The Dream Breaker

POV-Seyra

“To stray from the Dream is to fall into silence. To burn against it is to burn against eternity." — Gray Faith Monastery Scripture

The practice grounds are cold this morning, though sweat prickles my skin beneath my robe. The stones underfoot are dark with dew, each one sharp-edged, pressing against the soles of my shoes as if to remind me of where I stand. A ring of stone marks the circle where the Gifted are taught to master their powers, its boundary drawn and redrawn countless times by scuffed feet and ash. Beyond its edges, the monastery walls rise high and weathered, etched with grooves where centuries of storms have scoured them. Just outside those walls, the statues drift in endless silence.

Through the archways I can see them—each one an exact image of Eidon. Not likenesses, not variations, but perfect copies of the same boy: the same solemn face, the same still frame, the same unreadable calm in his stone-set eyes. Some are cracked, thin glowing lines spidering through their arms or torsos, blue light pulsing faintly within like breath under skin. Others are fractured more deeply—a jaw split, a hand broken, a ribcage missing pieces—yet even those wounds shine, the inner light spilling out like constellations through shattered rock. Most haunting of all are their tears. They trail upward from each boy’s eyes, liquid light forming droplets that rise and hang suspended, as though gravity has forgotten them. Some drift until they vanish into the air, others break apart like mist. The statues wander as though in dreams, heads twitching faintly, their steps neither rushed nor steady, but inevitable. They fill the courtyards and cloisters of our holy place, a living reminder that eternity is not silence—it breathes, it walks, it stares.

I close my eyes, summon my fire. A glow builds in my palms, warmth blooming like a sun beneath my skin. For a heartbeat it holds steady. For that single heartbeat, I think—this time I’ve done it. Then it surges uncontrolled, spilling over my fingers. Flame lashes up my arm in a wild tongue, biting into the fabric of my sleeve. Heat sears. Smoke burns my nose. I gasp and slap at it, smothering it against my side. Too late. The smell of charred cloth fills the air, acrid, accusing.

A sharp tsk cuts through the courtyard. “You must do better, child.”

I flinch, shame burning hotter than the fire. Brother Talven approaches with slow, deliberate steps. His long staff taps the stone with each stride, the sound rhythmic, like a hammer striking faults in rock. His gray robe sways around his ankles, the sigil of the Faith stitched at his chest in pale thread. The design glimmers faintly as if the light inside the statues has caught in it. His face is lined like cracked granite, every crease an old rebuke, his eyes cold as ash left too long in the hearth. “Eidon’s Dream requires precision, not chaos. Flame uncontrolled is sin made manifest. Remember the teaching: all gifts are measured, and we are judged in their keeping.”

My throat tightens as I bow my head. “Yes, Master.”

I whisper inside myself, silent words no one else can hear: Please, just once, let me succeed. Please.

---

At dawn, the monastery gathers in the great stone chamber, vast enough that our voices echo back to us as if from the throats of giants. Hundreds of voices rise in unison, lifting the Hymn of Binding until the very air trembles. The sound reverberates through my chest, shaking my bones. The hymn is written to feel like stone itself is singing, each note heavy, resonant. My voice joins theirs: “Bind us, Dream, in silence. Bind us in stone, unbroken. Carry us from fire into stillness, from weakness into weight.”

The Comatose—the one who is said to live half in the Dream and half in the world—stands unmoving at the altar. His lips shape the words with us, his face slack, eyes milky and vacant. Yet when the hymn fades to a whisper, his voice rolls out, deep and resonant, like something spoken not by lungs but by the stone walls themselves. “Those who waver will shatter. Those who resist will burn. Only in stone is truth eternal.”

His gaze sweeps the congregation. His blind eyes stop on me, just for a breath too long. My stomach twists. My heart races in uneven beats. I keep mouthing the hymn beneath my breath, pretending, while inside I wonder—what if I can’t surrender? What if I don’t want to?

---

After worship, incense clings to my robe as I step outside into the gray morning light. The air smells of smoke and damp stone. My first task is to light the lanterns along the arched walkways. I strike flint against steel, sparks leaping, until flames catch and flicker inside the glass bowls. Each lantern hisses faintly, light pushing back the shadowed corners where the statues drift.

As I move from one to the next, shadows stretch long. One of the Eidons halts. Its head jerks slightly, as if noticing. My spine stiffens. I pretend I don’t see it, forcing my hands steady as I coax another flame into life.

Don’t look at me. Don’t follow. I am nothing. Just a girl. Just smoke and ash. My thoughts beat like a drum inside my skull. If I move quickly, if I keep working, it will forget me. They always forget. They must.

I strike harder, sparks flying wide. I curse under my breath when one burns my knuckle. I suck the sting away and relight the lantern. Behind me, stone footsteps scrape softly. I do not turn. My breath is shallow, my prayer silent. Eidon, Dreamer, let it pass. Let it pass.

---

Later, I scrub elders’ robes at the washhouse. My fingers ache from the cold water, skin reddened and raw, knuckles split where soap bites into them. Stains cling stubbornly—ash rubbed deep, oil darkening the threads. I mutter the set prayers between gritted teeth. Each syllable tastes like chalk. Empty. Hollow.

When I look up, one of the statues drifts past the doorway. It is the same boy, the same face, his jaw fractured so that blue light seeps through. The glow stretches across the wet floor, shimmering on the water’s surface. His eyes—always the same eyes, blank yet not empty—shift, turning toward me. A pair of glowing tears rises from them, floating upward, breaking into smaller droplets as they dissolve in the air.

My chest seizes. My brush slows. My breath catches tight. Why does he look? Why do they always look, as though they see past me, into me? I dip the cloth again, scrubbing harder, as if drowning the thought. It’s only stone. Just stone. That’s what they tell us. They wander without thought, without sight. And yet… My throat closes. And yet I feel him staring. I feel his gaze burning more than fire ever could.

I lower my eyes, focusing on the robe, on the suds clinging to the wool. Still, the weight of that gaze presses down until the statue drifts on, footsteps fading. Only then do I breathe again, long and ragged.

---

By the time I reach the gardens, hours have passed since practice. The sun has risen, pale and distant, like a yellow stone pressed behind glass. Its light struggles through the ever-present glow of Eidon, a faint golden circle pushing against the sky’s soft purple haze. The monastery grounds gleam with both lights mingling, as though the world can’t decide which master to serve.

I kneel in soil black as soot, cool and crumbling between my fingers. My hands bury seeds, tug at weeds, water roots that crack with thirst. Every task feels endless, yet grounding. And still the statues pass among the hedges and stones. Another of the Eidons moves slower than the rest. His hand is raised as though reaching for something just out of reach. Light leaks through the fractures of his arm, veins of blue threading like lifeblood beneath his stone skin. His head tilts, and for a moment he almost looks alive.

A shiver runs down my spine. What are you reaching for? Do you dream, as they say? Do you see something we cannot? My pulse quickens. Or do you only remind us what we are meant to become—half broken, half glowing, bound to silence?

I force my gaze down to the plants. Yet the image of his reaching hand lingers, curling cold around my ribs.

---

At midday, when the sun hovers highest—a yellow spot struggling to shine through the violet haze—we gather again. Its light is like a lone candle in a storm, flickering, swallowed by Eidon’s glow. We sing the Song of Rising. Its melody is soft, sweet as a lullaby. The words, though, are sharp as blades: “Rise to the sky, rise to the Dream. Rise and be silent, rise and be stone. Rise with Eidon, forever bound.” The tune cradles; the vow cuts.

My voice falters. I stumble over the line. The boy beside me turns, his glare sharp as flint. I swallow, sing louder, pretend strength where only unease lives. Inside, I whisper: Does no one else hear it? The gentleness of the song, the cruelty in its promise?

---

That evening, supper is bread crusts and thin broth served in the long hall. Elders speak of the coming Journey to Sleep, voices thick with pride. “A glory,” one declares, striking the table. “To be eternal.” Another leans forward, eyes bright. “To leave behind flesh and rise as dream.” Their joy is feverish, contagious. Laughter breaks like sparks around the room. I force mine to join, hollow and late. The broth tastes of ashes. My stomach roils. To me, their eternity looks like death.

Evening worship follows. Another hymn, another prayer. My tongue slips, a word wrong. The error is small, but laughter ripples through the row. Brother Talven’s glare pins me, heavy as stone. My cheeks burn. I mumble the rest of the verses half-heartedly, wishing I could sink into the floor.

---

The walk to the dormitory stretches long. Lanterns sway on their hooks, shadows stretching wide. Kaelen falls into step beside me, her gait light, her presence a balm. Her smile carries mischief. “You nearly turned the hymn into a goat’s bray,” she teases, bumping her shoulder into mine. “The look on Brother Talven’s face—he’ll be frowning in his sleep tonight.”

I laugh, soft and reluctant, warmth blooming despite myself. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was,” she insists, her laugh bubbling bright, easy. “But don’t worry. Even your mistakes sound better than half the choir.”

Her joy is infectious. I smile, letting it ease the knot in my chest. Kaelen has that way—light where all else is heavy.

As our footsteps echo down the stone hall, her tone softens. “They say another left the Faith last night. Slipped beyond the walls.” She shakes her head, pity shadowing her face. “Foolish. To abandon the Dream is to abandon hope. I cannot imagine..." Kaelen’s voice drifts softer, almost a whisper now. “I cannot imagine what it feels like to be out there, without the Faith. To walk in the Pale without the Dream guiding you. They say the silence eats at you. That the statues will not leave such ones alone.”

Her eyes flick toward the nearest courtyard, where a cluster of Eidons drifts in eerie rhythm. Their glowing fractures cast faint light over the stone paths. One halts mid-step, head tilting, and I feel its gaze again—the weight of it, heavy as judgment. Kaelen doesn’t seem to notice. She only keeps walking, humming a fragment of the Song of Rising.

I quicken my pace, desperate to match her calm. “Do you believe that?” I ask, voice tight. She glances at me, brows rising. “Believe what?” “That they watch us. That they know.” Kaelen chuckles, shaking her head. “Seyra, you dream too much. They’re only stone. Eidon’s images wandering until the world ends. Nothing more.” Nothing more. The words scrape inside me. I force a smile, but it feels brittle, ready to crack. “Yes. Only stone.”

---

That night, sleep comes poorly. The dormitory is crowded with the hushed breathing of dozens of acolytes, all curled on their narrow mats. The air is thick with incense and sweat. I lie awake, staring at the rafters where shadows sway like restless arms. Every creak of the old wood, every sigh from a dreamer nearby, feels like a warning. My fingers twitch with phantom heat, the memory of flame licking my skin. I clench them tight, willing the fire to stay buried.

A sound stirs me—a faint scraping outside the dormitory wall. Slow. Rhythmic. Stone against stone. My breath freezes. I push myself up, careful not to wake Kaelen at my side. She mumbles in her sleep, turns away. I step lightly, barefoot, toward the shuttered window.

Through the slats I see him—another Eidon, fractured deeply along his cheek, light spilling from the crack like liquid fire. He stands motionless, head angled as though listening. His eyes lift, glowing tears drifting skyward. Then, suddenly, he moves. His face turns, not past the dormitory, not over it—toward me. Directly. My stomach knots. I stagger back from the window, heart hammering.

They do not know. They do not see.

I crawl back to my mat, pull the blanket over my head, and whisper prayers until sleep finally drags me under.