A steady rain fell over the college grounds, tapping softly against the tall arched windows of Magister Justinus’s study. The droplets collected and slid down the glass in slow, stretching lines, making the outside world blur together. The courtyard beyond looked like a smudged painting. Lanterns cast faint halos across puddles where students rushed between buildings with their cloaks pulled tight.
Inside the study, everything was still. Shelves crowded with books reached almost to the ceiling. Every available space held scroll tubes, stacks of parchment, stone tablets, and curious relics sealed in glass boxes. Velthur had always thought the room felt more like a vault than a workspace. The faint scent of ink, wax, and dry parchment clung to everything.
Magister Justinus sat behind his desk with his fingers steepled. The ink stains on his knuckles marked him as someone who wrote constantly and slept rarely. He studied Velthur with a look that was neither warm nor cold. It was a look the magister used often, one that meant he was trying to sort out a puzzle and was not yet sure what to make of it.
“These visions you keep having,” Justinus said after a moment, “are not simply the result of stress or late-night studying. You are beginning to interact with magic in deeper ways than before. Your connection to artifacts in particular is getting stronger. I can see it in how you speak about these dreams.”
Velthur shifted in his seat. He did not know what to do with the excitement that flickered in him whenever Justinus spoke like this. The magister was not one to give empty praise. If anything, he often held back more than he gave.
“Do you think it is dangerous?” Velthur asked.
“It could be,” Justinus answered. “But so could every form of real magic. What matters is whether you learn to guide it. If you study carefully, I believe you will reach a point where you can do more than small spells or light tricks. You might gain actual control.”
Velthur felt a pull in his chest. He had always wanted that. Not for power, but for clarity. Too many things in his life had been uncertain. Magic, at least, felt like something he could understand with enough work.
Justinus reached toward a pile of scrolls on his desk. He selected one that was tied with a band of blue silk. He placed it in front of Velthur.
“This,” he said, “is something I want you to read.”
Velthur took the scroll. The parchment felt smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. “What is it?”
“A translation,” Justinus said. “It is a letter written by a magister from the College of Driax. That college sits across the Great Sea in the southern continent. Their scholars write about subjects that our colleges rarely touch. Especially this one.”
Velthur untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. The handwriting inside was elegant but tight. Each word curled in a precise arc, almost like someone had drawn them with the same care used to etch runes on metal.
“It is about something called the dreamscape,” Velthur read aloud. “What is that?”
Justinus leaned back slightly. “The dreamscape is a realm spoken of in ancient magical theory. Some believe it connects all living minds. They think it exists beside our world in a layer of thought and memory. In that place, dreams can take shape as if they were real. Some scholars claim that events there can influence our world. Others believe our world is the dream and the dreamscape is the true reality.”
He gave a small, half-hearted shrug. “Much of it depends on who you ask.”
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Velthur continued reading, feeling the words pull at him. The letter described drifting landscapes that shifted with emotion, strange beings that lived in half-formed places, and echoes of future events seen as ripples in water.
He stopped at one line.
“Some magi,” he read softly, “feel the dreamscape before they understand it. They see pieces of it in normal sleep, or when touched by powerful artifacts.”
His stomach tightened.
Justinus noticed. “Something in there trouble you?”
Velthur looked up. “In my dreams lately, I have watched things that feel like memories. Or warnings. I see people I know. Sometimes I see danger coming, almost like a shadow of something that has not happened yet.” He paused. “And sometimes I hear voices. Not loud ones. Just… whispers.”
The magister rested his elbows on the desk. “Your visions are becoming more vivid. That is what concerns me. Or interests me. It depends on the day.” He paused, then added, “You are showing signs of something more advanced than what we teach in the basic courses. Most students your age struggle with controlled sparks or color flares. You, on the other hand, talk about dreams that behave like messages.”
Velthur felt a warmth of pride inside him, though it was mixed with unease. “I do not always understand them.”
“No one ever does at first,” Justinus replied. “Even experienced magi tread carefully with the dreamscape. The dryads claim it is woven into the heart of magic. They believe every spell is a thread pulled from that place. They treat it as part memory, part spirit, part history.”
Velthur thought of Nethira. Her dreams were different, shadows of the past that bled into her senses like ghosts trying to speak. She had once told him that magic remembers everything, even when people try to forget. The idea unsettled him now.
Justinus continued, “Some magi think the dreamscape should be avoided. They claim it can twist a person’s thoughts. Others claim it is the purest form of magic we have left. I would like you to learn about it, but I do not want you to wander into dangerous ground without guidance.”
Velthur nodded slowly. “I understand.”
The door to the study creaked open, and Magister Ferya stepped inside. She carried a stack of papers and pushed her glasses up her nose with her wrist. Her robes were marked with ink blotches. She looked tired, but alert.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said. “Justinus, we have the schedule for the winter exams. And Velthur, the composition you submitted last week needs revision. There are several sections where you mix your citations.”
Velthur felt his cheeks warm. “Yes, Magister. I will fix it.”
Ferya gave him a small smile. “Do not worry. Most junior apprentices make the same mistake.”
She crossed the room to hand the schedule to Justinus before leaving just as quietly as she had come. Velthur watched the door close, then looked back to Justinus.
“She is kinder than she lets on,” Velthur said.
“She is,” Justinus agreed. “She also has very sharp opinions about unedited work.” He paused long enough for Velthur to laugh. “Now. As I was saying. After your exams next week, I want you to devote time to studying this translation. It may help you understand what your dreams are trying to show you. Or it may teach you how to block certain visions if you choose.”
Velthur rolled the scroll up again. “I want to learn as much as I can. I want to be ready if something dangerous is coming.”
“You are wise to think that way,” Justinus said. “The world is shifting. You can feel it like pressure in the air. You should not ignore that instinct.”
Velthur stood and adjusted the strap of the satchel at his shoulder. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”
Justinus nodded. “Do your best, Velthur. That is all I ever ask.”
Velthur stepped into the corridor outside. The light in the hallway was dim, softened by rain streaking down the tall windows. Students hurried past with their heads lowered to avoid dripping water from their hoods. The stones beneath Velthur’s feet felt cool.
He touched the scroll inside his satchel. It felt heavier than it should. As if it carried more than ink and parchment. It felt like a weight settled between his ribs.
He walked slowly down the hall, letting the sound of rain follow him. He had the strange feeling that the dreamscape, whatever it truly was, already knew his name.
And somewhere far away, perhaps in mountain passes or forgotten ruins, the threads of magic were beginning to shift.
He wondered if he would be ready when they pulled tight.
