When they stepped out through the front door,
it was still dark—pre-dawn.
The castle-like structure rose high on a mountain.
A winding road ran far below,
lit gently by pale orange streetlamps.
Their destination lay across the water—
connected to the foothills by a long bridge.
Crys turned back to look at the castle
and forgot how to breathe.
It was far larger than he’d imagined.
The outer walls glowed with an opalescent sheen,
the same way the great hall’s walls and floor had—
floating in the stillness of night.
Decorations and inset windows broke up the surface here and there. Whenever light rippled along the edges, it cast shadows so sharp they almost hurt to look at.
Then he lifted his eyes
to the spires rising like they could reach the sky—
and his breath tightened again.
The stars were too beautiful.
The whole sky was scattered with bright points,
like someone had flung diamonds across it.
They felt close enough to steal with an outstretched hand.
Sometimes, a star slipped across the dark with a soft, shimmering hush.
As if this place—where he stood—
was the center of the world,
the heavens were full in every direction.
“…Wow.”
It slipped out of him, honest.
Even compared to that long-ago night
when his family had driven up a high mountain just to see the stars,
each flicker here looked closer.
Sharper.
Almost blinding.
Crys stood with his mouth slightly open,
staring up—
and Soliorbis watched him,
smiling.
“You really do resemble Amelia.”
“…You knew my mom?”
Hearing her name in a place like this—
Crys turned to him, startled.
“Through work,” Soliorbis said.
“…And, well. More than that.”
The smile he wore, like nostalgia,
carried something lonely under it.
“She spoke of you often.
That you’d started reading books like this.
That you were good at cutting cookie shapes.”
—So she must’ve told you I’m a magician, too.
The thought almost formed—
and Crys crushed it down.
Because this was a dream.
And it wasn’t strange for people in dreams to know his mother.
They were only stitching together his memory
in convenient ways.
Still.
Just hearing Amelia spoken aloud
made something deep in his chest
warm—slightly.
The farther down the mountain road went,
the wider the curves grew.
The boys ahead were gone already—
not even their shadows left.
And the farther they moved from the castle,
the more the unease crept in:
the fear of leaving that white world behind.
Crys kept his face calm anyway,
and asked,
“Where are we going?”
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“Rone,” Soliorbis said.
“The red Rav—he told you Adom Yekitsa, didn’t he?
We’ll go down this road
and cross that bridge you can see there.
That is Adom Yekitsa.”
“Adom… whatever—
isn’t that the name of an Initiation?”
Soliorbis’s eyes brightened.
“As expected. You’re sharp.”
This time, he meant it as praise.
“The eleven Tseva—Tseva means color—
are also the names of the islands,
and the names of the Milu’im.”
“If possible,
could you say it in words I actually understand?”
Crys said it flatly.
“I’ve already been dragged into some insane world,
and I’m kind of at my limit.”
“I thought someone as clever as you
would understand after hearing it once.”
Soliorbis tilted his head,
almost teasing.
“Perhaps I overestimated you?”
“…I get it,” Crys bit out.
“Even the Initiations.”
Then, through clenched teeth—
“But if you know I’m on enemy turf,
could you try being a little more considerate?”
And finally,
he let it spill.
“One name for a color, a place, and an Initiation?
Why would anyone make it that confusing?”
“You truly do ask excellent questions.”
Soliorbis slowed slightly,
and stroked his bright beard,
satisfied.
“At first,
Tseva existed as the name of the Initiations.
Later it came to indicate color—
and then place as well.
If you live in Emet Echad Olam long enough,
you begin to understand naturally
which meaning is intended.”
“I don’t plan to be here long.”
Crys muttered it.
Whether it reached him or not,
Soliorbis kept that pleased expression—
and then, suddenly,
stopped.
Crys stopped too,
and looked around, bewildered.
—They were already at the foot of the bridge.
“…That can’t be.”
They’d only just started down.
And yet—
already here?
He shook his head, as if to deny it.
And in that same instant—
in the single beat of a blink—
Soliorbis was no longer in his fine suit.
He was back in his golden cloak.
On his chest,
the lily-shaped brooch—
the one set with that large sunstone.
Crys stared, stunned.
Soliorbis looked down at him,
then pointed straight across the bridge.
“This is as far as I go.
From here, you go alone.”
“This far?
Then tell me one last thing.
How do I wake up from this dream?”
Crys clung to him, his voice breaking.
Soliorbis didn’t change expression.
“I told you.
You already know how.
If you claim you don’t—
then take the Initiation.”
“That’s enough!”
Crys snapped.
“You keep dodging everything,
and you don’t listen to me at all!
Changing the world,
power of thought—
none of that has anything to do with my life.
And you’re telling me to take some Initiation?
If you’re not going to send me home,
then just leave me alone!”
His eyes burned.
He bit down on his lip.
His fists clenched so hard
they hurt.
Soliorbis watched him for a long moment,
then exhaled,
as if something heavy had settled in him.
At last, he spoke.
“If you were only a Rofeh.”
Crys looked up.
Their eyes met—deep, thoughtful—
and Soliorbis gave him an awkward, almost apologetic smile.
“You really want it to be a dream.
That badly.”
Crys nodded.
Soliorbis’s brows lowered,
so full of sympathy it stung.
“If you were only a Rofeh,
I could have granted your wish.
Made you forget this world,
sent you back to Chuts…
Perhaps I could have.”
“…So I’m not good enough?”
It was barely more than a whisper.
There was no answer.
Only Soliorbis’s hand,
absently stroking his beard,
never stopping.
That silence was enough.
“Why am I no good?”
Soliorbis folded his arms.
He paused—
as if searching for words—
then met Crys’s eyes again.
“You’re an exception.”
He started—
then corrected himself at once.
“No.
No one is without value.
So that isn’t the right way to say it.
Not special.
An exception.”
“I’m not even a good student.
I don’t have friends.
And my only hobby is gaming.”
“And?”
Soliorbis tilted his head,
like that was the easiest thing in the world.
“I’m not talking about appearances. Not the outside.”
“You have an Olam, don’t you?
A world inside you—
separate from this world,
Emet Echad Olam.”
Tsitsi and Baar had called that place
the Olam—
the place beyond the Room of the Heart.
Crys gave a small nod.
“To have an Olam
is to carry a copy of this world within yourself.
Which means—
your thoughts take shape more easily than others’.
You remember, don’t you?
Back when you still believed in magic—
your wishes always came true.”
Back when Amelia was alive.
If he smiled, adults smiled back.
If he went out, the sun came.
If he said he wanted ice cream,
they handed him a bowl.
But that wasn’t magic.
That was his parents.
Before he could say it,
Soliorbis shook his head.
“How it happens is not the point.
That it happens—
is what matters.
You are, undeniably,
a magician by birth.”
“So you’re calling me a magician…
because I have an Olam?”
“If we begin at the beginning—
a magician is someone
with talent for transformation.
Turning one thing into another.
That is separate from the Olam’s nature—
‘thought becomes form.’
In terms of Tseva,
it belongs to what Adom Yekitsa excels in.”
He stated it cleanly,
then continued.
“A magician changes.
But one who carries an Olam—
Nose ha-Olam—
brings forth from nothing.
That is magic.
And you—
you have both.”
“So how does that connect
to me not being able to go home?”
Crys tossed it out, blunt.
Soliorbis stroked his beard again,
slow and grave.
“The Nose carry fate.
Always.
You didn’t become a Rofeh by mistake.
The reason you’re here now—
is destiny.”
“Then it doesn’t have to be me, does it?
If it’s fate, or duty, or whatever,
let someone who wants it do it.
There are plenty of people who’d love
that whole chosen-one act.”
“If we speak only facts—
not assumptions,”
Soliorbis said,
and his eyes sharpened
as if he meant to look straight through Crys.
“Then this is all there is.
You carry an Olam.
You are Nose ha-Olam.
And as a Rofeh,
you are in Emet Echad Olam.
That is all.”
Then he lowered his voice.
“Listen carefully.
Do not tell anyone that you’re Nose ha-Olam.
And the place you arrived in—
never speak of it.
Especially that place.
No one.
Not a friend. Not a sibling. Not even someone you think you might come to care for.
Never.
Do you understand?”
“If I talk about it,
what happens?
Is there a problem?”
“That is not mine to tell you.
Not yet.
For now—
promise me.”
Crys didn’t understand.
But the pressure in the air left him no room.
He nodded.
Soliorbis shut his eyes once,
his face still hard.
Then he straightened,
and tapped the ground lightly with the tip of his shoe.
“Then we’ll meet again.”
With those words—
Soliorbis vanished.
Like he’d never been there at all.
Only the wind passed through.
Crys looked left,
then right.
He searched for a flicker of gold. Any trace of that cloak.
But only the stars blinked,
cold and distant.
“Seriously… what the hell!”
He shouted with everything he had.
And the sound was swallowed up at once by the silence.
Crys shut his eyes
and drew a deep breath.
Night air filled his lungs—
cold.
Dusty with earth.
His senses were too sharp.
And that, somehow,
made him furious.
—The spell.
I have to keep it going.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Beyond the bridge,
it was dark.
But there was no way back.
Crys clenched his hoodie
and stepped onto the long bridge.
Above him,
the indigo sky scattered with stars
was starting to pale,
just slightly—
as if morning were coming.
Dawn was about to reach
Emet Echad Olam.
