Rake’s Journal — Entry 47
Third Moon of the Ember Cycle
There were days when the world felt heavier than usual. The kind of days where the sun itself seemed to mock me, and the other children in the village found new ways to sharpen their words. I’ve never had it as hard as some, I’ll admit that. Still, there were seasons of cruelty — and it was during those that I truly began to treasure the escape dreams offered. In dreams, the jeers and jabs didn’t follow. In dreams, I could simply be.
Lately, I’ve found myself looking forward to sleep again — not to escape anything in particular (though Ryk’s snoring and sprawl make a good case), but because something — someone — waits for me there.
Each evening after the leather shop closes, and after I spend time with Ash puzzling over magical forms and strange sigils (still not used to the idea of mother teaching me magic), I find myself eager for my bedroll. If I get there first, Ryk usually has to curl somewhere else, and that’s a bonus.
But it’s not the extra space that draws me to sleep — it’s her.
Ever since we returned from exploring the ancient city, she’s been in my dreams. The blue-haired woman. At first, she was elusive — a figure half-seen in a crowd, or a shadow ducking just out of reach. But lately, I can find her more easily. Sometimes I just think about her, and there she is. “Summon” feels too strong a word for someone as wild and free as her, but it’s close.
She’s… kind. Curious. Whimsical. Around her, I feel something I haven’t in a long while — like I’m just Rake. Not the apprentice, not the tinkering oddity, not the Seeker-in-training. Just a boy laughing, exploring, dreaming again.
We talk. We wander strange dreamscapes — impossible forests, cities in the clouds, caverns lit by floating jellyfish. Sometimes she creates things from nothing: glowing orbs, clever contraptions, fragments of music or ideas that linger with me long after waking. More than once, I’ve jotted them down to sketch or try crafting later. Maybe she’s part muse.
She always looks sad when it’s time for me to wake. And lately, I’ve noticed — she’s trying to make me stay. To draw me deeper, to linger longer. It’s tempting, but five bodies in a canvas yurt beneath the desert sun is not a place conducive to restful slumber.
Still… I wonder who she really is. A dream? A memory? A magic yet unlearned?
Whatever the case, I’ll see her again tonight. I can feel it.
— Rake