Fawena wasn’t around, so Lyselle no longer feared eavesdropping on her telepathic message. She sent her thoughts freely to Shall:

“What *is* that thing?”

But Shall seemed just as clueless.

“I’ve never seen a creature like it.”

After a brief pause, his voice turned hesitant:

“And I can’t sense its presence at all.”

“Huh?”

Though the true nature of the thick fog—or the Matriarch’s Dream—remained unclear, Lyselle knew one thing: in many ways, this dream mirrored reality.

Spells worked here just as they did in the real world.

Shall’s Magic Nullification hadn’t disrupted the dream’s flow, and his razor-sharp instincts still functioned within it.

Yet now he claimed he couldn’t sense the Tall Wraith’s aura?

Was it truly just a phantom, not a living being?

But why?

The previous Matriarch’s Dream, flawed as it was, had followed its own internal logic. Now this new dream held something as bizarre as a Tall Wraith…

Lyselle frowned.

What future did this dream foretell?

Suddenly, Shall tugged at his wand.

Startled from her thoughts, Lyselle felt a flicker of irritation—until she realized he’d never disturb her without cause.

She looked up, voice low:

“What is it?”

But Shall’s expression was frozen in disbelief.

Following his gaze, Lyselle froze too.

Somehow, the Tall Wraith had become two.

Identical in shape, height, even build—as if cast from the same mold.

They stood close together, seemingly conversing.

*Do they even have vocal cords?*

*Fine. Even if they did… what could they possibly discuss?*

Lyselle didn’t care about their conversation. She needed to know how the second one appeared.

“When did that second Tall Wraith show up?” she asked.

Shall’s hand dropped to the hilt of his Holy Sword.

“That’s no Tall Wraith,” he rasped, his voice dry and scalp-crawling. “Those are *Elves*.”

Lyselle stared.

How could he call them Elves? Those things lacked even the Elves’ signature pointed ears.

But understanding struck her instantly.

A true Elf approached.

Mula—the Mula of this dream.

Patrolling the area, he showed no alarm at the sight of the two figures.

Like greeting kin, he waved.

The Tall Wraiths exchanged a startlingly human glance. Then one drifted toward Mula.

—it consumed him.

Like snow brushed from coal, revealing stark black beneath.

Mula vanished.

In his place stood a fresh Tall Wraith, bleached and unstable.

Now there were three.

A chill ran down Lyselle’s spine.

*So that’s it!*

Each Tall Wraith was born from an Elf.

New questions surged:

Where did the first one come from? Why Lundeheim? What was its purpose?

What did its very existence *mean*?

Lyselle had no answers.

Shall drew his Holy Sword, ready to charge out and investigate the brutal way.

Lyselle stopped him.

“Wait. Let’s observe longer… This is just the Matriarch’s Dream. Those ‘Elves’ aren’t real. Don’t rush in.”

Shall hesitated, then nodded, sheathing his blade.

Lyselle watched the three Tall Wraiths.

After a brief exchange, they split up, each heading a different direction.

*They’re hunting more Elves,* she realized. *Creating more of themselves.*

This was deeply wrong.

She decided to follow one.

Catching Shall’s eye, she prepared to move—

—but the moment they stepped out of their wooden hideout, Lundeheim transformed.

Ruined. Desolate. Abandoned for decades.

The once-bustling city lay in rubble.

Weeds choked the streets; wild plants overran homes. No sign of life remained—as if every Elf had fled overnight, leaving the city to decay for years.

*What happened?* Lyselle wondered.

Shall understood first:

“The *third* Matriarch’s Dream!”

Lyselle couldn’t confirm it, but it was the only explanation.

Why had a new dream begun before the last ended?

Was it because they were nearing the Matriarch’s true form?

What did *this* dream foretell?

A city abandoned. Elves scattered, vanished.

*Why would they leave?*

Lyselle’s mind reeled.

Then came the fourth dream:

War. Brutal, bloody war.

They witnessed Lundeheim’s fall. Elves died defending their homes, fighting desperately—but failing.

Their paradise shattered. Elves became vassals, then slaves, then playthings.

Finally, the Elf race vanished from the world.

The fifth dream followed:

No war this time.

Elves destroyed themselves.

No one knew why the civil war began—greed for resources, land disputes, clashing faiths. Suddenly, two factions tore at each other’s throats.

Blood flowed. Fires raged.

When they finally called a truce, it was too late. Weakened by infighting, they were easily conquered.

…

More dreams unfolded. Each seemed to prophesy an ending.

Disasters. Wars. Self-destruction. Stagnation from depleted resources.

Awakenings. Reforms. Conquering worlds. Reaching for the stars.

Lyselle and Shall lived through countless Matriarch’s Dreams.

Some bright, some bleak—different endings, yet one thread remained:

Every dream began *after* the Matriarch’s disappearance.

Compared to the first crude dream, these grew increasingly real.

Early flaws faded. By the end, the dream-world felt indistinguishable from reality.

*The Matriarch’s Dream is evolving.*

The realization dawned on Lyselle after endless cycles.

She finally grasped the fog’s true nature—the essence of the Matriarch’s Dream.

It was a *simulation*.

The Matriarch was simulating Lundeheim’s possible futures *without her*.

The first dream had been too simplistic.

Unpracticed, the Matriarch had crudely erased all traces of herself from Lundeheim—creating a flawed, easily shattered illusion.

She must have learned. In the third dream and all that followed, she never erased herself so bluntly again.

These dreams encompassed every crisis a civilization might face.

Lyselle suddenly thought Fawena’s name for this fog—*Matriarch’s Dream*—was unfitting.

It shouldn’t be called that.

It should be the *Survival Dream*—a series of visions about a civilization’s endurance.

In the final Survival Dream, after countless failures, extinctions, struggles, and restarts, the fledgling civilization called “Elves” finally stumbled away from its cradle.

—it stepped into the vast starlight.

…

The Survival Dream ended.

Lyselle opened her eyes.

She lay on cold, hard ground. Beside her, Shall still slept, trapped in the dream’s aftermath.

A familiar sweet scent hung in the air. Despite being deep within the giant tree, darkness didn’t press in—soft amber light glowed from above and around them.

But Lyselle felt no comfort.

Her fingers tightened around her wand.

She should have realized sooner.

Why the Elves’ teleportation bypassed Shall’s Magic Nullification. Why the fog over Lundeheim wasn’t magical. Why the whole city felt eerily familiar…

Because the Elves’ Matriarch had never belonged to the realm of mysticism.

She belonged to *science*.

No—she wasn’t *just* science anymore.

Lyselle stared at the colossal entity before her, a bitter smile on her lips.

A fusion of science and mysticism. Half cold metal, half vibrant flora.

It floated soundlessly in the amber glow.

Its form was grotesquely twisted, yet not ugly—countless plants sprouted from its crevices, blooming with radiant flowers, lending it an unsettling beauty.

Lyselle didn’t know what it had once been.

But she knew what it was now—

the Elves’ broken mother.

[To Be Continued]