Chapter Text
Had it not been for the wind, Prince Ronan Aldrea would have fallen asleep long ago. The howling gales coming up from the valleys and the tumultuous thoughts he had gone to the ridge to escape were the only things keeping his exhaustion at bay. He had first ventured out into the snow hours ago, where he had been met with the temperamental weather typical of the Adacian mountains, and had lingered silently until the sun fell low in the sky.
The land, scattered with towns and ruins that he couldn't quite see through the fog, was what he had truly gone outside to see. Home felt closer when he was looking in its general direction, but at that moment even the capital, Adacia Proper, could not be seen on the horizon despite its reaching towers and the smoke from the continued Rhydellan assault. No matter how hard he looked, nothing came into focus; he eventually relented, sitting back and drawing lazy patterns in the snow with the tip of his finger. The threat of sleep at that moment seemed even more prominent than that of his impending fate.
As the shrouded sun fell red over the mountains and threw its bloodied touch over the snow, Ronan sighed, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back against the rough bark of an ancient pine. The dying light offered a comforting warmth, a stark contrast to the gales that dislodged snow from the branches above him. He let sleep creep up on him. Without opening his eyes, he knew a storm was coming, there was a certain taste on the wind—
The toe of a boot connected with his own. His head flew up, his eyes wide and alert until they fell on his well-meaning assailant. So much for sleep.
"Don't look so startled," Acaeus said, exhaling heavily as he dropped down to sit beside him, resting his sword across his knees. "It's only me."
"I didn't know you'd be back from patrol before dark." Ronan shook his head, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he rubbed his eyes and yawned. "You could have warned me, you know."
"I thought you heard me coming."
Acaeus stretched out his legs, reaching up a sluggish hand and tugging curls of white hair from his bun. It fell down around armored shoulders, the length a break in the Circle's code of dress that would have been an issue had they not been miles from anyone who was strict enough to care. Ronan looked back out over the sky while his mind remained fixed on the trivial aspects of his companion's demeanor. Even with Acaeus' admittedly careless adherence to the Circle's vows, he still managed to appear regal—even now, five years after they'd met, it still managed to awe him.
Had Ronan commented on the knight's 'regality,' he would have thrown back his head and laughed, undoubtedly following it with the brief line he always recited when Ronan got too close to the tale of his upbringing: "I am the farthest thing from noble, highness."
"How was it out there?" Ronan nodded toward the direction Acaeus had emerged from—there was a trail in the snow that led out into the forest of pine surrounding Solthorne, and judging by Acaeus' haggard appearance, Ronan would guess he had been out since morning.
"Cold," Acaeus muttered. His pale skin was indeed flushed from the biting air. "That's the only thing I miss about Rhydel—the sun actually provided heat."
Ronan snorted, but couldn't deny that Adacia's winters were harsh. He himself had a thick cloak spread over his body to protect him from the chill in the air, while Acaeus had been stubborn enough to leave the keep in only his armor and a scarf.
"Find anything?"
"I landed a deer. I handed it off to Wynne when I returned." Acaeus slumped back against the trunk of the tree and shut his eyes, his words clouded with exhaustion. "Nothing at the Reach, though. You'd think one of these ruins would have something, especially that shitty old monastery, but they're all just piles of stone and paper too ancient to read." His lips curled into a frown. "I hate the Reach. It makes my skin crawl, but I suppose places like that always do."
"There's always next time," Ronan said, hiding his brief flash of disappointment as he'd done so many times before. "Besides, these ruins are all a long shot, and the Reach, if it was truly so intimidating, is perhaps better left undisturbed."
"It would still be nice to have something that could help us." Acaeus opened one eye and gave him a teasing grin. "I prefer you alive, Ronan. If I have to challenge a prophecy to keep you that way, I'd like to know the odds I'm up against."
"I don't think even you could run Fate through with your sword."
Acaeus chuckled. "Watch me."
The sword in question was shifted off his knees and set beside him, a glint of blue visible beneath the hilt. Acaeus yawned, using the heel of his boot to trace patterns in the snow.
"What about you? Any luck?"
Ronan raised an eyebrow. "With?"
"I don't know. Sleeping? Out here, in the infernal winds?"
Shifting so his legs were crossed beneath him, Ronan stifled a smile. "I helped Wynne in the library. Nothing on prophecies yet, but some on the Seven. I came out here to watch the sun set."
"Do you think your gods will help you?"
"No. Maybe." Ronan bit his lip. "One's supposed to kill me. I'm not sure where the other six stand."
"One is indeed supposed to kill you, but another speaks to you in dreams. Maybe there's hope."
"I suppose. But Shivaroth never struck me as the type to go against the pantheon, even for his Herald." He paused. "I can't blame him. In his position, I would keep myself as far from the conflict as I could. Aevar isn't one you want to face as an enemy." His hand came up to touch the brand at his throat almost unconsciously, trailing over the raised, scarred red of the Eye of Aevar. It was a clear claim to his life, a sign to any other who sought to raise a hand against him that this child, this prince, was the prey of another.
Acaeus reached out and pulled his hand from the mark, guiding it down to Ronan's lap before drawing back.
"We don't have to discuss this now."
"It's alright," Ronan murmured. "It doesn't worry me."
Acaeus didn't meet his eyes. "Pretend it's for my benefit, then." Ronan studied him, caught the subtle draw between his brows and the tight set of his jaw. He recognized that look; it was the one the knight adopted before doing something foolish. An expression Ronan saw often.
"Of course." He turned away, tilting his head back to look at the branches above him that seemed to reach toward the sun. Acaeus' hand brushed his own, and wasn't retracted.
Ronan knew somewhere in the back of his mind that their time was running out. If they found no resources here to aid them in their search to abolish the prophecy, they would have to move on, as they had done so many times before. He had no issue with their nomadic existence in the past; he was well used to all it brought forth. He had, however, grown attached to his ancestral hall and its snow-crowned peaks. Unfortunately, his love of Solthorne was a luxury they could not afford to carry with them.
He spared a moment to wonder if Acaeus felt the same. His home was in Rhydel, far away and in the very center of those that Ronan's kingdom considered their enemies. Everything in Adacia was jarringly different; the language was sharper, the cities smaller, the landscape jagged and snow-covered for a good half of the year, while Rhydel received only a fraction of their winter. It had been years since Acaeus had been back, and it was doubtful that he would ever be able to step foot on Rhydel's shores again—his name alone put a bounty on his head, and his house, once noble, had been branded as traitors to the state. He had made his own choice clear when he offered Ronan his blade so many years before.
He exhaled, making a conscious effort to draw his thoughts back. Acaeus glanced at him.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes," Ronan said. "I'm thinking."
Acaeus's lips twitched, and his eyes closed as he smiled. "I figured."
Neither elaborated. They sat in companionable silence until the sun had completed its course, sinking below the distant peaks and leaving the dusk to cover the clouds that hung over them, heavy with snow. Acaeus pushed himself to his feet, the leather armor he wore creaking slightly in the joints, chilled by the lack of movement. The knight took his greatsword from the ground and slung it back over his shoulder. It was too large to belt at his waist.
"You coming?" Acaeus offered his hand and Ronan took it, ignoring the rush in his head as he was pulled to his feet. He fastened the cloak he'd had over his knees back around his shoulders, grateful for the buffer from the wind. Acaeus started walking, Ronan followed. It took him a few moments to realize he didn't know where they were going.
"Coming where?"
"Wynne told me she wanted to see you," Acaeus called back from ahead.
Ronan jogged to catch up, his boots catching in the snow. "Did she say why?"
"Does she ever?"
Miles away, lightning flashed in the clouds above a valley to the east. Ronan's eyes followed it as it arced across the sky, moving in a way less fluid than when Acaeus' magic was guiding it, but with a natural grace all the same. Acaeus followed his gaze.
"The storms have come," he murmured. He shuddered, his magic reacting to the raw power of the skies, even so far away. "I wonder if the villages are holding up against the winds."
"I hope so," Ronan said. "I wish I could see what it was like on the sea."
Acaeus guided him toward the keep, opening the door nearest the stables and ushering him through. Ronan stepped inside, glad to be out of the wind but not entirely certain the stone halls offered much more warmth than the mountains had.
"It's too damn cold." Acaeus slammed the door against the wind and unstrapped his leather chestplate, dropping it in an old chair by the door without bothering to clean the ice and snow from its creases. His voice echoed in the newfound silence. "If the temperature drops any lower I think I'll have to take a ship back to Rhydel."
"And what then? Join the army to get away from the winter?"
"It would be better than freezing to death." The knight flexed his shoulders, smoothing wrinkles from the black shirt he'd been wearing beneath his armor. "I'm not one for Adacia's overdramatic weather."
Acaeus started down the hallway. Ronan followed, glad to be walking in the comfortable glow of the torchlight. Safety was a rare commodity in Adacia, wartime or no—when there was some to find, it was wise to cling to it, even if the source was fleeting. As they walked, the mood shifted, sobering with the approach of night, the mark of one more day fallen without a single thing to show for it.
Ronan's eyes scanned the walls. The stone was uneven, the paintings stained from mold and water, the tapestries faded and moth-bitten. There had been no one to tend Solthorne's grounds in his lifetime, and a keep left without a keeper would always fall to pieces. He had been surprised it was still standing when they'd arrived after fleeing the capital—it was a thing of legend. It looked out of place in the modern day, like something an artist would add to a carefully crafted landscape as an afterthought. He reached out, trailing his fingertips against the stone, letting them catch in the hollows of old carvings.
"Ronan," Acaeus said finally, slowing to a stop. Ronan looked up, glancing down at the door to the library that had just become visible at the end of the hall.
"Are we here?"
"Yes, but I—there's something I need to ask you before you go in."
Ronan's brow furrowed. Acaeus glanced at his shoes, then at Ronan's, before meeting his eyes. His posture lacked all of its usual foolhardy confidence.
"Go ahead," he said slowly. Acaeus steeled himself.
"Have you considered going back to Shivaroth? We're out of options, Solthorne hasn't yielded anything, and the ruins around here have been bare for centuries. If you were to speak to him, see if he could help you—"
"We've been over this," Ronan murmured. "You know what could happen."
A silence fell between them. It was an unspoken rule that Ronan's Dreamwalking was something not to be undertaken without the consent of his Circle, and for Acaeus to propose it at all was alarming enough—as a member of the royal Aldrea line, he was granted the ability to speak to his patron god in his dreams. It was a relationship coveted by priests and demonized by the unfaithful, and it was nothing to be toyed with. Dreamwalking could get him killed. It could melt his mind, take his soul, give Aevar a direct way to find him—and if anything, he knew the god that had given him the brand of death was not someone he wanted to meet.
"Besides, it's been months since we've spoken. He was clear with me last time we saw each other; he doesn't want to put me in danger, and Dreamwalking is the one thing he forbade me from doing."
Acaeus exhaled through his nose, nodded, and averted his eyes before Ronan could even begin to try to read his expression. "You're right," he said. "And I won't force you into it. I only..." he looked down at the door to the library, where Ronan had left Wynne earlier that afternoon. "Oh, ignore me. Wynne's been waiting long enough, and I need to go renew the wards." He flexed his fingers, and Ronan watched a flicker of blue course beneath his skin, the subtle tell of an Asir mage awakening their magic. He knew there was no arguing with Acaeus at that point, and he had reached such an honest point of exhaustion that he wasn't sure he could even begin to push the conversation further. Renewing the wards was a weak excuse—Ronan knew Acaeus' shielding spells were strong enough to last another week before they fell.
When he finally looked up it was to Acaeus' fading footsteps and an empty hallway. He turned, deciding that under the circumstances, with all of the tension in the air, he would rather give Acaeus the space he needed than pursue him.
Solthorne was large, and he was sure Acaeus would find a place to be alone. Perhaps once it had even been grand—its walls spoke of stories long forgotten, and the blemishes and cracks in the defenses surrounding it held tales of sieges fought long before his time. Walking through the halls as he had been doing never failed to instill some sense of history in him. He couldn't help but feel lucky to be part of it.
His arrival at the keep had been unceremonious; he had left the castle in his home city of Adacia Proper nearly one year prior, when flames had claimed his beloved library and turned the seas an ashen gray. The capture of the castle was not unexpected. Adacia's king was ill, her prince doomed to die, and her fleet of once-proud ships forgotten. The Isle of Rhydel, patient and strong across the channel, quickly rose to meet Adacia's fall, laying claim to her land and siege to her cities. Ronan had been dragged from his father's side by the two knights assigned to protect him, his Circle, as he watched his kingdom fall to ruin over the unforgiving sea.
News of his father's death reached him weeks later, accompanied by the realization that his army had been all but decimated. Those that had survived, calling themselves freedom fighters, had fled in hopes that they would be able to return with more troops—though none had ever come. Going back to Adacia Proper was a death sentence, and despite his protests he was forbidden to return to the nation's capital. As Adacia's sole heir, it was imperative that his Circle keep him alive until it was certain that he would be able to take back his throne. That, or his kingdom would be sentenced to a life under Rhydellan rule, and that was not something he would allow.
His Circle had passed on a message to what remained of their hidden forces: "hold out until we negate the prophecy—once the future king is safe, we take back our land."
The home of his ancestors was the only place they had thought to come. Solthorne Keep was unknown to Rhydel, to perhaps anyone but the Aldrea family line and the gods themselves, and any remaining records of its location had burned along with the capital. It had served them well for the seven months they'd spent in its halls. Even after the snows had come and their supplies had dwindled, it had kept them steady.
He turned from the place Acaeus had been standing and instead fixed his gaze on the door to the library, wary of entering but glad to shake his memories from his mind. Thoughts of times past often weighed on him—it was never out of the ordinary, but always enough to make him uneasy. He forced his mind to turn to the future.
There was the fact that they couldn't stay hidden forever, even with Acaeus' wards. There was the inevitable climax of his life, the abrupt fall, and finally the conclusion, set to take place just shy of the full moon, on his twentieth birthday. There was his predicament with Dreamwalking, and the small but ever-present thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be better off leaving Solthorne and setting out on his own. Then, at the very least, he wouldn't have to worry about the pain his death would inflict on those he loved. He would only have to worry about himself, and that would be that—but even that wasn't so simple. Nothing in life ever was. It was all heavy and full of unknowns, things to surface at the wrong times and attempt to drag him down with them.
The library door had become much more daunting. Despite its docile appearance, it now carried an air of doubt, an intense fear he had to work harder to escape the closer he drew to his birthday. He forced himself to walk forward, feet dragging, suddenly wishing Acaeus had stayed and kept taking, even if it was only to complain more about the weather.
The handle was cold on his palm. He turned it, pushed the door inward, so used to the engravings in the wood that they no longer caught his eye.
As the door gave way to the torch-bronzed walls of the keep's ancient library, Ronan felt a bit of the tension leave his shoulders. The ceiling was high and every available shelf was lined with books, some too old and faded to read while others were miraculously preserved. A metal pitcher of water sat on one of the tables nearby, and Ronan saw the chair he had been sitting in earlier, a book resting open before it.
"Wynne?" The room, while obviously occupied, appeared empty. His voice echoed around the chamber, met with silence for a moment and then the scrape of a book being taken from a shelf.
"Finally decided to join me, have you?" Wynne ducked out from behind a bookshelf, a stack of leather-bound books in hand, the skin beside her eyes creased from her smile. Her hair was pulled back in a braid that fell to the small of her back, out of her face so she could work. She set the stack of books down on the table and pushed a small plate of food out of her way.
"I figured it was about time," Ronan said, slipping into one of the seats across from Wynne. "You find anything particularly useful?"
"Just some more spells I'm sure Acaeus would like to learn, but they wouldn't do the rest of us any good without the ability to wield magic. There was one that was interesting, though—it wasn't done using the magic within a mortal, but by tapping into the power of Feihjelm itself."
"The realm of the gods?" Ronan looked up with a piece of bread in his hands that he'd snagged from Wynne's place. "I'm sure the Seven wouldn't be pleased with that."
"Oh, they wouldn't be particularly pleased with the spell's outcome, either," Wynne muttered. "But it's nothing useful, only interesting. I haven't found any answers or new leads." She sighed. "I'm afraid we're running out of options, child. There are only so many more books left on these shelves that we haven't been through, and I'm sure if we keep going like this, the stores will be exhausted within the week. After that, we'll have to leave. Go find some other sources, maybe speak to one of the priests of the Seven or some Shiqataran monk. Maybe an Asir wielder."
The Asir, according to legend, were a tribe of mages descended from the god Calyseus. The term had long since been generalized, coming to refer to any that bore magic in their bloodline. Due to their proficiency with the many Spheres of Magic, they were dangerous, and treated with a cautious respect.
"We have an Asir wielder," Ronan said. "Just talk to Acaeus, I'm sure he'd be glad to have a task that didn't involve him gallivanting around in the snow."
"You know what I mean, Ro. I have no doubt that Acaeus is powerful, we've both seen him fight, but he's got no more answers than we."
Ronan stared down at the table in dismay. It was not rare, this situation—it was more common than not, in fact, for the residents of Solthorne to fall this far into despair. He was most often the victim to this, especially of late, though he did his best to keep it at bay. He put the slice of bread down untouched.
"We'll have to give up at some point, Wynne."
The knight stiffened across from him, every aspect of her person sharpening. It was with a rare hint of anger that she responded.
"We're not giving up. We still have time, and things we haven't tried. I swear by the Three, we'll find a way out of this."
"I'd swear by the Seven, if I were you. Those are the ones out for my head, your gods have never batted an eye at me." He thought back to all the times he'd prayed, all the hours spent on his knees in the citadel, the cold stone floor stiffening his joints. Each and every time, he'd prayed to the Seven, asking them for aid or mercy, but none had ever responded.
None, until he woke up one night in his dreams and spoke to someone claiming to be an immortal. He had been ten at the time, and dismissed it as a nightmare.
He'd turned to the Three after that, to the gods recognized by the people of the islands Rhydel, Kadena, and Lyr. They had given him no guidance and greeted him with a chilling silence, until eventually Ronan was forced to turn back to the stranger, who had introduced himself by the name of a god that had died long ago. This god had fallen in defense of his brother-in-arms, as the stories went, and he sported the scars to show for it. According to the stranger's stories, he was the god in question; he had been revived by a deity that had taken pity on him on one condition: that he begin his life over again as an entirely new being. He was of the first of the gods, but when Ronan first met him he must have been no older than fourteen, a consequence of the death he suffered years prior and the promise he had made to start his life anew.
"My name is Shivaroth," he had said with a gentle smile. "I am the one that weaves your dreams. I have heard your cries, and come to greet you not as a god would a mortal, but I hope as an equal. I wish to help you."
Had Ronan known what he was getting into, that this thing he was doing, conversing with a god in the realm of dreams, was "Dreamwalking," an ancient power passed down from the first queen of Adacia, he might not have answered in the way he had. Had he not been a child, twelve years old and frightened beyond belief, he may have ignored it altogether. Had he known that the "brother-in-arms" Shivaroth had died for so long ago was Aevar, the god that had claimed him for death the moment he was born, he may have spat at his feet and invoked his wrath.
But he hadn't known anything, and he'd flung himself against Shivaroth with a cry of thanks, ignoring his eerie black eyes and inhuman blue skin.
Seven years later, after speaking to Shivaroth time and time again, building up trust and eventually even friendship, he'd finally heard the young god confess that he'd died taking a hit meant for Aevar. His actions had condemned the world, caused it to be thrown out of balance, and as he claimed, it was his fault Aevar had ignored the Divine laws and lost his way.
This claim was well-founded, and Ronan had known it. Aevar was strife, and Shivaroth was serenity—they were the oldest of the gods, and together they were meant to keep a balance. Without Shivaroth around to temper his whims, Aevar had gotten bored, and his boredom was deadly; one without the other meant disaster, and disaster had come in the form of Aevar's brand of death that sat crimson against his throat.
If Ronan had the soul of another, he may have condemned him. He may have cast Shivaroth aside and prayed for his demise. But he hadn't been surprised—it was in Shivaroth's nature to care. He was a martyred god, just as lost and scared as Ronan was no matter how firmly he swore otherwise. The prince had nodded, smiled, said, "I understand."
The night after the god's confession, Shivaroth had taken his hand and begged him not to return, saying he had to keep him from danger. Ronan had obeyed, and Acaeus carved a sigil over his bed that would bind his soul to his body while he slept, successfully ending his Dreamwalking.
He had respected the god's wishes since, but he knew just as well as the rest that they were running out of options.
"You're sure the library's almost through?" His voice held a hollow hint of defeat, and Wynne glanced away, hiding her concern.
"Positive. We've even exhausted the back stores." She sighed. "Now would be a great time for that magic library of yours to spring into existence."
Ronan smiled wryly, remembering all of the times he had begged Wynne to tell him of the myth of the Archive of the Veil as a boy. "Even if the Seven's library was real, I doubt they'd deign to let us in."
Solthorne had been home for over half a year now, and the thought of leaving made Ronan's stomach lurch. Without it, there'd be no more hiding. No more running from the war being fought in the valleys below. They'd be out in the open, right back where they'd started, and for what? For the off chance that something in some remote corner of the island would be enough to save him? They had fifteen days left until his twentieth birthday, the day he was fated to die, and they could do very little with fifteen days.
He ignored his rising dread and forced a cheerful tone. "Where would we go?"
Wynne shrugged, shutting the book in front of her with a grimace and pushing it aside. It was obvious that she was just as reluctant to leave Solthorne as he was, and he didn't blame her. As of that moment, it was one of the last remaining safe havens in Adacia.
"I'm not sure, Highness. Maybe west, toward the ruins of Old Adacia, or south, to the Temple of the Seven. Both paths are dangerous, but one would have to do." She shook her head. "Why do you ask?"
"I'm just trying to figure out if I need to start planning," he said softly. "You know. Figuring out who should rule after me. But as much as I may wish I could, I'm not sure..." He dropped his head into his hands. "I'm not sure I'm ready to give up."
Across the table, he heard Wynne put down her book and pushed her chair back. A moment later he was pulled into her arms, and he welcomed the contact with a stiff exhale bordering dangerously on a sob. He didn't drop his hands from his eyes.
"Then don't," Wynne murmured into his hair, one of her hands rubbing soothing circles into his lower back. She knew what she was doing—she had worked him through many days just like this, with a certain grace he had only ever seen in Wynne's eyes.
He lowered his hands, found them shaking, and reached them around and clutched the back of Wynne's tunic.
"This isn't over yet. I know you think it is, and I know it seems like something that can't be escaped, but it's not. Everything that you're up against, you can overcome. These odds may be difficult, but you can take them without faltering."
"How do you know?" He was being childish. The questions, the tremor in his voice. He didn't care.
"Because, Ronan. Mortals have a bit more unpredictability than the gods like to give us credit for. No matter what they think they have set in stone, you can fight your way out of it." Wynne pulled back and flashed him a daring grin. "And I'll be right by your side when you do."
Ronan released his grip on the knight, so much older than he but still ready to run into battle as soon as he said the word. She was forty-three, and just as willing to pick up her bow and wreak havoc as she had been when they'd met eleven years prior.
Perhaps it was because she'd known him so long. Perhaps she fought not for him after all, but for her wife's safety, the safety of the island. Perhaps she was only upholding her oath to Ronan's parents. Either way, he never questioned it. Wynne loved him like a mother, and he loved her with the same familial warmth. They hadn't been without each other since Ronan had requested her as the head of his personal guard after his mother's death—and he wouldn't have it any other way.
When he looked at Wynne then, at her knowing eyes and light brown skin that sported its fair share of scars, he knew she had changed. They both had. But he still saw in her the same knight that had taken him out to sea the day his mother died, the one who'd sang him to sleep when he was a child and thrown herself in front of uncountable threats, all for him.
"Thank you," he finally whispered. The gods had nothing to do with her staying; he would not thank them for her loyalty. Wynne did everything her own way, by her own hand. "Thank you for being here." The knight gave him a warm smile.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said.
When he pulled back and looked down again, he had the beginnings of a plan. Wynne went back to her food and her books, and he wandered toward the window, looking out into the Keep's courtyard and studying the layer of snow on the ground.
He knew what he had to do, and what it would require of him. There was no telling what outcome his plan would bring, and he had to do it alone. If Zia had been there, perhaps she would have helped him carry out his web of foolishness, but she was in Esadon ruling her own island. She was his last Circle member, but she carried out her business across the sea, returning only in times of great need.
It was understandable. She was a queen, after all, and she was needed elsewhere.
Without her, that left only Wynne and Acaeus, the two other inhabitants of Solthorne Keep. As much as he loved them both, they wouldn't help him with this. Despite Acaeus' queries, he knew the risks, and Ronan already knew Wynne was vehemently against it. But looking out across the jagged Adacian mountains, he was sure that the only way to proceed was along the rough edges of the plan he had begun to form.
It all started with Dreamwalking.