Nightfall.

The house was silent.

Soren lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting.

Tia’s words echoed in his mind.

"Goodnight, Rowan."

Not Soren.

Rowan.

She had known what she was saying. She had looked him in the eye and called him by a name that wasn’t his.

Or rather—a name that should not have been his.

His fingers clenched the bedsheet.

He should ask her. He should demand answers.

But something deep in his chest whispered:

Watch. Wait. Do not let her know.

And so, Soren stayed awake.

He listened.

And then, just past midnight—

The floorboards creaked.

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Soft. Careful.

Tia was leaving her room.

Soren’s breath held in his throat.

He pushed back his blanket, moving silently across the wooden floor. The hallway was dark, the faint glow of the gaslamps outside casting long, eerie shadows against the walls.

At the bottom of the stairs, Tia’s silhouette disappeared into the night.

Soren followed.

The Streets of Luthathel.

The fog was thick tonight, clinging to the air like something alive.

Soren kept his distance, careful to step where the cobblestones wouldn’t betray him. Tia walked with purpose, never once looking back, as if she knew exactly where she was going.

They passed through the narrow alleys of the Scholar’s District, where the air smelled of ink and damp paper. Then into the older parts of Luthathel, where the gaslamps flickered in odd rhythms, casting strange shadows against the brick walls.

Soren’s stomach twisted.

Where was she going?

Why was she going?

And then—she stopped.

Soren ducked behind the corner of a building, breath shallow.

He peeked out carefully.

Tia stood before a door.

A door that should not be there.

The Door That Wasn’t Real.

It was set into the wall between two buildings—a space where there had never been a door before.

It looked old, older than the buildings themselves, the wood warped and dark, its edges blending into the brick like a scar in reality.

There was no handle.

No knocker.

Only a single, faintly glowing sigil carved into the center.

Soren’s pulse pounded.

The same sigil he had seen in the alley.

The one that had whispered to him.

Tia reached out—not hesitating, not questioning.

Her fingers brushed against the sigil.

The door opened.

Not like a normal door.

There was no creak of hinges, no shift of wood.

It simply became open.

Beyond it was nothing but darkness.

And then—Tia stepped inside.

Soren moved without thinking.

He ran forward, reaching for the door—

It slammed shut.

The sigil faded.

The door was gone.

Soren stood there, breath ragged, staring at the blank wall where the door had just been.

His hand trembled as he reached out.

His fingers met solid brick.

The door was never there.

And yet—

Tia was gone.

The Whispering City.

Soren staggered back, chest heaving.

This wasn’t a hallucination. This wasn’t a trick of the light.

His sister had walked through a door that did not exist.

And it had taken her somewhere else.

A chill crawled down his spine.

The city felt different now.

The buildings seemed taller. The gaslamps flickered in unfamiliar rhythms.

And then—

A whisper.

Soft. Distant.

“…Not yet.”

Soren’s breath caught.

He turned sharply—but the street was empty.

The whisper came again.

"You are not ready to see."

The air felt heavier. The night felt deeper.

Soren took a step back, his instincts screaming at him to run.

But his feet would not move.

The whisper came one last time, curling around him like a presence unseen.

"Not yet, Rowan."

His blood ran cold.

And then—everything was silent.