If this is just a dream, then when did it begin? And how did I come to be here?Seven-year-old Bran stood near the gate of the stone-walled castle, his gaze distant, thoughts churning beneath a mask of bnkness. The boundaries between reality and illusion gnawed at him. The way dreams twisted around logic—how they never quite held together when scrutinized—had become a silent obsession. He guarded himself behind stillness, behind silence, always watching. Always testing.

  When Bran had first arrived in this world—born into the ducal house of Wincherhill—there had been genuine joy. A fourth son to carry on the name. But that joy quickly soured as Bran grew quiet. Too quiet. He neither cried nor ughed, barely cooed, and remained wrapped in eerie silence. If not for his subtle responses to sound and light, he might have been deemed a lost cause—discarded quietly as an ill omen, a silent mistake buried in the family tombs.

  But his silence brought him something unexpected: more attention from his mother. And when his younger sister Cyrene was born three years ter, that maternal affection did not wane—it grew into something indulgent, even protective. Still, whispers spread like rot through the keep: the fourth son of Wincherhill was a simpleton. A mute. A cursed boy.

  "I just want to find the way back," Bran often whispered inwardly. "You're the illusions. You're nothing."

  Compared to his siblings, Bran stood apart—not in size or strength, but in presence. Though mute in public and presumed slow-witted, he moved with a curious precision. He was, above all, clean. Not merely in appearance, but in essence. Unsmudged by the rough py of the other children. Untouched by their cruelty.

  Adam and Edrick, the eldest brothers, sparred nearby with wooden training swords, striking and parrying under the warm sun. His third sister, Lili, stood by his side, holding his hand with theatrical misery."Ugh, stupid Bran," she muttered. "Why do I have to be the one watching you?"

  From the second-floor balcony of the keep, the Duke and Duchess watched the children with polite smiles. But when their eyes fell on Bran, a shadow of unease passed over their expressions. Something fragile, something uncertain.

  To an outsider, it was a picture of noble warmth. But to Bran—trapped in a world of grimy stone, coarse ughter, and towering, brutal knights—it was a cage. This pce reeked of violence barely held at bay. Its security was a lie. Its beauty, an accident.

  Then the sound came. A long, resonant horn.

  It snapped Bran from his reverie. The heavy gate creaked open, revealing a returning hunting party. Dust rose around their hooves as they rode in, chainmail shimmering under the afternoon light. One of the rear riders bore a peculiar prize strapped behind his saddle—a lynx, its tortoiseshell coat striking against the leather.

  Bran’s breath caught.

  That coat—those colors—they matched perfectly a cat from another life. A companion from the world before. Ugly, others had said. Mottled and strange. But to him, it had meant something real. Something warm.

  Without thinking, Bran yanked his hand from Lili’s and bolted forward.

  "Bran!" she shrieked. Behind her, Adam and Edrick abandoned their swords and chased after him, panic overtaking mock battle. Some instinct of sibling care—however fwed—urged them to protect their foolish brother.

  The riders barely noticed the commotion. Only when they halted before the grand stair did the lead knight dismount and turn, offering a formal salute to the Duke and Duchess.

  It was then that he noticed the boy.

  “What’s this?” the knight said, voice light with amusement. “What is it, little one?”

  Bran didn’t hesitate. He pointed to the lynx, eyes wide.“Give it to me,” he said, the words clear and sharp like the crack of a banner in wind.

  Time stopped.

  The knight blinked.

  The children froze.

  Even the horses seemed to still, tails half-swish.

  The only ones who moved were the Duke and Duchess.

  The Duchess stumbled down the stairs, skirts flying, arms open wide as she embraced the boy who had never spoken. The Duke followed more slowly, his hand white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword—not from fear, but from the sheer force of held-in emotion.

  The courtyard was silent save for the sound of the Duchess weeping softly into Bran’s hair.

  And so, at the age of seven, the boy thought to be a mute, thought to be broken, uttered his first words in this strange new world. A command. A memory. A tether to whatever y beyond the dream.