Mad Hatter's Guide to Clearing The Game
Chapter 240: Ch238. Where dream become fire

Chapter 240: Ch238. Where dream become fire

Keir’s footsteps barely made a sound as she guided them through the inner veins of Vel’Serath.

The paths beneath their feet shimmered with veins of soft light, pulsing in time with a rhythm Miles couldn’t place. As they passed beneath archways grown of twisted crystal and spines of ancient bone, the whispering from the statues above faded into something subtler.

It was neither silence nor sound. It was something deeper.

"This part of the city’s called the Artisan’s Ring." Keir said, motioning to the buildings around them. "Everything made or mended passes through here. Art, weapon, or story, doesn’t matter. Creation is contribution."

Sarissa glanced toward a glass-walled structure where a woman sculpted fire in the shape of a harp. The flames danced to the sound of her humming, solidifying as notes left her lips.

"No currency?" Miles asked.

"Not in the way you’d expect. Here, you trade memory, effort, or spirit. Something meaningful. Something true." Keir shook her head.

"Is everything here that poetic?" Sarissa muttered.

"You’ll get used to it." Keir laughed.

They passed under a low bridge. On its underside, a mural of countless eyes followed their progress, painted in hues that shifted depending on where you stood. Dee growled softly at it but kept moving.

Eventually, they reached a circular plaza carved from layered stone. In the center stood a building like a broken fang grown sideways

"Here, the Hunter’s Lodge." Keir gestured towards the building.

Crystal veins glowed red along its edges, and bone charms swayed gently from its eaves, whispering with every shift of the wind.

Keir pushed open the door, and warm air washed over them. Spicy, thick with smoke and cooked meat. Inside, dozens of people sat at wide communal tables.

Some wore leaf-stitched armor like Keir’s, while others bore robes marked with claw-like sigils. A few glanced up at the newcomers, curiosity flickering, but quickly returned to their meals or conversations.

Keir gestured to an older man seated at a circular table near the hearth. His beard was laced with copper thread, and a long scar cut across his cheek, fading into a silver eye that watched them as if it had seen them in dreams.

"That’s Elder Rhelan." Keir said. "He oversees newcomers."

Rhelan studied them for a long moment before speaking.

"Forest-walkers. Rare enough, these days. But if Thalan’dor has acknowledged you, and the city accepted you, we will too. Provided you prove yourselves."

"What kind of proof are you looking for?" Miles inclined his head.

Rhelan stood, joints cracking as he moved, and after a brief moment of silence, he spoke.

"There’s something stirring in the outer wetlands. Fire-moss that burns in air but doesn’t die in water. A creature feeds on it or guards it. We need a sample, untouched, still burning, and the beast must not be harmed. Consider it your trial."

"Do we get any gear?" Sarissa asked, crossing her arms.

"You’ll be given a token." Rhelan replied, holding up a small stone disk with runes shimmering across its surface. "It will amplify what you carry inside. Your strength, your restraint. We shall see."

Miles took the token, feeling a faint warmth pulse against his palm.

"Go at dawn." Keir said. "The wetlands breathe with the sun. And be careful... Some things there still remember when the city bled."

***

Dawn spilled across the wetlands like diluted gold.

The terrain was a maze of thick reeds, glassy pools, and shifting patches of land that hissed underfoot. Mist clung to everything. Occasionally, flames would flicker across a moss-covered branch or ripple along the surface of a pond, vanishing without leaving scorch marks.

Dee trotted ahead, its ears twitching.

"I don’t like this." Sarissa muttered, limping slightly. Her old wound flared when humidity rose.

"We’ll make it quick." Miles said. "In and out."

They followed the warmth of the token. The further they went, the warmer it grew, not burning, but pulsing like a heartbeat syncing with their own.

Eventually, they found it.

In the center of a shallow pool, growing on the remains of a sunken tree, was the fire-moss. It glowed like embers wrapped in breath, flickering orange and gold, threads dancing in the air above it.

And beside it, was the beast.

It was shaped like a deer, but strangely wrong.

Its limbs were too long, bending in places they shouldn’t. Moss clung to its antlers, and its eyes were molten copper. When it breathed, the air rippled with heat.

"It’s looking at us." Miles said quietly.

"We should circle around, wait for it to move."

But the beast didn’t move. It just turned toward them and... Bowed.

"Did it just—?" Miles blinked.

"It’s not attacking." Sarissa stepped forward slowly.

Dee growled, low and uncertain.

Miles approached, careful and slow. The token in his palm pulsed faster. As he stepped into the shallow water, the moss began to glow brighter, but the deer-thing didn’t resist. Instead, it turned its head toward Sarissa, and then it spoke.

Not in words, but through impression.

Feeling, an emotion that was at once sorrow and offering.

"It isn’t guarding the moss..." Sarissa blinked at the deer-thing. "It’s waiting for someone worthy to take it."

Sarissa knelt slowly, reaching out. The moment her hand hovered over the moss, it pulsed once, twice, and then separated cleanly from the tree, drifting towards her.

She cupped it gently in both hands, not feeling any pain.

Then, the deer stepped backward, shimmered, and vanished. As if it had never been there.

Miles exhaled, raising his brow.

"Well..." Sarissa stood slowly. "That was... Easier than I expected."

"Feels like the hard part’s coming..." Miles muttered.

They turned back toward the city.

Neither of them saw the figure watching from above. Shrouded in bone-gray cloth, its face masked, the observer crouched in the trees.

It held a shard of reflective glass in one hand, not a mirror, but a window.

"So..." The masked figure whispered. "He’s finally come. The one the city remembered."

***

Rhelan examined the burning moss with a reverent sort of silence. It still flickered in Sarissa’s palm, though now it cast more light than heat.

"You did more than was asked." He said. "You listened, and that matters."

He turned toward one of the crystal pillars embedded in the lodge’s wall and pressed his hand against it, and threads of light spread outward. A glyph formed above the moss, etching itself into the air.

"Let it be recorded!" Rhelan said loudly. "The forest-walkers are now apprentices of the Lodge."

A hum passed through the room. Somewhere in the rafters, bone charms clinked like distant bells.

"You’ll need housing, and attire. Keir will assist." He turned to go, then paused. "And if either of you dream strange dreams tonight, do not ignore them. Sometimes, the city speaks clearest through sleep."

***

Their assigned room was carved into the trunk of a spiraled tree that twisted high above the Artisan’s Ring. Inside, the floor was warm, the walls alive with faint veins of bioluminescent moss. Two beds, a small basin that replenished itself with water drawn from beneath the city, and a window that opened directly onto the spire where the statue of the feathered woman stood.

"She moved again." Sarissa said, staring at it.

Miles joined her, but this time, he didn’t blink.

The statue’s head turned just slightly. And this time, it wasn’t just watching.

It was smiling.

That night, Miles dreamt.

He was standing on the border between the city and the forest. One foot in light, one in shadow. Before him, stood a masked figure, but their mask was cracked.

Inside the cracks, he saw stars, timelines, stories coiled around a center he couldn’t name.

"You are the end of one loop." The figure whispered. "She is the start of another. But you must not walk together."

"What does that mean?" Miles asked, tilting his head.

However, the figure didn’t answer. It simply reached forward, and gently touched his forehead.

And Miles woke up.

The fire-moss still burned beside his bed. And in the street below, dozens of statues had turned their heads toward their window.