Virgil woke to a quiet hum vibrating beneath his skin — not sound, exactly, but something else. A presence. It faded just as quickly as it had arrived.

  He wasn’t in his room.

  The bed was too firm. The ceiling too high. A faint citrus scent hung in the air, like someone had tried to mask the sterile undertones of hospital-grade cleanliness. He sat up quickly, blinking at the cool, matte surfaces of the room. Smooth concrete walls. A narrow, high window. Minimalist, modern furniture — all edges and chrome.

  His heart beat once, twice — steady.

  He remembered the dream. The water. The silence. The exhaustion that wasn’t his. And now… this. Where was he?

  Before he could begin to piece anything together, the door opened. A man stepped in.

  Tall. Early forties, maybe. Tidy in a sleek navy suit, open collar. Everything about him felt tightly controlled — posture, expression, even his steps, which made no sound on the polished floor.

  "Virgil, I assume?" he asked. His voice was low but not unfriendly.

  Virgil nodded.

  "Im Dalen. This place is a temporary outpost for our side. You're safe."

  "Safe from what?" Virgil asked, careful. He kept his tone casual.

  Dalen’s lips lifted faintly. "From interest, mostly. The kind of interest that gets people like you hurt or disappeared."

  That was... something.

  "Why am I here?" Virgil asked. "And who’s ‘our side’?"

  "It’s better if we explain together," Dalen said. "My colleague will join us shortly. For now, you should get dressed. Clothes in the drawer. Breakfast, too. We figured you'd be hungry."

  Virgil watched him leave without another word. No guards. No cameras. Just that sense — a slight tension, as if everything around him had been made sterile and clean for a reason.

  He opened the drawer. T-shirt, jeans, socks. All his size. Not his own clothes, but close enough.

  Someone had planned for him.

  —

  Fifteen minutes later, he sat across from two strangers in what looked like a very upscale apartment kitchen — open plan, minimal but warm. The woman had arrived just after he’d finished eating: mid-thirties, with dark skin, stylish dreads tied back, and clear, unblinking eyes. She wore a smart blazer over a graphic tee. The words on it said Ignore the Obvious. Her name was Marei.

  Dalen spoke first.

  "You’ve probably realized by now — this isn’t some dream. Or at least, not anymore. You were taken, temporarily, out of regular space. Now you’re back in it. Mostly."

  Virgil leaned back in his chair, hands folded in his lap. "What do you mean ‘mostly’?"

  Marei smiled, but there was something sharp behind it. "You crossed a boundary, whether you meant to or not. That leaves a mark. Most don’t come back. You did is... rare."

  They were dancing around it. He didn't mention the river. No one else should know.

  "What do you want from me?" he asked.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "We believe you carry something," Dalen said. "Something old. A key, metaphorically speaking. Or maybe not metaphorical. We don’t know the form."

  Virgil tilted his head. "You don’t sound very sure."

  Marei shrugged. "We aren’t. The Seventh Key isn’t well-documented. It’s more theory than fact. Until now."

  Virgil filed that away. Seventh implied six others. Possibly found, possibly not. He didn’t ask. Yet.

  "And this key... opens what?"

  They looked at each other. Dalen spoke carefully.

  "Something buried. Something old. Not just dangerous — catalytic. Every few decades, someone stumbles close, and things... shift. Chaos spikes. Systems collapse. A few months ago, a predictive model flagged a convergence event. All signs pointed to you."

  Virgil didn’t blink. "Sounds like a lot of guesswork."

  "It is," Marei said. "But historically, guesswork keeps people alive."

  He liked her more than Dalen. She seemed more honest, even if her honesty came with barbs. Still, none of this told him why he was really here.

  "What now?"

  "You’ll be taken to one of our affiliated academies," Dalen said. "There are people who can help you understand what’s happening — and how to manage it. The world isn’t as simple as it looks."

  "I figured," Virgil said.

  Dalen stood. "My daughter will help you prepare. She’s waiting down the hall. Her name is Serel."

  Virgil caught the faint twist in Dalen’s mouth when he said her name — pride, maybe, mixed with something else. He didn’t press it.

  —

  Serel was maybe a year or two older than him. Tallish, long dark curls pulled into a low ponytail. Wore a sleeveless hoodie over cargo pants and boots that looked like they’d been through at least one explosion. She raised a brow when he stepped in.

  "You’re the river boy."

  He paused. "What?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Joking. I’m not cleared to know whatever it is you did, only that you’re probably carrying the key and I have to baby you till we ship you off."

  Virgil smirked. He couldn’t help it. "Charming."

  "I try."

  Her workspace was part office, part lab, part crash pad. Maps, screens, and hand-drawn diagrams covered one wall. Another had photos with red thread strung between them — old school, but effective.

  "We’ll put together your file. School background, fake medicals, travel documentation," she said. "You’ll need gear, too. I’ve got a few prototypes, but you’ll have to test compatibility."

  "Gear for what?"

  Serel turned toward him, tossing a small device in her hand. It looked like a smartwatch.

  "Let me guess — no one explained any of the actual practicalities? Figures. So... Magic."

  He raised a brow.

  "We don’t call it that," she added quickly. "It’s really just layered reality manipulation — rituals, tech, sometimes both. The term ‘constructs’ is more accurate. They’re built, not born. Everyone aligns to different schools of control. You’ll get tested when you arrive."

  Virgil nodded, storing the details.

  "And these academies... they're all under the same umbrella?"

  She hesitated. "Sort of. More like... uneasy alliances. Most major societies have internal fractures. Power struggles. Think government departments with grudges and centuries-old feuds. But they’re all watching the convergence. And now you."

  "No pressure," he muttered.

  She paused. "You seem... weirdly calm."

  "I’ve had a strange week."

  That was an understatement. The dream had left more than impressions. It had altered something beneath the surface. A quiet distance. He still loved, still felt, but everything was… further away. Like he stood a few steps behind his own eyes.

  He found himself gauging Serel now — her word choices, her posture, the way she revealed just enough to be helpful, never quite vulnerable. Smart. Sharp.

  And guarded.

  He liked that.

  "Your file says your father died when you were young," she said suddenly.

  His jaw tightened. "Yeah."

  "Same. Mine was killed last year. Not by the convergence, but… close. He was part of an offshoot faction trying to contain a construct. Didn’t go well."

  There was a beat of silence.

  "Your little brother’s twelve, right?"

  "Liam. Yeah."

  Serel’s tone softened. "It sucks, having to grow up early."

  Virgil nodded slowly. He thought of Lira, his twin, always dragging him into trouble. His mother’s gentle humming in the kitchen. Liam falling asleep on the couch, cradling his game controller.

  None of this made sense. But he had to play along — not out of trust, but survival. And maybe, just maybe, to protect what little he had left.

  "You’ll be leaving tomorrow morning," Serel said. "I’ll walk you through the last steps tonight. Until then, get some rest. Try not to go dream-diving again."

  He gave her a long look. "You’re assuming I had a choice."

  She didn’t reply.

  —

  Alone again, Virgil stared out the narrow window in his temporary room. Cars moved below, lights blinking through the city fog. The world kept turning, unaware.

  Inside, though, something was shifting. Not just in him, but around him.

  Pieces on a board he couldn’t yet see. Some part of him — the part touched by the river, by whatever presence had reached into him — understood this was only the beginning.

  He felt the key like a whisper in his blood. Not a thing, but a potential. A pattern.

  He closed his eyes.

  And didn’t sleep.

  Not really.