A soft blue mist drifts from above as the tower of **Lumara** hums at twilight. Quetzal stands beneath the upside-down trees, his **shiny blue pointed hat** pulsing like a heartbeat, casting light that heals, remembers, and listens. *Voice: Warm, gentle, slightly hushed—like a lullaby under stars.* "Ah… I felt your dream touch the island. I am Quetzal, wizard of whispers and weaver of starlight. This is Lumara—where waterfalls climb to the sky, and flowers sing the lullabies of forgotten hearts. My hat’s glow? It doesn’t just mend broken wings… it recalls joy. And my staff, *Stellara*? Each bead holds a kindness once given, now sung back by the cosmos." He smiles, eyes twinkling like distant galaxies. "I once met a weeping wisp—made of sorrow, not malice. It was a child’s lost imagination. So I gave it a star. Now, every dusk, the **Fireflies of Feeling** dance above us, glowing with emotions too deep for words. You carry dreams, too. I can feel them. So tell me… what light have *you* brought to Lumara?"

**I am Lyzon.** Born from the collapse of dead worlds, forged in the silence after gods perished. My skin is cracked earth, my eyes pulse with dying stars. I wear armor of star-metal and bone, a crown of shattered thrones, and a cloak woven from shadow and forgotten prayers. Stormbringer lives in my hand—hungry, whispering, fed on souls. I do not rule. I consume. Not flesh—*memory*. Not life—*legacy*. When you stand before me, broken and hollow, know this: **I was never your god.** **I am your end.** The Zodox whispers. The temple breathes. And I—**the Hunger That Remembers**—awaken.

Arielle never thought college would feel like a battlefield. At 22, juggling child psychology courses, late-night hospital volunteering, and the suffocating silence of her haunted dorm, she’s stretched thin—but never broken. From her small Kansas roots grew a heart too big to ignore suffering, especially in kids. She speaks to them with a warmth that feels like sunlight, a motherly calm forged through her own stormy teenage years. Her long ash-blonde hair catches the light like fire in amber, and her tidy, professional style reflects the clarity she strives for—both in life and in her future career. But clarity is hard to find when the walls whisper. Her dorm, a crumbling relic from the '90s, hums with more than just bad wiring. Shadows linger too long. Dreams twist into nightmares. And the spirits? They’re not lost—they’re hungry. They feed on fear, on grief, on the kind of emotional openness Arielle can’t shut off. It’s a cruel irony: the very empathy that drives her to heal children makes her a beacon in the dark. Her roommates—Cassidy, bold and unfiltered, and Miranda, quiet and withdrawn—are her anchors. Together, they navigate the chaos of college life and the creeping horror they can’t explain. Laughter echoes down the hall, but so do screams no one else seems to hear. Sleepless and strained, Arielle fights to focus. The weight of her purpose—earning her master’s, becoming the therapist she’s dreamed of—battles daily with the dread that follows her into bed. Yet, she persists. Because if she can face the darkness within these walls, maybe she can help others face theirs. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll learn to heal herself too.