The Shard and the Dream

The first time Clea Trask set foot in Rivervale, she had no intention of ever returning. It was a city like no other—a place where the river twisted in strange loops, where time seemed to slip and stretch in impossible ways. She’d heard the rumors of the Glass Tower, of course. Everyone had. But it was just a myth, a story told to warn the curious, to keep the unwary from wandering too close.

That was before she had seen the shard.

The night had been thick with fog, the kind that rolled in off the Abyss and clung to the streets like a living thing. The only light came from the towering lampposts, casting long, skeletal shadows against the stone walls of the city. Clea had been following a lead—a job, like any other. A simple heist. It was supposed to be easy. Get in. Get out. Keep her head low and make it to the next town by dawn.

But there was something about Rivervale that made her feel… watched. As if the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for her to do something—anything—that might break its stillness.

The Glass Tower loomed ahead, its shimmering surface reflecting the moonlight like a mirror to another world. Clea had heard stories about the tower, but she didn’t care for myths. She cared about what was real—what she could take, sell, and disappear with. So, when she saw the tiny shard of glass on the stone floor of a crumbling alley, half-buried in dust and shadow, she didn’t hesitate.

It was warm to the touch, almost alive. The moment her fingers brushed it, something inside her stirred—a pull, deep and ancient. Her breath caught in her chest, and she looked up, her eyes scanning the night, but there was nothing there. Only the hum of the city’s quiet breath.

But something had changed.

The dreams started the moment she left Rivervale. At first, they were soft whispers—a flicker of a memory, a face she didn’t recognize. Then, they grew sharper. She saw a woman, pale and gaunt, standing at the edge of a crumbling cliff. She heard the echo of her own voice, calling out to someone—someone who would never answer.

Clea had shaken off the feeling, convinced that it was just the aftereffects of the heist. She’d stolen many things in her life, but this was different. It wasn’t just the glass—it was what the glass had unlocked. It was a door. A door she didn’t know how to close.

That night, she found herself in a strange house, a place she couldn’t remember walking to. The walls were lined with ancient books, and the air smelled like dust and something older. A man stood before her, his face hidden in shadow, his eyes the color of polished stone.

“You shouldn’t have taken it,” he said, his voice low and rumbling, like thunder just before a storm. “The Glass Tower doesn’t give gifts. It demands something in return.”

Clea’s pulse quickened, but she stood her ground. “Who are you?”

“I’m someone who’s been waiting for you,” he replied. “You don’t know it yet, but the tower has chosen you. And now, the future is yours to see—or to ruin.”

She laughed, though it sounded hollow. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

The man’s lips twitched into something like a smile. “None of us do.”

The next morning, Clea awoke with the weight of a thousand memories pressing down on her. She couldn’t remember how she had left the house, or how she had made it to the edge of the city. The only thing she knew was that the dreams were getting stronger. And the face of the woman at the cliff’s edge was becoming clearer.

But there was something more, something darker. A sense of urgency. A feeling that whatever the glass had unlocked was trying to tell her something—something about the future.

And then she saw it: a city in flames. A scream that seemed to echo in her bones, and a hand—her hand—reaching into the fire.

She awoke with a start, heart pounding in her chest. The glass shard was still in her pocket, warmer than it had ever been.

She didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning. The beginning of a path she couldn’t turn back from.

Rivervale was not done with her.