The man lay sweating and shivering on a straw-stuffed mattress in his broken-tiled house deep within the suffocating embrace of the forest, trapped within another restless dream that felt more alive than the days he spent awake. Outside, the mist rolled in like a slow tide through the twisted trunks of gnarled trees, pressing against the cracked windows as if the world itself wanted to watch him.

In this dream, she came again.

A woman, her face familiar yet elusive, appeared, her presence as comforting as the memory of warmth on a winter morning. She reached out, her hand slender but steady, and took his trembling fingers in hers. Her touch was like the whisper of dawn upon frostbitten skin, and with that single connection, she led him along a narrow, fog-drenched mountain path, the air scented with pine and something older, something almost holy.

They climbed in silence, the mist curling around them, muffling the world to a hush. When they reached the summit, the fog drew back like a curtain, revealing a hidden garden carved into the crown of the mountain—a place both mysterious and a quiet paradise. The grass swayed in a soft breeze, silver under the dawn light, and flowers bloomed in colors that seemed too vivid for the waking world.

Above them, sunlight broke through the clouds, pouring down in golden shafts that set the petals aglow, and for a moment, it felt as if the light itself was lifting the burden from their souls. They sat together beneath the quiet shade of an ancient tree whose branches cradled blossoms like lanterns, and though no words were spoken, smiles passed between them, as soft and precious as drifting petals across a still pond.

Time moved gently, ignoring the rush of the world, and for a moment, the man forgot the taste of hunger and the weight of grief pressing into his bones. He forgot the debts, the bruises, the loneliness that filled the corners of his waking hours like a shadow that never left.

And yet, as the breeze carried the scent of the flowers and the warmth of the sun cradled him, a question burned in his chest, one he could not keep buried any longer. He turned to her, desperation and hope colliding in his voice, and asked:

“What is your name?”

The woman smiled, and it was the kind of smile that could heal cracks in a soul. Her lips parted, and she drew in a soft breath to speak, but before the sound of her voice could reach him, the world shattered like glass.

He woke with a gasp, sunlight glaring through the cracks in the crumbling walls of his home. His heart pounded, and for a moment, he could still feel the warmth of her hand in his. It slipped away like smoke between his fingers, leaving him clutching the coarse fabric of his blanket with tears burning behind his eyes.

It was all just a dream.

As he sat on the edge of his bed, the rough boards creaking beneath him, he tried to gather the fragments of what he had seen. The garden, the tree, the woman. Who was she, and why did it feel as if she was calling to him across the veil of dreams?

A sudden knock rattled the rotting wooden door. Before he could stand, the door splintered under the weight of a boot, crashing inward as six men stormed into the room, their faces shadowed by the morning light.

“Time’s up,” one of them growled, stepping forward with the confidence of a predator. “The monarch wants what’s his.”

They were debt collectors, the monarch’s hounds unleashed to sniff out the poor and the broken, the ones too weak to pay for the vices that had destroyed them.

The man said nothing because there was nothing to say. He had nothing left to give them, not even a coin to his name. His debts were a chain around his neck, dragging him further into the mud every day. One of the men grabbed him by the collar, lifting him from the bed like a rag doll, and they beat him until pain became a dull haze and blood dripped from his split lip onto the dirt floor. They left him breathing, but only just, promising to return for the payment he could not give.

Long after they were gone, he lay there, tasting blood and dust, his mind slipping back to the dream. To her. The only light in a world that had grown dark.

He had not always been this way.

Once, he was the son of Brushwood’s most respected blacksmith, a man whose name was known throughout the kingdom for the quality of his blades and the strength of his arms. His father’s forge was alive with the glow of embers, the ringing of the hammer, and the hiss of steel meeting water.

But he was not like his father. His hands trembled when he tried to hold the hammer, and his arms ached under the weight of iron. His heart yearned for gentler things, for flowers blooming in hidden corners, for quiet mornings in the garden. He wanted to be a florist, to bring life into the world instead of shaping tools for taking it away. His father tried to teach him, to mold him into a blacksmith, but when it became clear that the forge was no place for him, his father let him go, telling him to find his own path.

His mother had died in a fire when he was still a boy, and his father’s death came in the same cruel flame, the forge that had fed them turning into his father’s tomb. The guilt of not being able to save him, the screams in the night, the smell of burning wood and flesh—it never left him. It hollowed him out until the bottle became his only escape, and gambling became the only place where he felt the thrill of living.

His debts piled up like stones on his chest, each one heavier than the last, dragging him into a darkness he could not crawl out of. He became a wilted flower in a garden of thorns, each day surviving but never living, each night haunted by dreams of a woman he could never reach.

And yet, in those dreams, he felt alive. She would appear, taking him by the hand, guiding him through impossible places—misty mountains, quiet gardens, and moonlit shores. She was the only comfort he knew, the only light that reminded him he was still human.

But as the dreams continued, he began to wonder if they were more than illusions. Was she real? Was she calling to him? Was there something waiting beyond the veil of sleep, something he was meant to find?

Driven by this question, he found the strength to take a job as a cleaner in the adventurers’ guild. It was dangerous, with monsters often brought back on the boots of returning parties and the constant risk of death hanging in the air, but he worked through the bitter winter, saving every coin he could.

When he had enough, he sought out a wizard in the outskirts of the kingdom, a man whose robes smelled of ash and strange herbs. The wizard studied him, then performed a ritual that made the air shimmer, the smell of ozone crackling around them.

“You are looping within the dream realm,” the wizard said, his voice heavy with things left unspoken. “The woman you see holds your answers. The places you have seen with her in your dreams are real, and there you will find what you seek.”.

For the first time in years, hope stirred within him.

Determined, he prepared to leave Brushwood, aiming for Valkhan, the capital of the neighboring kingdom, where he had seen the garden in his dreams. But as he reached the gates, the monarch’s goons captured him, dragging him to the palace. There, the monarch—a giant of a man with a beard like a storm cloud—glared down at him, demanding repayment.

Before judgment could fall, chaos erupted. Drums of war thundered as Valkhan’s forces marched upon Brushwood, flames lighting the horizon. The monarch, once feared and towering, paled with dread, ordering his troops to defend the crumbling kingdom.

In the chaos, the man was released, his debt forgotten for now, replaced by the screams of war and the clash of steel outside the palace walls.

Seizing the moment, he fled through the back gates, braving swamps infested with creatures whose eyes glowed in the dark. He waded through mud and fought off beasts, driven by a single purpose, by the memory of her hand in his and the promise of her smile.

By some miracle, he survived, emerging from the marshes as the kingdom of Brushwood burned behind him, the smoke rising like a funeral pyre for the life he was leaving behind.

For the first time, he stepped into the world beyond, the chains of his past falling away with every step.

And so, his journey began.