© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

The moon hangs low over Arkanis Academy, veiled in mist like a secret waiting to be spoken. The halls sleep, but Renjun doesn’t. He never does on nights like this.

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You slip past curfew, your boots silent against marble floors. The note in your hand is written in a curling script:

“The Library. Third Floor. Midnight. Come alone. —R.”

It’s not signed, but you know who it is. Everyone knows him—Renjun, the Oracle. The boy who speaks in riddles and disappears like fog. They say he dreams of death. That he knows how you'll die before you do.

You find him between shelves of dust and moonlight, perched atop a ladder like a ghost with books for wings. His white shirt glows faintly in the light. His eyes are closed, yet somehow he senses you.

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” he whispers, not looking down.

“You saw me?”

He finally opens his eyes—honey and dusk—and looks directly at you.

“I dreamed you,” he says, voice soft as snow. “Three nights in a row. Every time, you were bleeding.”

You blink. “That’s... a weird way to say hello.”

A faint smile flickers on his lips. “I never said I was normal.”

You watch him descend the ladder with a grace that feels too fluid for a human. He moves like he belongs to the wind, to the silence between moments.

“I needed to see if you were real,” he murmurs, standing inches away now. “Sometimes the dreams blur. Sometimes the future lies.”

You reach for the book he’s holding—bound in black leather, with a gold sigil pressed into the cover.

“What is this?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he presses the book to your chest, his hand lingering over your heartbeat.

“Your presence changes things,” he says. “My visions have never been wrong. But you... you weren’t supposed to be in them.”

You try to ignore how his voice curls around your spine like smoke.

“What do you want from me?”

Renjun’s gaze drops. “I want to understand. Why you’re in my dreams. Why your blood calls to me like a song I can't forget.”

A silence stretches between you—thick with the weight of unspoken things.

Then, softly, you ask, “Do I die in your dream?”

He closes his eyes again.

“No,” he says, voice fragile. “But I think I die with you.”

Your breath catches.

Before you can speak, he turns, walking into the shadows between the shelves.

“Come,” he calls softly. “There’s more I need to show you. The Sigil... it’s changing. And it began the moment you arrived.”