after vash death the boy stay in a inn by a river, during a night, a quiet one, he had a dream something extraordinary, he saw, he saw

  "??┑╥ ???, ┑??? ?????? ???? ╥?┑? ??╓???, ???? ???? ??? ╥????? ??? ?╓ ???."

  The boy's dreams had grown more vivid, more intrusive. Each night, the same vision plagued him a world ruled not by kings or gods, but by a force unseen, a tyrant whose name was never spoken. Worlds did not crumble because of war, famine, or time. It was shackled by something greater, something beyond comprehension. And in every dream, the cloak whispered the same truth.

  The ?? must fall.

  "╥?┑? ┑? ??┑╥ ???????┑?? ???."

  ''??? ??? ┑╥ ┑? ┑ ??┑? ╥? ?? ???╓''

  At first, he dismissed it as a fevered delusion, a trick of exhaustion. But the dreams did not fade. They only grew clearer, filling his mind with forgotten cities, hushed voices, and a looming presence that watched, that directed, that controlled. It was as if something wanted him to understand, to search, to find. But find what?

  The only clue he had was a name spoken in the last dream

  Valley of mirrors.

  He had never heard of it. No maps carried its name. No history spoke of its existence. But he had to try. If there was a path forward, it started with the unknown.

  Thus, the adventure began, the search for the Valley of Mirrors. He walked for weeks through the grasslands until he found a village. There, he asked the locals where the nearest city was. Afraid of the boy's appearance, they pointed west.

  Without a word, he adjusted the worn-out cloak draped over his shoulders and started westward. The villagers watched in silence as he disappeared into the golden light of the setting sun.

  Days passed. The grasslands gave way to rocky terrain, and the boy's feet ached with every step. He had no map, only the whispers of his dreams to guide him. His reflection in a small stream startled him, his face was gaunt, his eyes tired like a hobo. He understood why the villagers feared him.

  One evening, he saw the glow of a distant city against the horizon. The towering walls of stone and iron stood like silent guardians, and the flickering lights of torches lined the gates.

  As he approached the city gates, two armored guards blocked his path. "State your business, traveler," one demanded.

  The boy took a deep breath and replied, "Im here for resupplying."

  The boy kept his hood low as he wandered between the stalls. Traders displayed exotic wares, artifacts from fallen empires, relics imbued with old magic, books written in forgotten tongues. It was here that he hoped to find anything, anyone, who could point him toward Valley of mirrors.

  He stopped at a merchant who sold old maps, the parchment yellowed with time. "I'm looking for a place," the boy said, sliding a few coins forward. "Valley of mirrors."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The merchant's face twitched slightly, but he shook his head. "Never heard of it."

  "Are you sure?"

  The merchant hesitated, then leaned in. "Listen, boy. There are places people remember, and there are places meant to be forgotten. If no one speaks of it, there's a reason."

  The boy frowned. "So it exists?"

  The merchant didn't answer. Instead, he took the coins, rolled up one of the older maps, and pushed it toward him. "Take this. And if you know what's good for you, you'll stop asking questions."

  As the boy left, the cloak tightened around his shoulders. Even without words, he understood. This was a step forward, but it wasn't enough.

  the boy left the city at dawn, venturing into the desert. The grasslands were now a distant memory, replaced by endless dunes that rolled like golden waves under the unforgiving sun.

  Days stretched into weeks. His water ran low, and the sun bore down on him, but he pressed on. At night, the desert was a different world-cold, quiet, and filled with strange whispers carried by the wind. He saw shadows moving in the distance, but whether they were mirages or something else, he could not tell.

  One night, as he rested beneath a lone, twisted tree, he noticed something glinting in the moonlight, His heart pounded. He was close, to a another city or civilization.

  He dreams of the same dream he had before, but this time, it is clearer, though still blurry. He hears languages he cannot understand. Just as he wakes up, his cloak pulls him southwest, he knew it is a sign so he head southwest.

  "By the time he arrives, the sun is setting, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, but the second city is nothing but ruins."

  The Silent Bell was once a grand city, its towering structures now broken and hollow. The boy stood at the entrance, staring at what remained of civilization. No voices, no people, only echoes of something long past. The air was heavy, thick with the weight of lost time.

  The boy walked cautiously through the remains of stone streets. In the center of the ruins stood the bell tower, cracked and leaning, but still standing. He stepped inside and saw the inscriptions covering the walls—words carved in a language that flickered between familiarity and alien script.

  Then his vision blurred.

  The dream returned.

  But this time, he was awake.

  The ruins were no longer ruins. The city was alive, bustling with people. Yet no one spoke. They moved in silence, their faces void of expression, their movements directed like puppets.

  Then he saw it,an empty throne at the heart of the city. No king. No ruler.

  Only a presence.

  Watching. Controlling.

  The silence was suffocating, unnatural. The people were not free. They were being written.

  The boy stumbled back, gasping as the vision shattered. The ruins returned. The people were gone. But the feeling remained.

  He looked to the cloak. "What is this?"

  The fabric trembled, as if it knew the answer but could not say it.

  Then he noticed the pattern on the bell. It matched the one in his dreams.

  Valley of mirrors is real.

  After finding the second city, he realizes he must go even farther southwest so he does.

  As he journeys through the scorching desert, his cloak begins to adapt to the heat, granting him the ability to withstand any heat or cold.

  The farther southwest he traveled, the colder it became, until he found himself in a very foggy rainforest.

  The final stop on his journey took him to a city unlike any he had seen before. The Shrouded Spires was built within a dense fog, its towering structures barely visible through the mist. The people here spoke in riddles, their words layered with double meanings, as if revealing the truth would bring something terrible upon them.

  The boy approached a scholar sitting beside a lantern-lit bridge, hoping for answers.

  "The Valley of Mirrors," he said. "What do you know of it?"

  The scholar looked up, his eyes distant. "A name that does not belong," he murmured. "A city that should not be."

  The boy's heart pounded. "So it exists?"

  The scholar traced his fingers along the wooden railing, watching the mist swirl. "You are looking for something that does not wish to be found."

  He turned his gaze to the boy, studying him carefully. "You are close. But you must be careful."

  "Why?"

  "Because the closer you get, the more it will notice you."

  Something in the way he spoke made the boy uneasy. He had felt it already, an unseen force watching, lurking at the edges of his dreams. He had assumed it was just remnants of the visions, but now he wasn't sure.

  "What happens if I find it?" the boy asked.

  The scholar exhaled slowly, standing. He did not answer the question. Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a single piece of parchment, placing it in the boy's hand before walking away.

  The boy unrolled it carefully. It was blank.

  And then-

  A word appeared.

  The Valley of Mirrors.

  But something else followed. More letters, shifting, rearranging-

  Find the World Tree.

  The parchment began to burn from the edges inward. Within seconds, it was nothing but ash in his palm.

  A chill ran through him.

  The dreams were getting clearer.

  The cloak tightened around him once more, as if bracing itself.

  They were getting closer.

  To be continued.