beneath them.

The girl finally spoke.

“Do you know why dreamwalkers were feared?”

Lucen shook his head.

“It wasn’t because they crossed worlds. Or because they could cast spells that others couldn’t. It was because eventually—” she looked him in the eyes, “—they stopped knowing which world was real.”

Lucen felt a chill in his spine.

“And when you forget that…” she said, “he speaks.”

Come.

The voice again.

From nowhere.

From inside.

You're not one of them. Not truly. Not anymore. You were meant for more. You still are.

Lucen closed his eyes, clenching his fists. “What does it want from me?”

Nothing. Just truth. Look at what they’ve hidden.

His mind opened — forcefully.

And he saw it.

Not a memory.

A possibility.

A shattered sky. The girl, lying in the courtyard. The silver tree — dead. The origin chamber — crumbled. His own hands, glowing with power. Gold and silver both.

And before him, kneeling — a shadow.

Not attacking.

Worshipping.

Lucen gasped and staggered backward, nearly falling.

The girl caught him.

“What did he show you?” she asked.

Lucen’s eyes were wide. “A future.”

She stared at him, quiet.

“A version of me,” he whispered. “The one who stops him. But I don’t… look like me anymore.”

She placed a hand over his chest.

“You are not your power.”

Lucen whispered, “But what if I become it?”

She looked away.

And said nothing.

That night, Lucen sat alone at the edge of a bridge that crossed nothing — just a blank void where the Veil hadn’t fully formed.

The stars above pulsed irregularly.

And from the dark…

The voice returned.

You’ve already chosen. You just don’t remember.

Lucen stood.

“Then show me.”

No. You show yourself.

A light flared in the void.

And a path appeared — narrow, shimmering, made of threads of memory.

At its end: a door.

Lucen turned.

The girl stood far behind him.

She didn’t try to stop him.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

He stepped onto the path.

One step.

Then another.

The void pulsed.

The voice whispered again:

Say your name.

Lucen opened his mouth.

The truth burned on his tongue.

But before he could speak it—

The door vanished.

The path shattered.

And Lucen fell again.

He landed in the silver courtyard.

This time, the girl was already waiting.

But she wasn’t alone.

A figure stood beside her — wrapped in mist, faceless.

Lucen took a step forward. “Who—”

The girl raised a hand. “This is your memory.”

Lucen blinked.

The figure stepped forward — and took shape.

His father.

Lucen stumbled. “No. He’s not…”

But he was.

And he looked at Lucen — not as a dream.

But as a truth.

“You were never meant to stay,” he said.

And then vanished.

Lucen stood frozen.

Tears he didn’t remember gathering burned his face.

“I don’t understand.”

The girl stood beside him again.

“That’s the cost of touching the Veil too deeply. It shows you not just what is, but what could’ve been. Or what never was. And it doesn’t tell you which is which.”

Lucen clenched his fists.

“I want to remember everything.”

She didn’t answer.

Because behind her…

A second door appeared.

Black. Silent.

Etched with one word:

"Soon."

______

What if the dreams that haunt you…

are just memories you weren’t allowed to keep?

Lucen heard his name.

Not the one he wears — but the one he left behind.

The Veil doesn’t just show what is.

It shows what might’ve been.

And sometimes, it doesn’t care whether you can bear it.

He walked the path.

He saw the door.

And someone is still waiting.

The One Who Waits… now speaks.