The Seal of Bewitching Slumber : Episode One
It was the golden hour of their age, but those born to foresee the coming darkness were lured by its luster. The first crack in the wall, the first tipping toward the fall, had already begun—here.
PREFACE
I’ll have it known that I despise prefaces, especially in something narrative. I give them an obligatory read, begrudging every word, as I’d rather dive straight into the story. Feel free to do the same here, but I do feel it’s necessary. What you’re about to read is the beginning of what is essentially a glorified first draft—presented chapter by chapter. Every word has been labored over, but it still ultimately represents pages charged with intention—refined intention, but intention nonetheless.
This platform has provided me with a unique opportunity to share my stories in real time with an audience who may grow to love them. There may be chapters removed, adapted, or rewritten in their entirety. You are free to discuss and provide feedback, to give your thoughts on the narrative and its latent commentary. And please know that I am surrounded by talented writers, authors, and academics who are offering me ample criticism as well.
This is a trial by fire—but I’m here for it. I just want to tell my stories. Thank you for reading. — Silas Tibbs
THE SEAL OF BEWITCHING SLUMBER
“This is the discipline which we have kept, and has kept us, for centuries:
We must not dream our own dreams. We must dream only the true dream. We must be careful when entering that dimension. In it we are not without an enemy. If we do not guard our minds, this enemy will consume us. It seeks to test the untested. Beware your dreams, even now. Do not be beguiled.”
- The Edict of the Order of Dreamwalkers.
CHAPTER ONE
Under the shadow of the monolith, the bare feet of twenty children slapped against the cobblestone paths, weaving through the crowded open-air bazaar. The winding markets were unusually dense, heavy with urgency for the coming celebration: the Festival of the Warding.
Patrons rushed from souk to souk, minds consumed with haggling, arms weighed down with produce and wares. Yet, as the children dashed past—unburdened by the worries of their parents—a subtle longing tugged at them. A quiet ache for the days when they, too, could run free through the villa. Often, their minds drifted back to that time. Why should they not be as carefree as children again? After all, it had been a century of peace.
The beautiful tunics of the young children appeared to glide freely through the intricate, vibrant paths cut through the densely crowded agora. The children spun, vaulted, and laughed, moving together like starlings in a multicolored murmuration through the mass—this was their game—everyone ran in beautiful, freeform harmony, save one: Roman Onierie.
Roman struggled to keep up — the only one in sandals, silver and ornate. His toes tripped, pulled, and tattered the bottom of his otherwise pristine garment. He stumbled constantly, lagging just behind, always within arm's reach but never woven into the murmuration.
Even if he could match their pace, he would remain estranged—a gnawing truth that weighted every step. His separation was sewn into the very fabric of his garment, suffocating him. His tunic, spun from spider-silk in royal cobalt, woven from nano-fabric, glimmered with an unnatural sheen. It was too fine, too revealing—a constant reminder of his difference. Baroque silver and diamond-white threads intertwined like constellations, stars bound by spiraling paths. The thread's colors shifted with his mood, betraying him with every flicker, as if his emotions were on display for all to see. He despised it. His clothes were an engineered tattle-tale. Whenever he joined the villa children—which was rare—they turned him into their other game: Guess the Mood.
THEIR garments were simple, solid-colored tunics of graphene fabric, bound by carbon belts—not nearly as sophisticated, and certainly not tattle-tales by design. They didn't wear sandals, but thin foot sheaths crafted merely to protect their little feet from cuts and bruises. They wore clothes meant for children to play in, not gaudy ceremonial threads suited for old monks. Roman almost enjoyed the act of soiling his tunic—at least, as much as the fabric would allowed itself to be soiled.
Rooted beneath their napes, pulsing faintly with life, three small vertical crystalline bars were implanted on all of the villa’s children—bio-trackers, their SOTERIA—faintly ebbing. Some glowed azure, others amber, quartz, or gold, their hues a silent declaration of status or guardian oversight. Roman had none. No glowing crystals. He was an outsider, descended from the monolith. In secret, he tried— a hundred times, he tried—to fashion Soteria of his own. He carved slender stones, painted them with pigment, and affixed them to the back of his garment. But they never stuck. They always dangled and fell.
Hey, dropped these again?” LESTA said with a smirk, graciously handing the stones back to Roman mid-run. Roman said nothing — just took the stones and clenched them tight. Lesta thought the stones were bound to some strange tower ritual. Roman never corrected him. It was easier to pretend.
Embarrassed, Roman nearly tripped as he reached for his shabby painted rocks, but he was grateful that Lesta didn’t seem to mind his clumsiness or difference. He was the only real friend Roman had made during his annual decent from the monolith.
Lesta was opposite to Roman in nearly every respect, accept maybe height and weight, although Roman appeared significantly more slender. Roman's hair was black and braided into short locks neatly bound to one side. Lesta’s hair was red, charmingly unkempt — and he liked it that way.
Roman’s skin was deep brown, burnished with a soft glow, carrying the bitter trace of bergamot — a fragrance he had come to hate. Lesta’s skin, was unnervingly pale, streaked with a tapestry of scars — which he loved to parade — and he smelled of grass, dust, mud, or whatever debris lingered from one of him many tussles.
He was persuasive, brash, and clever — or at least loud enough to convince himself he was. Roman, on the other hand, was cautious, nervous, but very smart — though in a way that held no currency among children. His intelligence, like everything else about him outside the tower, was irrelevant in the villa. And his worldy naivety made him laughably easy to mislead, a fact that Lesta would occasionally pick at for their amusement.
Yet, in all their differences, the two still somehow found friendship in each other. At first, it was Lesta who found Roman fearfully standoffish and pitifully shy, while Roman, distrusting and fearful of other children, kept his distance. But in all his brashness, Lesta was compassionate, and in all his fearfulness, Roman was full of wanderlust.
"Where are we going, anyway?" Roman panted, catching up to Lesta. "If you didn't run so slow, we'd already be there!" Lesta challenged, picking up the pace. Roman tried earnestly to match his stride, but his garment made it nearly impossible. "Can't you just tell me where we're going?" he yelled, in a feeble attempt to slow Lesta down. "It's a secret! Keep up!" Lesta called back, seeming to move even farther ahead.
Soon, they left the clamor of the bazaar behind, gliding even further beyond the boundary of the agora toward the grain-wold pastures of the villa — scattered with what appeared from the high hills to be crystalline stones — hamlets gleaming with the luster cast from the monolith, reflecting the golden light of low sun.
"Roman!" A voice as unyielding as an obsidian sickle cut through the din of the bazaar. Zahar surged forward, his commanding presence parting the crowd, which fell silent in respect of his approach."Roman Onierie!" he called again, his voice heavy with such command that some of the patrons might have been compelled to answer in Roman's stead, if not for the fear of the reprimand they’d clearly inherit.
Zahar was a sovereign—powerful, imposing. His dark, muscular frame cut through the air like a falling scepter. His long, dense locks were bound to one side—like Roman’s, but graced with the length of age. His tunic, woven in white and gold, mirrored Roman’s silhouette but with more refined regality. His arms, though bare, were adorned with gold bands from wrist to shoulder. And the weight of his ornamental greaves announced his arrival before his shadow ever could.
Zahar halted, frustration barely overshadowing his embarrassment—and fear. He felt careless. This could have been avoided if I had left him in the conclave, but I’ve let myself become softened. A wide-eyed shopkeeper, intimidated yet eager to assist a man of the order, stammered, "Master Onierie! Is everything well?" Aware of his appearance and regaining his composure, Zahar replied, "Have you seen my son? I left him at the arena, but I fear he’s not there."
“Ah, well then, let’s find your son.” The shopkeeper activated a flat console behind his booth, and a projection of the lower villa flickered to life. “May I ask? What is his soteria?”
Demeaned by the question, Zahar’s tone sharpened, laced with offense. “The children of the Order have no need of soteria.”
Stung, the shopkeeper’s mood soured. He had never encountered a man of the order before—but the rumors, it seemed, were true. They were severe. Condescending.
“Ah…” replied the shopkeeper, retreating to being more deferential than helpful. He toggled the projection back, pausing it at a moment where a cluster of fast-moving pings passed by the representation of his shop. “I can’t say I’ve seen your son, but I did see a rowdy bunch of children running in this direction.” Zahar traced the path with his gaze. “I apologize for my tone. You have my thanks.”
The shopkeeper, with an air of reluctant forgiveness, nodded. “I understand, Master Dreamer. I have children of my own. I’ll signal their soteria. I’m sure he’s caught up in play with them.”
Zahar offered a contrite bow. "I'll be on my way," he replied humbly. The shopkeeper returned the gesture with a forgiving nod, but as Zahar departed, he quietly resolved never again to speak to a man of the order—unless it would be disrespectful not to.
The monolith stood immense, wrapped in clouds of white, orange, and coral. Its three interconnected mega-structures loomed like gods over the sprawling villa, encircled by golden plains of wheat and encompased by endless, unbroken forest. They called the towers the Towers of Nyx—masterworks of arcology, inhabited by hundreds of thousands within their colossal frames. Interwoven in a lattice of meta-glass, nano-steel, and graphene, the towers dominated the vista like sacred, monolithic temples. It was a magnum opus of aesthetic and functional symbiosis—spires, floating platforms, and arching, sweeping, serpentine bridges fused the three towers into a singular silhouette, set ablaze against the colors of the escaping day.
This vision—the Archology of Nyx, the Glen of Wheatfell (the villa), and the endless surrounding wooden wilds of Lethenwood—was so wondrous that travelers from all the citadels of Aredis and from the greater worlds would come to witness the spectacle and hear the myth of how a dream, in the time of great war and famine, led to this place of refuge and plenty.
But to the children of the Wheatfell, the myth was little more than a bedtime story they could scarcely remember, and the vista was nothing more than their running field—
They marathoned the wide, winding paths leading up the low hills, only to slope back down toward the many clusters of hamlets below. Tall, slender spires dotted the lower pastures, lining the smooth dirt trails.
Guided by the swirling gusts that wrestled with the autumn trees, gathered in remote groves, the children continued to vault—Roman nearly catching up.
They ran beneath a spire; as they did, it rang with a high, pure tone that echoed from tower to tower, filling the crisp, restless air with a mystic harmony — and the crystalline soteria on the children’s backs responded, returning the melody in a counter-melody of its own.
Momentarily entranced, all the children, save Roman, paused.
"What was that?" Roman asks, startled. At first, no one seems to hear him. "Lesta, are you okay?" He approaches his friend, whose eyes are empty, completely void. There is a haunting silence.
A cold, creeping dread slithered up his spine, the once-welcome breeze now felt like sinister whispers in the eerie silence where laughter had once lived. “Lesta…” he began to plead, unnerved. Slowly, Lesta and the other children's eyes flickered back to life, as if charge was being restored to them. "What was that?"
"Roman?" Lesta replied, slowly recognizing his friend before abruptly snapping back, as if nothing had happened. "Oh no, they must be looking for you! C'mon, we're almost there!" With that, all the children began to run.
Roman continued to follow, still very unsettled from what he witnessed. They made their way down the last low hill towards the tree-line of a dense grove. "Are there really no other children in the tower? There's so many people?" Lesta asked.
"I live at the very top, in the enclave. I don't go into the lower levels. And there are children - but they're boring."
"An an-k...an encl- a what?" Lesta almost stumbled while stumbling on that strange word. "You don't use real words." The other children laughed, stopping, out of breathe. "If you're gonna stay at our hideout, rule number one is to only use real words..." Suddenly Roman realized the trouble he was truly in - they're definitely looking for him. "Are you sure you can hide me?”
Lesta saw the fear on his face and felt in himself a flicker of guilt. He had convinced Roman that this gamble was safe, but now didn’t feel so confident. "See there? In the woods?" he said, his voice thick with charm as he pointed to the nearby eastern grove. "There's a place we all go. A secret place. An old house built in the biggest tree. No books! No lessons! Nobody boring! You can stay there! We just have to get there first—they won't find you."
Roman swallowed, his quickly escaping confidence faltering. "But you have to keep up!" Lesta challenged. The children would have run again if it weren’t for a vibrating rumble fast approaching from the other side of the hill.
"Too late," Roman relented. Like a blind gust of wind, a hover-chaise tore past them, banking in front of them at the bottom of the hill, blocking their way to the treeline in the distance. Roman knew his judgment was inevitable. Unwavering, Lesta stood, ratifying his foolhardy resolve. "Just follow my lead."
A section of the vehicle's meta-glass encasement slid open, unfurling a set of steps. One greave at a time, Zahar's foot landed on the dirt. Lesta, standing in front of the rowdy band of children, moved to speak, but one glance from Zahar sent him retreating, leaving Roman standing alone. Zahar stood as tall as a kraken over the children—none of them dared to speak. Roman tried to run—
“Stop!” Zahar’s voice cracked like a whip. The other children’s eyes shifted to Roman, wide with disbelief. “How dare you defy your father? I told you not to leave the Agora.”
“I just wanted to play with them!” Roman shot back, his defiance clear.
Zahar’s jaw clenched. Reining in his anger, he softened his tone. “You were allowed to play. You were not allowed to leave the Agora.”
Lesta, gathering what little bravery he had, stepped forward. “We just wanted to show him the market. He’d never seen it.”
“Is this a market?” Zahar snapped. The last of Lesta’s courage evaporated.
Zahar’s fiery gaze swung back to Roman, who felt the heat of it singeing his skin. A cold anger erupted through his pores. He was almost there—the tree line was so close, the hideout under the shade of the woods in reach, far from the rules of the tower.
"You are a son of the order. Yours is not for the wanderlust of unkept children. There are dangers to us that you don't yet understand," Zahar commanded.
At the word danger Roman felt something in his father that he had never felt before. It wasn't just the intensity of discipline. Zahar's eyes were wide and glaring, but behind them was something far stronger than rage—an almost desperate, crazed fear. The kind of fear felt by one who senses the approach of a wild beast.
And that knowledge incensed Roman, "THEY AREN'T DANGEROUS!"
"Roman, be SILENT."
Zahar's voice cracked the sky with a force Roman had heard only once before—within the halls of Onar, in the councils of the conclave. This was no longer the voice of his father. It was the voice of the head of the Order. This was not merely defiance against a patriarch — It was open rebellion against a sovereign. And the awareness that his father was gone and replaced by a sovereign enraged him even more. And at once, his garment betrayed his anger, cobalt turned to red, like fresh blood soaking through a bandage.
"I don't want to be a son of the order!"
"This is not the time or place for this!"
"I don't want to go back I want to stay with them!"
"ROMAN! Attend me!"
"I WON'T GO!"
Completely beside himself in anger, Roman felt his painted stones nearly fuse together in his clinching fist, and would have launched them it at his father if not for Zahar’s quick hand catching his arm. In that moment, it was not anger that Zahar felt, but sadness—one that never truly left him. He looked down at his son, overcome with hate, and it struck him heart-deep, like a serrated arrowhead—impossible to remove.
"You can leave—after you've finished your duty! Then you never have to see your father again! Until that day, YOU will DO as I command."
Roman's arm still hung in his father’s iron grip, and he knew that the cold spike of anger had betrayed him to shame. His eyes flicked to the helpless Lesta, then to the other children, who refused to meet his gaze. And once more, his garment told the tale—the fiery red drained, leaving only a lifeless black.
Zahar released him, and Roman, obedient, let the stones slip from his fingers before mounting the steps into the hover-chaise. Lesta watched in pity as the stones hit the ground and rolled down the hill — now fully understanding their significance.
Zahar turned to the petrified children. He regretted that they had to witness such an uncouth display—this was not the image the Order should present. His gaze settled on Lesta.
"He won’t be returning to this villa."
From the spires, another tone erupted—neither pleasant nor gentle, but commanding. At once, the children's fear evaporated. Their heads drooped mindlessly, and, witlessly compelled by their soteria, they turned, wandering back in a stupor to rejoin their guardians.
Zahar mounted the chaise, sweeping his palm over the glowing sphere suspended at the center of the craft. The glass encased them, and the magnetic engine hummed to life, lifting them into the air.
Roman couldn’t bear to look at his father. A sinking feeling dragged at him, twisting his stomach. His eyes instead fell towards the shrinking figures of Lesta and the other children. Their movements were slow, vacant, as they wandered back up the path—growing smaller with every passing moment as the craft ascended.
When they were too far below to be seen, Roman refused to turn toward the looming tower casting its shadow on him through the glass. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the distant grove, now no larger than his thumb, letting his mind wander to the treehouse hidden within—imagining, just for a moment, the joy he might have felt had he only made it to the treeline, which now receded further and further away.
Zahar's mind spun with regret—he couldn't bear that his son would not look at him. But his own gaze drifted as well, beyond the treeline of the grove, toward the vastness of the wood. And once again, that creeping terror clawed through his chest, like the hopeless sensation of a monstrous beast catching his scent. Invading thoughts repeated, gnawing relentlessly— What if the evil, watching and waiting in the wood, had seen him? What if the same failure of vigilance that destroyed his mother now destroys him... and the Order itself? Was it all already lost?
His eyes fell back to Roman— garment still a lifeless black. "Forgive me. I spoke in anger. There is much you do not know. I hope, in time, you will understand."
Roman said nothing.
From that moment on, he spoke to his father only when duty demanded it, his words stripped of anything more than obedience.
END CHAPTER ONE
It had been twelve years since that day, and four since the death of Zahar. Today was the day of the Trial of Aspilos - His final test.
One command dominated his thoughts:
"...Do not be beguiled by the Onyx Serpent...”
To be continued…
