The dream always began the same way.

  Smoke.

  Cold air.

  That sickly gray light just before dawn when the world feels like it’s holding its breath.

  Eric stepped through the ruins of the elven village with the same hollow dread he always did. Homes gutted. The smell of sap and blood. The low crackle of dying flames licking collapsed beams. Bodies in the fields—dozens of them—motionless shapes outlined in the ash.

  He remembered the real day.

  All the heat and the noise and the screaming.

  He remembered fighting.

  But dreams don’t care about accuracy.

  The sky above him burned with the orange glow of the raid, goblins and orcs swarming through the houses with stolen torches, snarling, chittering. The drake warrior—the one who had led the attack from Nathwe’s borderlands—towered over the carnage in full battle stance, curved blade dragging sparks over stone.

  Eric remembered killing him.

  He remembered winning.

  But the dream?

  The dream always rewrote the ending.

  His hands shook as he lifted the construct he’d shaped—once, long ago, the desperate spark of a terrified sixteen-year-old trying to be something he wasn’t. Shadows licked around his arms in the dream, and even they felt wrong. Sluggish. Weak.

  He charged.

  He missed.

  The drake’s blade went straight through where his ribs would’ve been, and the dream-Eric crumpled to his knees. Smoke filled the air, thick and choking.

  He heard footsteps beside him.

  He didn’t want to look.

  He always looked.

  Celeste stood there—except not the Celeste he knew.

  This one’s hair was matted with blood.

  Her eyes empty pits.

  Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, like a broken puppet trying to approximate curiosity.

  “You abandoned us,” she whispered.

  Eric’s breath shattered.

  “Traitor.

  Failure.

  Weakling.”

  He tried to stand. His legs weren’t listening.

  “You left us,” the nightmare-Celeste hissed.

  “You left me.”

  And then she was on him—hurling herself forward with impossible speed, teeth bared, hands outstretched like claws, and—

  Eric woke with a violent jerk, heart racing, body locked on the edge of a scream. His eyes weren’t even open; he’d clenched them shut as soon as consciousness returned, as if refusing to see the last frame of the nightmare made it less real.

  His lungs dragged in sharp, ragged breaths.

  Cold sweat clung to his skin.

  It took a full ten seconds before he could force his muscles to unclench.

  “Okay,” he muttered hoarsely. “Been a while since I had one of those.”

  He exhaled slowly, eyes still shut, grounding himself.

  Floor.

  Carpet fibers.

  Cool air.

  Silence.

  And then—

  A tapping noise.

  Sharp. Rhythmic. Impatient.

  Eric’s eyelids twitched. He lifted his gaze, reluctantly.

  An armored foot tapped against the floorboards.

  His stomach sank.

  He followed the leg up.

  Metal plates. Precise engravings. Mud still clinging to the edges.

  Arms crossed.

  Shoulders squared.

  And the furious, hungover, laser-focused glare of one very angry elf.

  Celeste didn’t even try to hide her contempt.

  “Well,” she said coldly. “The traitor finally wakes. Sunrise is not far off.”

  Eric stared at her, still half in the dream, half in the waking world.

  “…Good morning?” he offered.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  He paused, then—because his mouth hated him—added:

  “If you stand like that any longer, your skin’s gonna turn blue and you’ll need red sneakers to match the quills you’ll grow.”

  A full two seconds of quiet.

  Then her entire face contorted.

  “What does that even mean?”

  Eric grinned.

  Celeste’s fury erupted—not lethal fury, but the “I cannot believe you’re making jokes right now while I’m seconds from committing homicide” type.

  “You—!”

  She took a step closer. “I am ANGRY. I have QUESTIONS. I have SUFFERED. And you dare—”

  “Hey, you asked.”

  “I did NOT ask!”

  “Well, you implied—”

  She raised a fist, and Eric decided that was a good time to get serious.

  Celeste inhaled sharply, visibly restraining herself. The kind of restraint that vibrated with the tension of a hurricane about to hit land.

  “We need to talk,” she said, voice low and dangerous. “And we need to talk now.”

  Eric sobered instantly.

  “…We shouldn’t do it here.”

  “No.” Her tone dropped even further. “We will.”

  “Celeste, this isn’t the time. Or the place. I have work soon and—”

  “I do not care about your labor obligations,” she snapped. “I do not care about this… tiny dwelling. I do not care about your lack of time.”

  She leaned in, eyes burning.

  “You will answer me. Fully. Now.

  Or I begin breaking bones until the answers fall out.”

  Eric blinked.

  “…are we really doing the easy way or the hard way speech?”

  She nodded gravely. “Yes. This is your choice.”

  He sighed.

  “Celeste… have we REALLY strayed so far from where we once stood that you’re using the same tactics we fought against? On a former ally?”

  That hit.

  He saw it land.

  Her jaw tightened.

  Then her expression twisted into something darker—hurt and rage woven together.

  “Friends,” she hissed. “Allies. Those are words with weight. Words you live for. Fight for. And die for.”

  She pointed at him.

  “You die in service TO them. Not run FROM them.

  You bring up friendship that YOU shattered—and try to use it as a shield?

  You really are a traitor to even your own memory.”

  Eric flinched like the word itself was a blade.

  He looked down, swallowing.

  “…I just need to go to work,” he said quietly. “I have to replace the food I made for you last night.”

  Celeste blinked at him.

  Looked around the room.

  Then back at him.

  “Yes,” she said flatly. “I noticed how much trash was in this place. I assumed poverty.”

  “Depression,” Eric chirped. “Not poverty.”

  “Ah.” She crossed her arms again. “I cannot express how little I care.”

  But the edge of her anger… cracked.

  Just a bit.

  “…Fine. When do your duties end?”

  “Four.”

  She stared at him.

  “…Four what?”

  Eric groaned.

  He dragged himself over to the computer.

  “Okay,” he said tiredly. “Time to teach an elf how clocks work.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Ten minutes later, Celeste was captivated.

  Utterly, hopelessly captivated.

  He pulled up digital clocks to explain hours.

  Then analog clocks.

  Then time zones.

  Celeste sat forward, eyes huge, studying the screen like it held the secrets of the universe.

  Mike and Michelle—who had been pretending to sleep on the couch and recliner—shared a wide-eyed look from behind them.

  Mike whispered, “Get used to visiting. Every time she says ‘traitor,’ Eric looks like someone’s giving the metaphorical olive press another twist.”

  Michelle winced. “Does it physically hurt him that much?”

  “Yes. Yes it does.”

  She glared. “And do you HAVE to be so crass about it?”

  Mike shrugged. “We’ve got a magical girl invasion force with dragons, goblins, and God knows what else coming. No forces. No plan. If there was ever a time for crass? It’s now.”

  Michelle hated that he was right.

  Celeste, meanwhile, was staring at the world map as Eric showed time zone divisions.

  And then she found Hooked on Phonics.

  “Teach me this,” she demanded.

  Eric said, his face frozen in dread "Mike buddy....I'm going to need myself an elf-sitter"

  Mike looked like someone told him Christmas was canceled.

  Michelle buried her face in her hands.

  Eventually, Eric and Michelle left for work.

  They talked awkwardly outside.

  Michelle mentioned she had case files, a follow-up with Manny, plus paperwork.

  Eric winced. “Can you… tell him I’m sorry again?”

  Michelle stared at him.

  “Eric, do you REALLY think an apology helps a man whose liquor store you crashed through like a human missile?”

  “…No?”

  “And how am I supposed to explain that I’m delivering your apology?”

  Eric blushed. Hard.

  “…didn’t think that far ahead.”

  “Clearly.”

  ***

  Eric returned with two 30-packs dangling from one hand.

  He unlocked the apartment door.

  It flew open from the inside.

  Mike burst through it like he’d survived a war.

  “ERIC IT’S BAD.”

  Eric almost dropped the beer.

  His heart shot into his throat.

  Harness meltdown?

  Enemy knight?

  Celeste hurt?

  Mana cascade?

  Drake attack?

  Gate rupture?

  “M–Mike—what happened?!”

  Mike grabbed his shirt, shaking him with the desperation of a dying man.

  “She found YouTube.”

  “…okay?”

  “She found the MUSIC SECTION, ERIC.”

  “…oh no.”

  “Yes. Trap. All. Day. Long.”

  Mike’s voice cracked. “Kill me.”

  ***

  By the time Michelle showed up, she’d lived a whole other lifetime of stress:

  A panty thief

  A lost dog (in the owner’s own garage)

  Paperwork hell

  A visit to Manny

  Dalton’s “tell me if it becomes too much to bear alone” face

  Red lights EVERYWHERE

  Existential dread accumulating like debt

  She climbed the stairs to Eric’s apartment with a headache blooming behind her eyes.

  Eric was outside smoking, looking like a man who had surrendered to fate.

  “You made it,” he said, exhaling. “Right on time.”

  Inside the apartment, Mike wailed like a dying animal.

  “…what’s happening?” Michelle whispered.

  “Celeste discovered violins,” Eric said.

  Another wail from inside.

  Michelle sighed. Long and defeated.

  ***

  Light classical music drifted from the computer.

  Celeste sat in a chair backwards, arms draped over the backrest, posture intense and focused.

  Eric and Michelle settled onto the couch.

  Mike dropped into the recliner like he’d aged twenty years.

  Celeste turned down the volume.

  “The device on my chest,” she began, “cannot be drained the way you planned.”

  Eric’s face tightened.

  “The command locks must be released first. Only THEN will the ambient mana be safe to absorb. If you attempt to drain it again…” She tapped the harness. “…it will likely go critical.”

  Eric grimaced.

  “Great,” he muttered. “So we need the keys first.”

  Celeste didn’t respond.

  Instead, she pulled out…

  A world map.

  A printout.

  She spread it on the coffee table.

  Everyone leaned forward.

  She tore the continents apart.

  Literally cut them into chunks with surprisingly precise motions, arranging them on the table until—

  Michelle blinked.

  “…wait. Is that—Pangea?”

  Eric nodded slowly. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

  Celeste pointed at the layout.

  “Our section of my world matches this arrangement here.”

  Eric latched onto one word.

  “…our section?”

  Celeste waved him off. “Later.”

  “And these dots—” she made several marks on the paper “—indicate geographical overlaps between our world and this one. The gates will likely open in these regions.”

  Her finger stopped on one dot in particular.

  Michelle’s stomach dropped.

  Eric leaned in.

  “…State Line?”

  Celeste nodded once. "If that is the name of this location, then yes."

  Mike’s eyes went wide. “Tourists. Oh this is gonna be fun.”

  Eric swallowed.

  Hard.

  “Is that the one opening in a month?”

  Celeste shook her head.

  “No. The month-gate is mine.

  The one I came through.”

  She tapped the paper again.

  “This one opens in a week.”

  Eric choked on his beer.

  Michelle squeaked.

  Mike laughed like a madman.

  Eric stared at Celeste, hyperventilating.

  “What—what are we supposed to DO?”

  Celeste folded her arms with grim certainty.

  “There is only one path forward.”

  She met Eric’s eyes.

  “You must devour every scrap of mana you can.

  From training with me.

  From anything that comes through that gate.

  And then…”

  She pointed at the dot on the map.

  “…from the gate itself.”

  The room went very still after Celeste’s declaration.

  Eric stared at the map.

  Michelle stared at Celeste.

  Mike stared at the beer he’d just opened like it was going to offer spiritual guidance.

  Celeste tapped the table once, decisively.

  “We have one week,” she said. “Seven days until a fully stabilized gate forms in a populated region of your world. When it does, the forces coming through will not be scouts. They will be warriors. Possibly elites. And each one will carry enough mana to strengthen you—if you can defeat them.”

  Eric rubbed his face with both hands.

  “So no pressure.”

  “Immense pressure,” Celeste corrected.

  Mike took a long drink.

  Michelle pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Let’s… slow down. Celeste, you’re saying a second gate opens in a week. Why? What determines that timing?”

  “My people and the energies of your world are aligning,” Celeste replied. “Each cycle of a gate’s pulse grows faster as the passage stabilizes. Because Oryx disrupted and collapsed a gate during the confrontation, the expedition forces are likely to have noticed—shifting timelines.”

  Eric froze mid-breath.

  “So… I made it worse.”

  Celeste made a noncommittal gesture. “You accelerated the inevitable.”

  “That’s worse, Celeste.”

  She shrugged. “Then yes.”

  Eric groaned and collapsed backward onto the couch.

  Michelle’s expression softened. “…Eric. We’ll figure this out.”

  He didn’t answer.

  He wasn’t capable of answering.

  Not with the phantom memory of Celeste’s nightmare-voice still echoing in his skull.

  Not with the reality of a gate opening in a WEEK.

  Not with the weight of what he had to become again.

  Celeste’s voice cut through the silence.

  “What I said earlier stands. You must grow stronger. Quickly.”

  “Right,” Eric said numbly. “Cool. Awesome. Just power up, right? Maybe eat some spinach. Listen to a montage song.”

  Mike brightened. “OOH, we could make a training playlist. Eye of the Tiger, some Sabaton—”

  “Mike.”

  “What?”

  “Please stop.”

  Celeste ignored them both and leaned forward over the table.

  “The lock on my harness,” she said, tapping the device strapped to her. “That must be undone before any draining can occur. We do not know what will happen when it is unlocked. It could trigger a release. A warning signal. Or an explosion.”

  “Explosion?” Eric repeated, voice cracking.

  She tilted her head. “Yes.”

  “…and you waited until NOW to tell me?”

  “I was angry earlier,” Celeste said plainly.

  Eric threw his hands in the air. “I hate that that makes sense.”

  Michelle pulled her chair closer.

  “Okay,” she said, taking control. “Before we start talking about explosions and training arcs—what do we know about this coming gate? Location? Threat level? How many people might be hurt?”

  Celeste spread the cut-up continents again, tapping the circled area.

  “State Line. A convergence zone. Your world’s leylines cross here—weak leylines, but sufficient. It will draw beasts and beings sensitive to mana. And your kind will be… present.”

  “You mean tourists,” Mike said.

  Celeste blinked. “I do not know that word.”

  “People,” Michelle explained. “Lots of them.”

  Celeste absorbed that silently.

  Then her jaw tightened. “Then we MUST intervene. Immediately.”

  Eric swallowed. “…We can’t exactly show up at State Line with swords and a wizard elf and yell ‘EVERYBODY GET OUT.’”

  “Why not?” Celeste asked, genuinely confused.

  “Because this isn’t Nytheris!” Eric snapped. “People here don’t believe in magic. Or gates. Or dragons. Or YOU.”

  Celeste stared at him.

  “Then they will die believing foolish things.”

  The room went cold.

  Michelle opened her mouth—and closed it.

  Eric sat forward, voice low.

  “Celeste… we have to do this right. No panic. No mass hysteria. No cops shooting at us. No government deciding you’re a threat and putting a bullet in your head.”

  Celeste frowned. “They would attempt that?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Mike chimed in. “There’d be at least one sniper. Minimum.”

  “Wonderful,” she muttered.

  Celeste thought for a long moment.

  Finally, she said: “Very well. Then we approach quietly. Train Oryx. Prepare. And when the gate opens… we strike instantly. Remove all threats before your people can see what we’re doing.”

  Eric blinked at her.

  “That’s… actually not a bad plan.”

  “Of course it is not,” Celeste said with a hint of smugness.

  Mike raised his beer. “Team sneaky murder!”

  “MICHAEL,” Michelle barked.

  “Right, right. Team tactical intervention.”

  She glared harder.

  “…Team ‘please God don’t let me die,’” he whispered.

  Celeste stood abruptly.

  “We begin tonight.”

  Eric choked. “Tonight?!”

  “I have seven days to make you functional,” she said. “Barely enough.”

  “Functional?” he sputtered. “Celeste, I haven’t done real training in—"

  “Years. I know.”

  She fixed him with a piercing look.

  “You have grown soft.”

  Mike exhaled sharply. “Oof. Brutal.”

  Eric buried his face in his hands. “Why are you like this.”

  Celeste placed a hand on her harness.

  “Unlocking this is dangerous. Training will be dangerous. Approaching the gate will be dangerous.”

  She met his eyes.

  “But doing nothing is worse. You know this.”

  He did.

  God help him, he did.

  Michelle folded her arms, watching Eric carefully.

  “How does this… training of yours work?”

  Celeste brightened slightly—finally in familiar territory.

  “We begin with conditioning. Reflex strengthening. Mana sensitivity drills. And when Oryx is capable of basic shaping again, we escalate to direct confrontation.”

  Michelle stared. “…You plan on beating the hell out of him.”

  Celeste shrugged. “In so many words: yes.”

  “That’s your plan?!”

  “It is very effective.”

  Mike nodded sagely. “She did train with him originally. It tracks.”

  Michelle rubbed her temples. “I cannot believe this is my life.”

  Eric stood slowly.

  “This is insane,” he said quietly. “All of this. Gates. Harnesses. My powers waking up again. You being here. That other knight god knows where. And now a gate in a week.”

  He looked around the apartment—the broken blinds, the stained carpet, the mess, the stack of beer cans, the weird domestic chaos of magic and microwave dinners.

  “…I’m not ready for this.”

  Celeste’s expression softened. Truly softened.

  She took a step toward him.

  “You were never ready,” she said. “You simply acted anyway.”

  He looked up.

  Their eyes met.

  Something electric passed through the air.

  Michelle looked away, jaw tightening.

  Mike pretended not to notice anything at all.

  Celeste broke the moment first.

  “Training,” she said briskly. “Now.”

  “Like… right now?” Eric asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I just got off work.”

  “I do not care.”

  “I haven’t eaten.”

  “You will survive.”

  “I’m in jeans.”

  Celeste placed both hands on her hips. “ORYX.”

  He groaned. “Fine, fine, okay—Jesus. Training. What’s first?”

  Her eyes lit with dangerous enthusiasm.

  “Outside. Now.”

  They moved to the parking lot behind the complex.

  A cold breeze cut across the pavement.

  The sky was shifting from orange to deep blue, dusk swallowing the horizon.

  Mike stood aside with a beer, acting as referee.

  Michelle leaned against her cruiser, arms folded.

  Eric stretched with the exhaustion of a man who knew this was going to hurt.

  Celeste strode across the lot like it was a battlefield.

  “First,” she said, “show me your shaping.”

  Eric swallowed.

  He held out a hand.

  Focused.

  And—

  A spark.

  A weak flicker of dark energy dancing between his fingers like a tiny nervous flame.

  Michelle blinked. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

  “No,” Celeste said flatly.

  Eric nearly threw the spark at her.

  “I JUST got my power back, okay?!”

  Celeste sighed, dramatic and disappointed.

  “Try again.”

  “I AM TRYING—”

  “Try better.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you do not.”

  They spent the next hour pushing him through:

  Basic shaping

  Gesture control

  Line-drawing

  Focus channeling

  Breath-aligned shaping

  Movement drills

  Every time he got something right, Celeste said nothing.

  Every time he messed up, she smacked him with a stick she'd found.

  After the third smack, Eric yelled:

  “WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT?!”

  Celeste pointed at a nearby bush. “Nature provides.”

  By the end of the hour, Eric was drenched in sweat, panting, and trembling.

  Celeste looked marginally satisfied.

  “Your shaping is poor,” she said. “Your stance worse. But your will is still intact. Barely.”

  Eric flopped to the ground. “I’m dying.”

  “You are not.”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Incorrect.”

  Mike clapped. “Good hustle, boss!”

  Michelle shook her head. “You’re all insane.”

  Celeste ignored them and knelt beside Eric.

  “One more thing,” she said quietly.

  He groaned. “What now.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “…Why.”

  “Do it.”

  He did.

  She placed two fingers on his sternum.

  A faint jolt—like static—shot through him.

  His breath hitched.

  Something inside him stirred—deep, ancient, familiar.