[Age 18]
As the academy's top graduate, Gopph assigned you to the Golden Hour for training. Your talent and poise captivated Penacony—every major newspaper sought interviews.
To reporters, you smiled and said: "I want to create a world where everyone can be happy."
A diplomatic answer. Your truest wish.
The Reverie Hotel
In all his years in Penacony, Anming had rarely visited the true Penacony—this dreamscape of bliss.
Robin sometimes dragged him through the Golden Hour's neon sprawl. Sometimes he'd "borrow" a hovercar for joyrides, only for Sunday to intercept them, scowling.
Here, every moment was gilded.
Anming tilted his head at the artificial moon. Beautiful. False.
True Eden couldn't be built on dreams.
Then—
A figure tumbled toward him, silver hair fanning like snowfall.
Anming steadied her with one arm. "Are you alright?" His gaze caught the Iris Family insignia on her chest.
Pink eyes blinked up at him, dazed, then widened. She scrambled back, bowing repeatedly.
"My deepest apologies!"
No excuses. Just tremulous remorse, her thin frame shaking like a startled fawn.
In this paradise, Anming had never seen anyone so gaunt—dark circles bruising her eyes, collarbones sharp as knife-edges.
"Just a tourist," he soothed, hiding his identity.
The girl peeked at his halo. "Annie. Iris Family attendant. Dreamguide at the Reverie." Another bow. "Forgive my clumsiness."
Her stare held strange weight. He likely doesn't realize—to the Oak Family, a Skyfolk's presence carries meaning.
The future Dreammaster himself was Skyfolk. Here, their kind commanded reverence.
"Anming." He offered his hand.
After hesitation, she shook it—her grip frail.
"How may I assist you, Mr. Anming?" Her trained poise couldn't mask exhaustion.
"You need rest. When did you last sleep?"
"Two days..."
"Then rest. Now."
Annie's fingers pleated her skirt. "Your concern is kind." She curtsied, smiling as she turned away.
The distance between them yawned. She never let me in.
Anming had business in the Dream's Edge. Gopph wanted him to experience dreamweaving firsthand—to understand Penacony's fabric as Order's heir.
Here, logic bent like taffy. Expanding the dreamscape felt less like construction than child's play with blocks.
His power didn't craft dreams so much as overwrite reality—like switching the world to creative mode.
A god's privilege.
Yet limits remained. Currently, he could only recreate small memories—a songbird, a melody.
If this was divine gift, why withhold salvation?
Or was he still too weak to wield it fully?
On his return, a familiar silhouette staggered against a wall.
Annie.
She collapsed just as Anming caught her.
Thirteen hours later
Annie woke to ornate ceilings.
"Fifty-one consecutive work hours," Anming said, offering water. "Suicidal?"
She laughed weakly. "I need the credits."
Life was precious. Life was unaffordable.
The Golden Hour brimmed with happiness Anming had cataloged—yet here lay its shadow.
His eyes held no pity. Only guilt.
Annie studied him. How odd.
"Give me time," he said. No empty consolations. No patronizing handouts.
"You're... strange." She grinned, extending her hand. "Friends? Visit me next time you're here."
Her pink eyes sparkled as she flopped back onto the pillow. "Too soft... never dreamed I'd..."
Sleep took her mid-sentence.
Anming watched the rise and fall of her breath.
Even dreams have pain. Does Eden exist?
What shackles bind you, Annie?