“F-Farciya…” Tiris croaked. He crawled toward her motionless form, gasping as the seashore gravel scraped across his wounds, leaving a furrowed scar in his wake. “It’s here. I see it.”

Farciya did not move or respond. She was still, her lifeblood dashed out upon the stones by the claws of the frost-paguros. Tiris gasped at the sight, and sobbed a moment even as the light that he had been seeking played over him and the Dreaming Moon arose, unseen and ignored.

“May you find your peace in the Next Dream, the Dream-to-Come, the Deepest Dream,” he said softly.

“And may you find it as well.”

Farciya reached down and gently lifted Tiris up. He watched, stunned, as he continued to mourn over his fallen friend’s body even as he ascended. It was as Ad Dakhla had written, as Le Aauin had witnessed; the ascent to the Dreaming Moon was a sort of cleaving, of two ways taken at once.

“Why…? How…?” Tiris muttered.

“I do not know,” laughed Farciya. “Perhaps we will soon learn.”

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