Lyam's breath hitched as the ground crumbled beneath him, sending him tumbling into a void so deep, so endless. There was no sound, no light—only the sensation of falling, forever falling into the darkness. His heart pounded, fear wrapping itself around his chest like a vise. But there was something else too—something familiar about his freefall. It wasn't his first time plunging into this abyss.

Just before he thought he would be swallowed whole by the dark, inky abyss, a flash of light erupted in his mind. He blinked, and suddenly, he was standing again—solid ground beneath his feet. The world around him was hazy and fragmented, as if he was peering through frosted glass. Around him, the world pulsed with energy. He was in a place that felt ancient and alive, a place where the air hummed with invisible currents of power.

The sky was vast, endlessly stretching above, the clouds swirling in intricate patterns that seemed to mirror the chaos in his mind. In the distance, great mountain peaks rose like jagged spines of a slumbering beast, surrounding a sprawling city of glittering towers and winding bridges. It was beautiful, in a way that made his chest tighten.

Lyam knew this place. He had stood here before, but not as he was now. Figures moved swiftly through the city below him, gliding on air currents of power, swords flashing in the light. Warriors—Shatterborn—but different. They seemed weightless, their movements fluid and deliberate, as though they had bent the laws of reality to their will. In his mind, he knew what they were doing, though the details slipped through his grasp like sand through his fingers. They were controlling something—power, energy, strength. Whatever it was, it was at their command, and they wielded it as if they were breathing.

Lyam was one of them. He could feel the sword strapped to his back, the familiar weight of it settling between his shoulder blades. He hadn't put it there, but in this moment, it was his. His robes brushed against his legs as he moved, his feet carrying him forward with a purpose he didn't fully understand. His body felt older, stronger, honed by years of practice and discipline. But his mind—his mind was still his own, young and confused.

"Who am I?" The question echoed in his skull, but no answer came.

His surroundings shifted once again, and now he was in a crowded hall—a massive space filled with towering bookshelves and the murmur of voices. People were reading ancient tomes and discussing mysteries beyond his comprehension. But as Lyam walked through the hall, he didn't recognize any of them. Their faces were blank, their features distorted and smudged like half-finished paintings. He reached out, trying to touch one of the books, but his hand passed right through, like a mirage.

His building frustration gnawed at him. Every time he tried to make sense of the dream, the details shifted, becoming elusive—like pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit together, no matter how hard he tried to force them.

As if sensing his frustration, the floor cracked beneath him, unable to hold the weight of his emotions. Lyam, swallowed by the crumbling floor, was again surrounded by the familiar inky abyss. He plummeted through layers of frigid, endless darkness. His heart raced, and for a moment, he wondered if this was the end—if he would finally hit the bottom and never wake up.

But he didn't. Instead, he landed hard on a stone floor. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and for a long moment, he lay there, gasping. When he finally managed to pull himself to his feet, the scene around him had changed once again.

He was in a forest now, thick with ancient trees that loomed over him like sentinels. The air was heavy with moisture, the ground soft beneath his boots. A figure stood before him—a woman cloaked in shadows, her eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. She watched him, silent and still, as though waiting for something.

Lyam felt a chill along his spine. He knew her. Or at least, he felt as though he should. But just like everything else in this dream, her identity slipped through his mind before he could grasp it.

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The ancient forest seemed to shimmer and fade, the imposing trees transforming into tall metallic poles, the grass withering into hard stone. He was no longer in front of the mysterious woman but on what was a college campus. The air was crisp, filled with the sound of bustling students, laughter and chatter filling the air. The buildings were modern, clean, with glass doors that reflected the bright morning sun.

This place was ordinary, mundane. No Shatterborn, no Guardians, no mutated beasts—just a normal world. Lyam found himself walking through the quad of an ordinary university, surrounded by the hum of everyday life. Students passed him, laughing and chatting as they headed to class. His heart ached with a strange sense of nostalgia, though he couldn't place why. He was just another student here, no different from the rest. No powers, no responsibilities—just the weight of textbooks and the pressure of exams.

But as he continued observing, the scene around him began to blur once more, the edges of the buildings melting away like watercolors. The students' faces distorted, becoming blank slates, featureless and unknown.

A female voice cut through the melting landscape like a blade.

"You are not ready."

The words struck him like a physical blow, knocking the breath from his lungs. Lyam whipped around to the voice, his mouth gaping, to ask what it meant, but no words came. The ground began to tremble beneath his feet, the melting buildings undulating as though the world itself was about to collapse.

A womanly figure stood over Lyam, raised her hand, and the world halted at her action.

Click.

Lyam shot up in bed, gasping for air. His body was slick with sweat, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. The darkness of his small bedroom pressed in around him, the familiar outlines of his furniture barely visible in the dim light filtering through the window.

He was awake. The dream—no, nightmare—was over.

But it didn't feel like it. It never did.

His hands trembled as he dragged them through his tousled hair, trying to calm his breathing. The dreams—they were getting worse. More vivid. More intense. They left him breathless, confused, and terrified, as though he was living someone else's life in his sleep.

But what scared him most was the growing sense that these weren't just nightmares. They felt like memories, fragments of another life that he couldn't quite place. It was absurd—impossible. And yet...

The dream world lingered in his mind, too real to dismiss as simple imagination. He could still feel the weight of the sword on his back, still hear the woman's voice echoing in his ears:

"You are not ready."

"But ready for what?" Lyam let out a frustrated sigh, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep—not after that. He glanced at the clock: 4:45 AM. Too early to start the day, but late enough that the idea of lying in bed for another hour seemed pointless.

With a groan, he stood and padded across the room to the window, staring out at the dark, quiet street below. His breath fogged the glass, and he wiped it away absently, lost in thought.

The nightmares had started not long after his parents died. At first, they had been vague—just flashes of unfamiliar faces and strange places. But over the past few months, they had become more vivid, more detailed. And they were happening every few weeks, leaving him frustrated and on edge.

His sisters didn't know about the dreams. Elara and Lynette had enough to worry about without adding his strange nightmares to the list. He wasn't like his sisters. They were hunters; they had their share of problems to deal with. And he hated not being strong enough to help.

The dreams had only made that feeling worse. In the dream world, he was powerful. He had command over energy and strength that he couldn't even imagine in his waking life. But here, in reality, he was just Lyam—a kid trying to survive in a world where strength was everything.

But what if the dreams were more than just dreams?

Lyam shook his head, trying to dispel the thought. He couldn't let himself get caught up in fantasy. He had to focus on the real world, on his training, on surviving Talon Academy. The nightmares—whatever they were—could wait.

With a deep breath, Lyam crossed the room to where his sword hung on the wall. It wasn't the glowing, mystical weapon from his dreams, but it was real. He had spent years training with it, perfecting his technique, honing his skills. It was all he had.

He grabbed the hilt, feeling the familiar weight of the blade in his hand, and began his morning routine. The sword cut through the air with precision, each swing a reminder of the discipline that had kept him grounded all these years. The world of his dreams might be beyond his reach, but here—here he was in control.

As the morning light slowly began to filter through the window, Lyam moved with practiced precision, his body flowing through each movement like water. The nightmares, the doubts, the frustration—they all faded into the background as he focused on the rhythm of his training.

But even as he tried to push them away, the echoes of the dream still lingered at the edges of his mind.

"You are not ready."