Claire had always been warned that the slipping would come eventually.
Not as punishment.
Not as blessing.
As duty.
The elders spoke of it only in whispers when she was a child sitting cross-legged beneath the cedar lanterns, her hands stained with crushed herbs and crystal dust. They told her that some priestesses were born with a fracture inside their spirit — a thin place where dreams and memory touched. Those chosen could wander too far while sleeping. Sometimes into the echoes of the dead. Sometimes into forgotten histories. Sometimes into lives that were not entirely their own.
And once the dreamscape accepted you, time no longer obeyed mercy.
A single night could become months.
A season could pass in the span of a heartbeat.
Or worse — you could return to find nothing changed at all, while your soul carried the weight of years.
Claire never truly believed it.
Not until now.
Rain pressed softly against her apartment windows as midnight swallowed the city whole.
Sketches from her brother’s unfinished gallery lay scattered across the table — charcoal studies, fractured portraits, pages of debts and business figures tucked beneath half-empty coffee cups. The family studio was struggling again. Another investor had withdrawn. Another argument sat unresolved in the silence between siblings.
The pressure had become unbearable lately.
Everyone expected Claire to hold things together.
To mediate.
To soothe.
To understand.
But she was tired.
So unbearably tired.
She sat at the edge of her bed, rubbing her palms over her eyes while the crystal pendant at her throat glimmered faintly beneath the stormlight. Malion’s crystal. Or perhaps not his alone anymore. Ever since she found it, her dreams had become deeper… stranger.
Memories that were not hers.
A man standing beneath crimson banners.
Burning temples.
Moonlit lakes hidden among mountains.
A voice calling her by another name.
She tried not to think about it as exhaustion finally dragged her beneath sleep.
At first there was only darkness.
Then wind.
Cold mountain wind carrying the scent of cedar smoke, pine resin, wet stone, and distant incense.
Claire opened her eyes sharply.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar — dark timber beams curved like the ribs of some ancient creature. Paper lantern light glowed amber against silk screens embroidered with phoenixes and silver thread.
She inhaled suddenly.
The air itself felt different.
Older.
Not polluted with engines and electricity, but alive with snowmelt and burning oils.
And then the memories struck.
Not hers.
The other woman’s.
Fragments flooded through her mind like water breaking through cracked stone.
She knew this room.
Knew which floorboards creaked near the entrance. Knew which servant snored softly beside the brazier. Knew the prayer routines before dawn. Knew the mountain paths surrounding Cradle Lake — the hidden village nestled high within the northern ranges beyond the eastern kingdoms of the peninsula.
Claire sat upright too quickly.
Around her, nearly a dozen women slept upon woven mats layered carefully across the heated floor. Their dark hair was pinned into intricate updos even in sleep, silver combs and jade hairpins glinting softly beneath the lanternlight. Every woman was modestly clothed in layered robes, their throats and arms concealed beneath soft linen and embroidered silk.
Chastity. Discipline. Reverence.
A different era entirely.
She looked down at herself.
Her body was wrapped in pale cream underrobes fastened with dark indigo cords. Her sleeves were wider than anything modern, stitched carefully with geometric patterns she instinctively recognised as northern caravan designs.
Not Korean.
Older than that.
Blended.
Influences from wandering desert tribes, Silk Road traders, mountain kingdoms, and eastern courts all woven together over centuries of travel and conquest.
A movement beside her stirred.
One of the chamber women rose quietly to kneel before her.
“You woke before the bell again,” the woman whispered.
Claire froze.
The language should have sounded foreign.
Yet somehow… she understood every word.
The servant lowered her gaze respectfully.
“We must prepare you before the caravan arrives, Priestess.”
Priestess.
The word settled heavily into her chest.
Another memory surfaced suddenly —
Not Claire.
The woman whose life she now occupied.
A sacred intermediary attached to the mountain sect near Cradle Lake. Not fully part of the Buddhist temple itself, but deeply tied to it. A keeper of visions. An interpreter of celestial signs. One whose dreams guided political alliances, trade routes, and survival during dangerous years.
The priestesses did not belong to kingdoms.
They belonged to fate.
And fate, apparently, had summoned her here.
Before dawn fully broke, the chamber women began preparing her in silence.
Warm water infused with pine and herbs was poured carefully over her hands.
Her hair was brushed until it fell like black silk down her back before being pinned upward with crescent combs of silver.
Then came the markings.
Claire sat perfectly still as one of the women dipped a fine brush into dark pigment.
Upon her cheek, just beneath the eye, the servant painted the delicate symbol of a quarter moon cradling a star.
Others wore the same mark.
Not identical — each slightly altered.
A caravan sigil.
A protection sign used among northern traders who crossed the dangerous mountain roads from the Silk Routes into the southern peninsula.
She remembered suddenly:
Bandits.
Political spies.
Royal taxes.
Warlords.
Snowstorms.
The caravans needed armed escorts to survive.
And the sect protected certain routes in exchange for knowledge carried from distant kingdoms.
Another servant approached carrying layers of darker garments.
Travel robes.
Heavy desert silks dyed midnight blue and ash grey, stitched with hidden pockets and protective wraps. Veils layered across the lower half of the face, leaving only the eyes visible.
Claire’s pulse quickened.
This priestess travelled with them.
Not merely as spiritual ornament.
As guide.
As watcher.
As something feared.
Outside, through the paper doors, she could already hear movement beginning below the mountain terraces.
Horses.
Chains.
Armour.
Men shouting in distant dialects.
The caravan had arrived.
And somewhere among them — though she did not yet understand how she knew — was Malion.
Not the Malion she remembered.
Not entirely.
But close enough for destiny to recognise him.
