When he reached the end of the long bridge,
into a single path across open grassland.
Low grass stretched as far as he could see.
No buildings. Nothing that looked inhabited.
Crys forced himself to accept the situation—
shoving down the thought that his last choice might have been wrong—
and walked faster along the still-dark road.
Every time the bushes on either side rustled,
he tensed,
half-expecting some animal to leap out.
After a while,
the road split near a bend in the river.
One path ran straight on.
The other curved sharply to the left.
Crys studied both,
then chose the left without hesitation.
He thought he’d seen
a small orange light in the distance.
Using that pinprick of light as a guide,
he kept walking.
As the light grew clearer,
the silhouette of a building took shape.
In the dimness,
a massive stone structure stood in black relief,
heavy and severe—
nothing like the opalescent castle on the mountain.
Watchtowers stood like sentinels on either side,
solid enough to feel as if they’d been watching over this land
for centuries.
This had to be where
the man in the red cloak
and the boys had gone.
He walked on, searching for an entrance.
Then the path branched again.
The left continued across the open field.
The right curved past a large tree,
and not far beyond it,
a drawbridge appeared.
Crys scanned the area once more.
No other signs of people.
This was it.
He stepped onto the drawbridge
and went inside.
?
Up close,
the building felt even more imposing.
He eased open a door heavy with age
and slipped inside.
Passing through an entry hall
large enough to swallow a small house,
he followed the sound of voices
into a wide room—
filled with teenagers.
One or two glanced his way,
as if noticing him for the first time,
but whatever they were doing with the person in front of them
seemed more important,
and their attention quickly drifted back.
Relieved not to be the focus,
Crys let the tension drop from his shoulders
and moved toward the quieter back.
The hall—
about half the size of the great hall in the white castle—
felt like something out of an old English manor from a fairy tale.
Twelve long tables.
Benches on either side.
Every table was packed—
from familiar snacks
to desserts he’d never seen before.
Heaped butter cookies cut into every shape imaginable.
Chocolate that looked like gemstones.
Marshmallows scattered with petals.
Pastel macarons.
Fresh scones, still warm and fragrant.
Honey candies glowing amber.
Some things looked undeniably good.
Others—
bread puffed thin as balloons,
cakes soaked and spongy like cleaning pads,
something that looked disturbingly like a clump of animal fur—
were impossible to imagine eating.
In the center,
a fireplace burned red,
even though it wasn’t cold.
Crys claimed an empty table at the far end
and dropped forward,
planning to fall asleep and wake up as fast as possible.
But sleep didn’t come.
With a sigh,
he lifted his head
and watched the others,
all of them desperately trying
to stake out a place for themselves.
Around the table with the red-cloaked man,
about ten teens crowded close,
listening intently.
At another cluster,
that meddlesome boy stood at the center.
Farther back,
the friendly boy who’d spoken to him earlier sat beside a girl
with a shrill, chihuahua-like voice.
A boy with dreadlocks soaked up laughter,
playing the fool.
And at the farthest table,
a blond boy was speaking like he was delivering a speech.
After taking in the room,
Crys dropped his gaze
before anyone could meet his eyes,
and picked up a nearby pot.
The tea inside was scorching—
as if boiling water had just been poured in.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Probably because this was a dream.
Back in his usual sardonic mode,
Crys decided that if this really was a dream,
he might as well enjoy it.
He reached for the chocolate in front of him.
Soft-looking truffles dusted with cocoa.
Glossy bonbons.
Ones topped with nuts.
As he debated what to try first,
a girl walked over from another table.
Pretending not to notice her approach,
he kept examining the chocolate—
until she sat down
in the chair across from him.
Even then, he ignored her.
The girl seemed unbothered.
She reached for the pot,
poured hot milk into a nearby cup,
dropped in several star-shaped sugar cubes,
blew on it,
took a sip—
and let out a soft,
distinctive sigh.
Just slightly curious,
Crys looked up.
Her hair was fluffy pink,
like spun sugar.
Her face dreamy,
as if she’d just found a present on Christmas morning.
Her sleeves puffed out,
soft and round like jellyfish.
She began loading her plate,
one sweet at a time.
Financiers.
Madeleines.
Scones.
Pies drenched in syrup.
Macarons.
Churros.
Banana cake.
Iced cookies.
Last,
she lined up every kind of truffle along the edge.
She grabbed only the colorful donuts straight from the platter—
dunked one into her milk,
and bit in.
“Why are you eating at this table?”
He knew he could move.
But giving up the seat at the end of the table annoyed him,
and the words came out curt.
The girl didn’t answer—
probably drowned out by conversation on the other side.
Crys leaned forward
and raised his voice.
“Why are you
here?”
The girl swallowed with an audible gulp,
as if only now noticing him.
Then she spoke—
in a voice as fluffy as her appearance,
sweet,
nasal,
almost cloying.
“I get full really fast.
Even at a dessert buffet,
I can only eat three donuts.
I wanna try more.
All kinds.
But this world doesn’t really have hunger,
not like it’s supposed to.
Eating’s just a habit, right?
Rone said that.
Which means—
we can probably eat forever.”
She hugged her plate,
looking smug.
“I’m gonna eat everything here.
I already cleared the other tables.”
Crys glanced toward where she’d come from.
The others,
trying too hard to look impressive in an unfamiliar world,
were clustered unevenly—
and she’d apparently helped herself
right in front of them,
at her own pace.
The image amused him.
“Crys Reed,” he said.
“And you?”
“I’m Suguri Ferris.
Call me Shu.”
She lifted something from the bench
and thrust it toward him.
Depending on the light,
it was either clearly visible
or not at all—
but it looked like an animal.
“This is Lesamin.
My cute little caterpillar.”
“A caterpillar?”
One of the bugs he hated most.
Crys yelped
and toppled off the bench.
“It’s a red panda.
I just call it that
because its tail looks like one.”
At her words,
the animal—
with a distinctly smug face—
let out a protesting cry.
“Lesamin.”
Crys hauled himself back up,
clutching the bench,
and peeked at it cautiously.
“Was that—
a sound?”
“Lesamin only says ‘Lesamin.’
What about your Nahal?”
Suguri’s candy-sweet eyes flicked
from his shoulder
to his knees.
“Where’s your Nahal?”
“…It exists.
I think.
Just not here.”
“Where’d it go?”
“I don’t know.
It wasn’t there from the start.”
“Then how’d you get here?”
“It’s not like I’m the only one without a Nahal, right?”
“You are.
Everyone else has theirs.”
She glanced around the hall.
Crys followed her gaze.
At first,
he saw only the teens.
But when he narrowed his eyes—
then tilted his head just slightly—
he saw it.
Above heads.
On shoulders.
Beside benches.
Particles of light,
faintly shimmering.
“That glowing stuff up there?”
“Nahal are guides.
You usually only see your own.
Sometimes,
depending on the light,
you can see others’.”
“Do you really not know something that basic?”
A refined voice cut in.
Crys looked up.
The blond boy—
the one who’d given him that cold look earlier—
stood at the front of a group of four.
They looked down at him,
grinning with thin,
unpleasant smiles.
“Good morning.
Did you sleep well?”
The moment the blond boy said it,
laughter burst out behind him.
A tall, slouching boy collapsed onto the floor,
flailing his long limbs dramatically.
“This is a dream!
It’s all a dreeeam!”
The laughter took on a sharp edge.
Girls at the back clapped,
egging him on.
Crys’s face burned.
He looked away,
fixing his eyes on the sweets on the table
for no reason at all.
“Zimek, that’s enough.”
The blond boy said,
putting on an exaggeratedly troubled look.
“He’s confused.
Thinks this is a dream, and all that.”
Zimek stayed sprawled on the floor,
drawling, “Wake uuup,”
while the girls covered their mouths,
their shoulders shaking.
The boy glanced at Crys,
who stubbornly kept his face turned away,
and rested his hand against his chin.
“Still, it’s curious.
After your Nahal explained the difference between dreams and Emet Echad Olam,
you still think this is one.”
He swept his gaze around,
as if searching for something.
“—Where is your Nahal?”
When he found no trace of golden light,
a thin, mean smile crept onto his lips.
“I did wonder…
but it seems you didn’t just arrive late.
You don’t have one at all.”
“Leave me alone.”
Crys spat the words out.
“Tell me, Taref,”
the boy murmured.
“Can someone come to Emet Echad Olam
without a Nahal?”
Something glinted near his ear.
A tiny bat—
like a tacky ear cuff—
tilted its head.
“…So it is impossible.”
The boy nodded,
satisfied.
“Then the answer is simple.
You were never chosen as a Rofeh in the first place.
If you had been,
you wouldn’t have been late.
And you wouldn’t still think this is a dream.”
Before he could stop himself,
Crys spoke.
“I was late because Soliorbis—Uriel & Company’s CEO—stopped me.
I heard he’s on the council.”
He added,
just a little.
“He told me things
a normal Rofeh wouldn’t hear.
Apparently, I’m… special.”
The boy’s eyes flew open.
Color rushed into his pale cheeks.
“You?
Why would you—!”
“Listen.”
Crys said it quietly.
“I’ve been wondering this from the start.
What is it about me
that bothers you so much?”
“Because you stood out from the beginning.”
Suguri cut in from the other side,
her voice dreamy,
sweetly nasal.
“That kind of thing’s annoying,
isn’t it?
To someone who wants all the attention for themselves.”
From across the table,
Suguri cut in,
her voice dreamy.
The boy’s face flushed red
all the way to his hairline,
and this time, he rounded on her.
“So you’re saying he stood out—
fine.
But me?
That I’m just another attention seeker?”
“Aren’t you?”
Suguri stroked Lesamin in her arms,
as if soothing something precious.
“You’re just being loud enough
for everyone to hear.
Trying to put someone down.
If you shout,
people listen—
but that only works
until elementary school.
If it’s a habit,
you might want to fix it.”
For a heartbeat,
the air froze.
For a boy raised on indulgence,
this was probably the first time
anyone had spoken to him like that.
He unclenched his shaking fist,
then pointed at Suguri
with a trembling finger.
“You don’t even speak the King’s English.”
“God, you’re loud,”
a low voice cut in.
“Shut it, tea boy.”
The boy in the black hood kicked the bench
beside Crys.
A dull thud echoed through the hall.
The blond boy and his entourage
gasped
and turned all at once.
The hooded boy crouched slightly,
looking up at them
with sharp eyes.
“Take your little bohemian theater troupe
and crawl back to morning tea.”
Whatever comeback they’d been about to make
collapsed under his stare.
The blond boy sniffed,
forcing a look of composure,
and walked back to his seat
as if he’d meant to all along.
“Bad-tempered kitty.
You—over here.”
Suguri called out.
The boy stopped,
turned back with a scowl,
his brows knitting.
“Huh?
You talkin’ about me?”
“You’ve got that look.
Like you want to sharpen your claws.
First time in a new place—
makes you jumpy.”
“…You know that
and say it anyway?
You’re weird.”
He tugged one corner of his mouth up,
just slightly,
and dropped onto the bench beside her.
“You called him ‘tea boy.’
You know him?”
“Dimon Tharmoran.
Some posh British noble,
apparently.”
“Oh, that.
Still—
not really something you should say
to a sheltered rich kid.
It’s rude to mock tea like that.
I’m Shu.”
“Rokyu.
How about ‘fish-and-chips boy’ instead?”
Crys hated arguments.
Part of him wished
Rokyu would go sit somewhere else.
But—
he’d stepped in for him.
At least a thank-you
felt necessary.
“I’m—”
“Not interested.”
Rokyu cut him off
without even looking.
Crys bit his lip.
—Yeah.
Still don’t like delinquents.
Suguri set a cup of milk
in front of Rokyu,
then picked a few sweets
she seemed to like
and offered them.
Lesamin squeezed into a gap on the crowded table, plopped down heavily, and began stuffing his face with whatever he could reach.
Watching that,
Rokyu muttered,
“Nahal eat human food?”
“I’ve never seen Lesa eat before.
Do you think red pandas
can have chocolate?”
The three of them
looked at one another—
just as Lesamin reached
for a chocolate cookie.
The moment they tried to stop him,
Lesamin seemed to sense
his blissful snack time was under threat,
and darted across the table,
light on his feet.
—A glass tipped over.
—A lemon pie slid off its stand,
its shape ruined.
—Marshmallows rolled everywhere.
While Suguri and Rokyu tried to grab him,
Crys moved on instinct.
So no one else would notice,
he righted the fallen glass,
set the collapsed pie back onto a plate,
and scooped the runaway marshmallows
into a glass bowl.
Lesamin sprinted
to the towering cakes,
reared up on his hind legs,
and struck a completely fearless
threatening pose.
“Nahal can eat, too.
Mostly, they just enjoy
imitating humans.”
“…Who just talked?”
Crys looked up,
scanning the area.
Aside from Suguri and Rokyu,
no one should’ve been there.
Then,
from Rokyu’s knee,
a cluster of shimmering light
floated up
and drifted onto the table.
In the next instant,
it became a fluffy penguin chick,
flapping its little flippers.
“Umo said it.”
“A penguin talked?!”
Crys yelped,
jumping to his feet.
Rokyu clicked his tongue,
irritated.
“Don’t yell every time.
They talk. You can communicate.
What’s the problem?”
“Lesa doesn’t talk.”
“Lesamin.”
At Suguri’s correction,
Lesamin answered half-heartedly.
The chaos earlier must’ve shifted his mood—
he’d abandoned the chocolate cookie
and was now gnawing on
a cinnamon roll
almost the size of his face.
Rokyu watched him,
eyes distant,
like he was looking at a kid, not a guide.
“If he can only say ‘Lesamin,’
how’d he learn
how things work around here?”
“If he makes a sound at all,
you can tell what he wants,
can’t you?”
“Lesamin.”
A mildly dissatisfied reply.
“Correction,” Suguri said.
“He doesn’t think of it as a cry.”
Rokyu’s face twisted in confusion.
After a moment of searching looks,
his gaze landed on Crys—
the one he’d said he wasn’t interested in.
Crys, for his part,
was slowly getting used to all of this.
Talking animals?
Fine.
Understanding feelings from a single sound?
If you’re the owner,
maybe that’s not impossible.
Still—
Suguri,
he decided,
was definitely
a little strange.
