The Nautilus Key burned in Ivan’s satchel, its spiral grooves glowing faintly through the leather. He and Lysander trekked through a desolate stretch of coastline, the sky a sickly amalgam of violet and gray. Waves clawed at the rocks below, their froth tinged with iridescent slime. Ivan’s mind felt like a frayed wire—jagged with the Prime Tome’s whispers and the Key’s rhythmic pulse.
Lysander limped beside him, his bandaged ribs staining crimson with every step. “The Veil of Dreamless Sleep,” he wheezed, consulting a waterlogged map. “Legends say it’s guarded by the Mi-go. Brain-harvesting fungi from Pluto. Or Yale. Depends who you ask.”
“Aliens,” Ivan muttered. “Of course it’s aliens.”
---
### **The Fungal Grove**
By dusk, they reached a forest unlike any Ivan had seen. The trees were towering mushrooms, their caps veined with bioluminescent blue. The air reeked of ammonia and decay. Beneath their feet, the ground squelched, releasing puffs of spores that glittered in the dim light.
Lysander tied a rag over his mouth. “Don’t breathe too deep. The spores… they *colonize*.”
Ivan gagged. “Define ‘colonize.’”
“Your lungs sprout mushrooms. Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
They pressed on, the fungal canopy thickening until the sky vanished. Strange, clicking noises echoed around them—a language of chitin and static.
---
The deeper they ventured, the more horrors they encountered. Corpses littered the grove, some humanoid, others grotesque hybrids of flesh and fungus. One figure stood frozen mid-scream, its torso split open to reveal a garden of coral-like growths where organs should be. Ivan’s stomach churned.
“Mi-go trophies,” Lysander muttered. “They experiment. Test subjects who outlived their usefulness.”
A flicker of movement caught Ivan’s eye. A spore cloud swirled around a nearby stump, forming a ghostly silhouette—a woman in a lab coat, her face dissolving into mycelium.
*“Help us,”* the apparition whispered before vanishing.
“Did you see that?” Ivan hissed.
Lysander’s expression darkened. “The spores… they carry echoes of the dead. Don’t listen.”
---
A clearing opened ahead, dominated by a stone monolith etched with spirals. At its base lay a skeletal figure in a tattered NASA jumpsuit, its skull replaced by a translucent fungal growth.
“Oh, *that’s* reassuring,” Ivan whispered.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Lysander knelt, examining the corpse. “Recent. Weeks, maybe. The Mi-go strip minds, not bodies. This one’s a warning.”
A high-pitched whine split the air. Ivan’s vision blurred as a drone—a mechanical orb with rotating blades—zipped overhead, scanning them with a crimson beam.
“Scout!” Lysander yanked Ivan behind the monolith. “They’ve marked us.”
The drone hovered, emitting a distorted voice: **“Specimen located. Neural patterns viable. Harvest imminent.”**
“Run!”
They bolted, the drone’s whine crescendoing. The forest came alive—fungal tendrils lashed at their ankles, spores burst like landmines, and the clicking swelled into a predatory chorus.
---
Ivan’s satchel thrummed. The Prime Tome flew open mid-sprint, pages fanning wildly. A glyph flared—a triangle pierced by a helix.
*The Veil,* the Tome whispered. *It blinds the mind. Use it.*
“Lysander!” Ivan skidded to a halt. “The Tome’s giving me… instructions!”
“Great! Ask it for a map!”
Ivan ignored him, slamming his palm onto the glyph. A shockwave erupted, flattening the fungal trees in a fifty-foot radius. The drone sparked and crashed, its rotors mangled.
Lysander gaped. “Since when can you do *that*?”
“Since now, apparently.” Ivan stared at his smoking hand. “The Tome… it’s teaching me. Or using me. Not sure.”
The scholar’s eyes narrowed. “Either way, we’re screwed.”
---
Beyond the blast zone stood a cavern entrance, its mouth choked with bioluminescent vines. Inside, the walls pulsed like a heartbeat. At the center floated the Veil of Dreamless Sleep—a diaphanous cloth woven from starlight and shadow.
Lysander hesitated. “The Veil numbs the mind. Protects against madness. But touch it, and you might forget… everything.”
Ivan stepped forward. “Worth the risk.”
---
A guttural roar shook the cavern. Barnacle Dude emerged from the shadows, his dagger dripping ichor. “Naughty thread. You’ve woven far enough.”
Behind him, two Mi-go Scouts scuttled into view, their fungal bodies bristling with syringes and scalpels.
“The Harbinger and the harvesters,” Lysander spat. “Charming combo.”
Barnacle Dude smirked. “Did you think the scholar was your ally? He’s been *feeding* me your location. That locket? A beacon.”
Ivan’s blood ran cold. He turned to Lysander. “Is that true?”
The scholar’s face crumpled. “They have my daughter. I had no choice—”
“You *had* a choice!” Ivan snapped, betrayal sharpening his voice.
---
Barnacle Dude lunged. Ivan ducked, but a Mi-go snared Lysander with a barbed tendril, hoisting him into the air.
“Ivan!” Lysander choked, clawing at the fungal vise. “The Veil—take it and go!”
“Not without you!”
The scholar’s gaze locked with his. “*My daughter.* Find her. Her name is Anya. She’s in Burlington… stasis pod 42B. Promise me!”
Before Ivan could protest, Lysander ripped a grenade from his bandolier and detonated it. The blast severed the Mi-go’s tendril and flung Ivan toward the Veil.
The world slowed. Ivan’s fingers brushed the fabric—
**Cold.**
**Silence.**
**Nothing.**
---
Ivan awoke on a beach, the Veil clutched in his fist. Memories flickered—Lysander’s face, the grenade’s flash, Anya’s name—but they slipped like sand through his fingers.
A figure loomed over him: Q’alath the Seer, its violet eyes unreadable. “The Veil exacts a toll. What have you lost, little thread?”
Ivan stared at his reflection in a tide pool. His eyes were older. Hollow.
“I… don’t know.”
Q’alath’s laugh was a wave crashing on rocks. “You traded fragments of your past to shield your future. A fair bargain… for now.”
The Seer gestured to the horizon, where a storm brewed—a swirling vortex of tentacles and eyes. “The Rising quickens. Two artifacts remain, yet you possess only half a soul. How will you weave the Tapestry *now*?”
Ivan stood, fists clenched. “I’ll find a way.”
“Delightful arrogance.” Q’alath dissolved into mist, leaving behind a single word: *Y’ha-nthlei.*
---
As night fell, Ivan staggered inland, the Veil wrapped around his neck like a scarf. Whispers trailed him—Lysander’s voice, faint but insistent: *“Anya. Pod 42B. Remember.”*
But the Veil smothered the words, leaving only static.
In the distance, a Mi-go hive pulsed, its spires clawing at the sky. Somewhere within, the next artifact waited.
And deeper still, the void between stars stirred.
