It’s a dream.

It has to be.

It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. But why does it feel so real? Why is this dream clinging to my mind instead of fading away like all the others do?

Dreaming isn’t unusual, I do it often. But usually the dreams blur at the edges, and sometimes I can’t decipher what’s happening in front of me.

This time is different.

I can see everything. The thick evergreens bleeding into a brittle, dying brown, and the twilight that has blanketed the sky. I hear the dark ocean below, waves crashing against the cliff where I stand. The sound is hauntingly beautiful.

This is nothing like where I’m from. This place feels ancient, almost as if I shouldn’t be here. Back home, the world feels smaller, familiar, and predictable. Here, the land stretches wild and unforgiving, the air colder and sharper, as if it’s sizing me up. Even the shadows seem carved from centuries I can’t begin to fathom. I get the feeling it’s been here since long before I arrived . . . and that maybe it doesn’t want me disturbing it.

But it’s just a dream. Right?

So what does it matter?

A cold breeze sweeps over me, and I hug myself on instinct. Can you feel cold in dreams? Is that even possible? I can’t remember ever shivering in my dreams before.

Voices drift on the wind, tugging my attention back over my shoulder. At first, I think I see a house, yet it’s way too large for that. Squinting, I try to make it out through the mist, finally realizing what I’m looking at isn’t a house at all.

It’s a castle.

I’ve never seen a castle in person before, only on television and in books. Where I’m from, houses are just that. Some may be larger than others, but they aren’t on this massive scale.

Dropping my hands to my sides, I move away from the cliff’s edge, shuddering again when I glance down at my bare feet. The earth is freezing cold beneath them, and mud squelches between my toes. It stings and bites into my flesh, but I don’t care because in this dream, I’m drawn to the castle.

As I get closer, I see it more clearly. Even under the darkish sky, it’s breathtaking. It’s old, that much is evident, and cloaked in a fog that shifts as though parting just for me, a secret invitation. Its gothic architecture with its windows carved from the stone itself, filigreed and intricate, glow as if lit from some inner fire. The roof thrusts skyward with spires sharp enough to pierce the clouds, as if it were built for monsters or gods. Every line of it feels deliberate, as though whoever created this place worshipped something powerful and unforgiving. The walls hum with an energy I can’t quite place, a low thrum that settles beneath my skin. Beautiful and imposing, it looks less like a building and more like a warning that it’s meant for beings far greater than me.