The Dream That Spoke First

The door was gone. But the word remained. *Soon.* Lucen couldn’t shake it — the way it hadn’t been carved *on* the door, but *into* him. It pulsed in the hollow of his chest, like an echo too deep to voice. The courtyard around him had returned to quiet. Almost. The girl stood beside him, arms folded, silver hair still. Even her breath had gone silent. “The Veil is choosing now,” she said. Lucen blinked. “Choosing what?” She turned her gaze upward. “Whether to let you remember… or forget.” Lucen swallowed. “And if it lets me remember?” She met his eyes. “You won’t be Lucen anymore.” The words struck harder than they should have. But he didn’t flinch. “I’m already changing.” “Yes,” she said quietly. “But you haven’t fallen yet.” They began walking, the courtyard’s fractured path stretching beneath them like threads of moonlight. Somewhere distant, the sky cracked again — faint, like a whisper of thunder. Lucen asked, “Why does he want me to say my name?” “Because names are doors,” she replied. “Spoken right, they unlock the self.” He stopped. “So if I say it—” “You won’t just remember,” she said. “You’ll become it.” A pause. “Whatever *it* is.” Lucen exhaled. His breath fogged — though the air wasn’t cold. They reached a bridge of broken stone. Beneath it, nothing. Not even shadow. He stepped onto it anyway. She followed. “Have you ever said your true name?” he asked her. “No,” she said. “And I never will.” “Why?” She glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Because I want to stay *me*.” Lucen didn’t ask what that meant. Because he already understood. The bridge curved upward into what looked like a mirror — but not glass. Water. Still, suspended midair, waiting. Lucen peered into it — and saw a thousand reflections. Some of him. Some not. Some… in between. One smiled back with hollow eyes. Another wept with blood on his hands. A third — cloaked in gold — sat atop the silver throne with the sky burning behind him. Lucen reached toward the mirror. The girl grabbed his arm. “Careful,” she warned. “Reflections are *invitations* here.” Lucen stared. “To what?” “To trade.” He pulled his hand back. But one of the reflections didn’t vanish. It lingered. Watching. “I remember this place,” Lucen whispered. She nodded. “We passed through it your first night here. You just didn’t notice.” He turned to her. “Why am I seeing it now?” “Because you’re closer to the center now,” she said. “Where the Veil grows thin.” They stepped forward — through the water-like mirror — and entered a new space. A library. But not of books. Scrolls hung midair. Memories frozen in strands of light. Shelves spiraled infinitely upward, vanishing into starlit mist. Lucen whispered, “What is this?” “The Archive,” the girl said. “Every dream ever remembered. Every truth forgotten.” He reached toward one of the floating scrolls. It flickered — then snapped into him. Lucen gasped. He saw— A child running through ash, barefoot, calling out for someone already gone. A name screamed in the wind: *Veren.* Lucen staggered. “That… was me.” “Or could have been,” she said. “The Archive doesn’t differentiate.” He turned to her. “Then what’s real?” “Only what you claim,” she said. Lucen touched his temple. The name still echoed. *Veren.* Not a spell. A truth. He stared into the shelves. Thousands of memories hovered, beckoning. Lives unlived. Choices unmade. And then — one scroll flared gold. It pulled toward him like a magnet drawn to blood. The girl stepped back. “Don’t—” But it touched his hand. And Lucen fell again.  He stood in a garden. Not the Veil. Not Earth. A place in between. The sky was made of glass. The trees sang without words. A silver staff lay at his feet. He bent down and picked it up. It felt like coming home. A figure stood before him — robed, faceless. And yet, familiar. Lucen whispered, “Who are you?” The figure spoke without sound. **You are remembering too fast.** “Then help me understand.” **You asked to know who you were. That cannot be undone.** “Tell me my name.” The figure pointed behind Lucen. A doorway. Not black. Not cracked. This one pulsed with light — soft, like morning. Lucen turned back — but the figure was gone. He looked at the staff in his hands. It hummed with memory. Then — the light twisted. And the doorway turned to ash. Lucen shouted. “NO!” A voice — not the same as before — echoed from nowhere: **Truth doesn’t wait. It watches. And when you're ready… it takes.**  Lucen woke again. This time, beneath the silver tree. The girl sat across from him, her knees pulled to her chest. He whispered, “I saw a staff.” “I know,” she said. “You brought part of it back.” Lucen looked down. Silver threads wrapped his fingers. Not visible. But *there*. He felt them like phantom limbs — not heavy, but *true*. “Will it keep growing?” he asked. She didn’t answer. Instead, she asked: “Do you still want to remember?” He thought of the library. The staff. The door of light. His father’s voice. The name *Veren.* And the One Who Waits. He nodded. “More than ever.” She closed her eyes. “Then we don’t have much time.” He stared at her. “Why?” She looked up. And pointed. Lucen turned. And froze. In the courtyard stood *another him*. This one younger. Not in years. In soul. He looked confused. Afraid. Half-faded. Lucen whispered, “Is that… me?” She nodded. “A version of you that never crossed. A dream that never answered.” Lucen stepped forward — and the other version flinched. “You can’t reach him,” the girl warned. “He’s fading.” Lucen’s throat tightened. “I remember him. I remember being him.” “And soon,” she said, “you won’t.” The version of Lucen stared one last time. Then vanished. No sound. Just light. Lucen looked down. His hands were glowing. Not bright. But steady. Silver and gold — thin as thread — curled around his veins. He clenched his fists. “I think I know what I have to do.” She stood. “The door?” Lucen shook his head. “The *truth.*”  That night, the stars pulsed like veins above the courtyard. Lucen stood in the center, alone. He didn’t speak a spell. Didn’t draw a glyph. He simply closed his eyes. And whispered: “Veren.” The name curled in the air like smoke. The ground responded — pulsing beneath his feet. The Veil didn’t scream. It sighed. And in the distance… The black door appeared again. But this time, it was open. Only a crack. And from within — A whisper. **Now you're ready.** Lucen didn’t move. Not yet. Because behind the door, something waited. Not a monster. Not a throne. But a memory. One he had buried too deep to name.  

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 This chapter is where memory begins to overtake identity. Lucen’s journey into the Archive and his encounter with past versions of himself — not as dreams, but as possibilities — reflects the core theme of *Dreambound*: that identity isn’t found, it’s *chosen*. The name *Veren* has now entered the narrative — not fully explained, but deeply felt. The slow uncovering of his true name isn’t just about remembering who he was. It’s about understanding who he *must become* to stop the One Who Waits… and to survive what the Veil demands. This chapter is also a turning point in tone. From here on, things will accelerate — both in revelations and in the collapse of what Lucen once called “reality.” Hold on. — *By Anurag*