The Dream Breaker

-POV: Irios

“The first lie is that the pillars end. The second lie is that they never did.” — Dreamer’s Catechism

Hunger. A hollow gnawing, sharp and insistent, blooming deep in my chest. At first, I think it is the stone—some fragment left lodged in me, a shard pressing against bone. But no, the ache twists and deepens, and I know it for what it is. Hunger.

The thought terrifies me more than waking did. I am stone. I was stone. Stone does not hunger. And yet… my tongue drags dry against my teeth, my jaw aches as if it remembers chewing, and half-formed memories crowd in at the edges of thought. Bread, warm and torn by firelight. A peach, sun-soft and dripping. Someone laughing—was it me? Was it him? I steady myself on a wall of cracked black stone, its sigils weathered nearly smooth. These ruins rise around me like broken ribs, massive blocks leaning and groaning against one another. Dust and gravel crunch underfoot. My steps are awkward, heavy, as though my body remembers walking but hasn’t quite forgiven me for forgetting how.

The hollow inside sharpens. I press my hand to my chest. “I need… food.” The word feels strange on my tongue, as though I’ve borrowed it from another life. I start searching. My hands pry apart rubble, my fingers curl around tiles, slabs, beams. I am too strong—I break what I touch without meaning to. Stone shatters beneath my grip, but there is nothing inside. Always stone. Only stone. A flicker of light above draws my eyes. The undersides of the pillars glow faintly, as if veins of molten fire run through their carved flanks. The sight stirs me—no, it pulls me. Memory waits there. Something I have to face. Something I lost. My jaw tightens. “Not yet,” I whisper. “Not until this emptiness is filled.”

I stumble onward until I find what looks like a shrine. Inside, brittle wood clings to the shape of a table. Upon it lie shriveled husks—fruit, once. My throat tightens at the sight. My hands shake as I lift one. It crumbles to dust in my grip, filling my nose with the stench of rot. I almost weep.

Then—movement.

A flutter of wings. A bird, pale gray, slips through a broken arch. Its cry echoes, sharp against the stone. I freeze, every nerve burning, every thought silenced by the roar of that hunger. And then I move. I leap, arms outstretched. The bird wheels, flapping hard, but too late. My hand closes around it. Bones snap. Feathers bend. Blood runs hot across my palm. I stare down at the small, broken body. Horror surges up in me—horror and something darker, sharper. My mouth moves without thought, without permission. I bring it to my lips. My jaw opens wide. I swallow half of it in a single bite, feathers, bones, blood. The crunch echoes inside my skull. The taste is copper and salt, hot and vile, life spilling down my throat.

I gag. The world tilts. I stagger back, choking, my hands slick with red. I spit feathers and blood. My stomach twists but will not release what I have done. And then the tears come—hot, blinding. “What am I?” I whisper. My own voice sounds broken, not human. With a cry, I hurl the rest of the bird away. It strikes the wall and falls in a heap of bent feathers and limp wings. I cannot look at it. I cannot bear what I’ve done. I rise, trembling, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. It only smears the red across the stone and into the cracks of my face. My chest heaves. The hunger has dulled, but I feel fouled by it, poisoned. I need water. I need to wash this away.

“Water,” I croak. “I need water.”

I turn from the shrine and begin walking, leaving the ruin and the dead bird behind. My legs feel too heavy, my hands too filthy. I climb a slope, my body lurching with every step, until I crest the rise and see it—down in a hollow, a thin creek winds between the stones. And beyond it, faint and flickering, the glow of firelight. A camp. Small. Fragile. Alive. I stop, staring, the ache in me sharpening into something new. Hope—or fear, I cannot tell which. Then the thought strikes me, sudden and raw: I am naked. My body, carved from stone and flesh, is bare under the pale glow. The firelight would reveal me for what I am. Shame prickles across my skin. And worse—the camp lies in the opposite direction of the pillar’s light, that pull in my chest, that tether of memory. To turn toward the camp is to turn away from the truth waiting above.

I hesitate, frozen between blood and fear, between memory and shame. My breath comes hard and ragged. I want to go to the light. I want to run to it and be done with hunger, with filth, with this human weakness. But I cannot—not like this. Not while I am fouled, naked, trembling. I whisper to the distant glow of the pillar. “Wait for me. I will come. I promise. I just… need time.”

Turning my back on that light burns like betrayal, but I force my legs to move toward the creek instead. I descend the hill, each step careful, as though the land itself resists me. Stones slide underfoot, loose and sharp, and I steady myself against the earth. At the base, I climb another low ridge, keeping the camp always at an angle, always distant. I do not want their firelight on me yet. I do not want their eyes. So I keep my course deliberate, winding down the far side until at last the ground levels out beside the narrow stream. The water is shallow, glinting faintly in the moonlight. I kneel at its edge and plunge my hands in, scrubbing furiously at the feathers and blood caked between my fingers, across my mouth, streaked down my arms. The cold bites at me, sharp and clean, and I lean forward, splashing water over my face, letting it run down my chest.

The blood loosens, fades, carries away in red ribbons that twist downstream until they vanish. I rinse again and again, until the stone feels clean. My reflection stares back at me from the rippling surface—stone, solid yet moving, smooth but rough, eyes hollow with shame and exhaustion. “I will come,” I murmur again, softer this time. “But first… I need help. I need answers.” The campfire flickers faintly through the trees ahead. I rise slowly, dripping, and begin to walk toward it. The closer I draw, the sharper the firelight cuts through the trees. Voices drift on the night air—low, weary, human. The scent of smoke and roasting meat pricks something deep in my chest. My hunger stirs again, muted but waiting.

I slow as I near the clearing. My bare feet whisper across grass and soil. The fire crackles ahead, painting faces in warm gold. I see four of them gathered—travelers, wrapped in cloaks, their weapons propped nearby. Their laughter is thin, tired, but real. I freeze at the edge of the light, shame flooding me anew. My body is naked, carved and scarred in ways I cannot hide. Instinctively I try to cover myself with one hand, shifting, angling, but my movements only make my shame more obvious. The attempt fails. I am too exposed.

One of them looks up. A young woman’s eyes widen, and her laughter dies in her throat. A boy beside her follows her gaze—and his jaw drops. Soon all four are staring, their voices breaking into startled cries. For a moment no one moves. The fire pops. Their eyes are not only on my face, but lower, tracing my bare form with shock—and something else. More than one pair of eyes lingers, not solely in horror but in strange fascination, a hunger different from my own.

I flush, though my blood is stone and fire. My hand falters at my side. I feel laid bare not just to the night but to the weight of their gazes. I lower my head. My voice is rough, broken. “I… mean no harm.”

The words strike them harder than the sight of me had. At once, they snap to attention, hands flying to weapons, shields coming up in a practiced motion. The fire becomes a line of defense, a living barrier of flame between them and me. Steel catches the glow as they draw their blades, their stances sharp, precise, as if drilled a thousand times. Their fear sharpens them, though I can still see it in their eyes—beneath the discipline, beneath the hardened lines of their faces. They are no longer staring at me as a curiosity. Now I am danger.

They stare at me, wide-eyed, their weapons glinting in the firelight. A shield shifts, a spear steadies, and for a long moment the only sound is the snapping of the flames. One of them, a tall boy with a sharp jawline, speaks first. “What do you want?” His voice cracks between suspicion and command. “Where did you come from?” I straighten my shoulders, though the motion feels strange on this stone body of mine. I force the words out slowly, careful not to sound threatening.

“I… don’t know how I got here,” I say, the truth heavy on my tongue. “Only that I woke up a couple hills away, in the ruins of a monument. That is all I remember.” They exchange wary glances. A girl grips her knife tighter, knuckles white. Another lad whispers something I can’t hear. “I don’t want trouble,” I add quickly, lifting my hands. “I only want to know where I am. And perhaps… who I am, if you can help me. Some food, some clothes. And maybe some guidance on where I need to go.” I stop myself before I say more. Before I speak of the light calling me. That secret is mine.

The campfire pops. They whisper to one another now, heads leaning close, voices low but urgent. I catch pieces—“dangerous… stranger… stone”—but nothing whole. At last, their leader nods. The tension bleeds from their stance. Weapons lower, though not fully. One of the boys steps forward—shorter than the others, with careful eyes—and gestures with his chin. “Come on, then,” he says. “Tent’s this way.” I follow, still naked, still trying to cover myself, but at least no longer treated as an enemy.

I follow the boy toward the tents, the firelight fading behind me. He doesn’t speak at first, just glances back to make sure I’m following, his knuckles still white around the haft of his spear. The others remain by the fire, watching, whispering among themselves. I keep my eyes low, feeling the strange weight of their stares still clinging to me.

The boy leads me to a tent lifting the front flap for me as I approach. I duck beneath the flap, the canvas brushing against the stone ridges of my back. Inside, the tent is cramped, lit by the faint orange glow of a lantern that hangs from a hook. I have to hunch forward, my shoulders brushing the supports as I step in.

The boy crouches near a trunk and begins rummaging through it, tossing aside folded shirts, scraps of fabric, and bits of leather. He glances back at me once, then again, eyes flicking down. He pulls out a pair of pants, holds them up, and then—hesitates. His gaze lingers below my waist for a moment too long, then he grimaces and tosses the pair aside. He digs deeper, pulls out a larger set, checks me again, then frowns. Still unsatisfied, he finally finds an even larger pair of trousers and sets them aside. I shift uncomfortably, crossing one leg slightly in front of the other until the boy finally looks away, his ears flushing red. “You’ll need these,” he mutters, voice uneven.

He keeps rummaging, grabbing a shirt and some plain undergarments, stacking them neatly beside the pants. Then he speaks again, cautious but curious. “So… why do you need food? Do you need water too?” I answer as best I can. “Yes. I think I do. I… ate before, but it didn’t feel right. My body rejected it. I don’t fully understand what I am, only that I woke up a couple hills away, in the ruins of a monument. I don’t know how I got here. All I want is to know where I am. Maybe who. And if I could get food, clothes, and some guidance on where I need to go.” The boy frowns, setting the folded clothes aside. “Strangest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, more to himself than to me.

The boy shuffles back, awkwardly twisting on his heels. His eyes flick down to my waist and then away quickly, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. He mutters something under his breath and steps toward the edge of the tent, giving me space. I watch him hesitate a few times, his gaze darting back, before he finally retreats outside, leaving the flap open and a tentative silence behind him. I shift uncomfortably, glancing down at the large pair of trousers and the shirt laid neatly before me. They feel alien in my hands, soft and pliable, unlike the stone that forms my body. I kneel slightly, trying to pull the pants up my legs without snagging them on my rough, rigid joints. My fingers slip against the smooth fabric, and I stumble once, catching myself against the tent's support.

Each motion feels awkward, unbalanced. The shirt stretches over my broad shoulders, the sleeves threatening to tear if I move too quickly. I take a deep breath, steadying my weight, and tug the trousers up slowly, careful not to rip the fabric. Finally dressed, I sit back on my heels, the weight of the clothes strange but grounding. My stone body still hums with unfamiliar sensations—warmth from the fabric, friction against my skin, and a sense of vulnerability I’ve not known before. I flex my fingers, feeling the difference between stone and cloth, and breathe through the small triumph of managing to dress myself without incident.

I sit for a moment, examining the clothes, their softness strange against my rigid stone skin. My eyes fall to the undergarments, and a flush of frustration rises—none of them fit in any meaningful way. I set them aside, disappointed but not defeated. The pants, though far too large in some areas, still leave the outline of what lies beneath painfully obvious. I take a deep breath, grateful at least for the covering the trousers provide, if not for complete modesty.

I shift carefully, my hands grazing the edges of the tent flap. With slow, deliberate movements, I crawl to the entrance, careful not to snag the pants on the support beams or trip over the canvas. I pause at the threshold, taking in the firelight flickering ahead, feeling the heat and the smells of the camp. After a moment, I straighten, my stone frame rigid but alert. I take a measured step forward, then another, moving carefully toward the campfire, each motion deliberate, cautious, and aware of the eyes that may still be on me.I move closer to the fire, the warmth brushing against my stone skin, a stark contrast to the cool night air.

The four people at the camp quiet slightly, their movements cautious as they glance between me and each other. One of them, the boy who had led me to the tent, speaks first. "Are you hungry? Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?" His voice is low, careful, not harsh but measured. I shake my head slowly, my words deliberate. "I… I have no place. I've had food, but not enough. I need rest, somewhere safe."

They exchange short, hushed glances. After a moment, a girl with a worn cloak nods and points toward a tent at the edge of the firelight. "Go there. You can sleep. We’ll check on you in the morning." Grateful and cautious, I nod. I shift toward the tent they indicated, and gently crawl inside, the canvas brushing against my shoulders and back. Once inside, I lay down on the sparse bedding, the ground beneath me soft but uneven. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth from the campfire outside filter through the thin walls, and allow myself the uneasy comfort of rest, if only for a little while.