Chapter 3

Less than a minute later, the world around them shifted.

The air rippled, as though reality itself were caught in a slow, distorting wave. The ground beneath them felt uncertain—solid yet not, as if it might dissolve should they stop believing in it. Shadows stretched and curled unnaturally, moving independent of any light source. A weight settled into the space, the oppressive stillness of Tel'aran'rhiod, the World of Dreams.

Then, just as suddenly, the transition was complete.

Rand exhaled, his boots now resting on smooth, polished stone. The chamber around them was eerily familiar, its walls hewn from pale rock that glowed with a soft, ambient light. There were no lamps, no torches—yet the space was never truly dark. A faint floral scent drifted through the air, subtle yet unmistakable. He knew it too well.

Lanfear.

His jaw tightened as he exhaled sharply, irritation creeping into his voice. "Now what do we do?"

Moiraine, standing beside him with the stillness of a sculpted figure, barely glanced his way. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, her blue eyes unreadable. "We wait," she said simply. "When she comes, you can leave."

Rand turned, arms crossed. "What makes you so sure she'll come?"

Moiraine did not answer immediately. Instead, she studied the space around them—the way the light never flickered, the way the scent clung to the air like a memory refusing to fade. A place shaped by thoughts, by emotions too strong to be forgotten.

She met his gaze, calm and absolute. "I know she will."

Silence settled over them, thick as mist. There was no wind in Tel'aran'rhiod, no movement beyond what was willed into being. And yet... something stirred. A shift at the edges of perception.

She was already near.

A voice slid into the quiet, smooth as silk, laced with a knowing amusement. "What's the occasion for this little gathering? I do hope I'm not interrupting."

Lanfear.

She stepped forward with the ease of a cat slipping into a room it already owned. Her dress, black and white, clung to her like flowing liquid, emphasizing the effortless grace in every movement. Her long, jet-black hair cascaded over one shoulder, gleaming in the dreamlight, catching the pale glow of the stone walls like strands of midnight woven with starlight.

But it was her eyes that drew Moiraine's attention—dark, endless pools, filled with knowledge, desire, and something far more dangerous. A woman who had once been Mierin Eronaile, now something older, something sharpened by time and betrayal.

Moiraine held her gaze longer than she should have.

Then, as if sensing the moment, she forced herself to look away.

Rand, however, wasted no time. Without a word, he flickered, his form wavering like a candle flame before vanishing entirely. He had no interest in staying. No interest in her. He had never truly loved her.

And Lanfear had never forgiven him for it.

The Forsaken let out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over her heart. "Oh no, it's just the two of us now. What a tragedy." Her tone was light, teasing—but something else lurked beneath it. Something quieter. Something Moiraine could not yet name.

Lanfear's eyes flicked back to her, studying her with a careful intensity, as though unraveling every thought behind her calm expression. Then, with a slow, measured step, she moved closer.

"At least now," she murmured, "I get to enjoy the company of Moiraine Sedai." Her lips curved into something just shy of a smirk. "Oops—should I still call you that? You were exiled, after all. Cast out from your precious Tower."

Moiraine did not move.

She could feel the weight of the space around them bending to Lanfear's presence, the dream warping to suit her whims. Yet Moiraine held her ground, though every instinct screamed caution. Lanfear was not like the others. Not like Ishamael with his endless riddles, nor like Graendal with her decadent cruelty. No—Lanfear was something else entirely. She blurred the lines of danger, not with overwhelming power, but with something far more insidious.

Moiraine's breath was steady, her voice cold. "I already hate you, Lanfear. So why not get straight to the point?"

A slow smile curled the Forsaken's lips, something between amusement and satisfaction. "Ah. Always so direct." Her fingers trailed idly along the edge of her sleeve, a casual, elegant gesture—yet Moiraine could not shake the feeling that it was meant to distract.

Lanfear stepped closer, deliberate, closing the last whisper of space between them. Her voice, when it came, was lower, almost conspiratorial. "Hate is such an ugly word. And here I thought you had come to ask for my help."

Then, before she could react, the world shifted.

The stone walls faded like ink dissolving in water. The air thickened, growing warmer. The space around them stretched, reformed—

And suddenly, they were elsewhere.

Gone was the strange, empty chamber of Tel'aran'rhiod. Instead, they stood in a room bathed in golden candlelight. The scent of parchment and lavender filled the air. Shelves lined the walls, stacked neatly with books. Deep blue tapestries hung in elegant folds.

Moiraine inhaled sharply.

Her room. The White Tower.

For the first time, her composure cracked—just for an instant. Not in fear, nor in anger, but in the sharp pang of recognition. Of all places, Lanfear had brought her here.

Moiraine turned slowly, eyes narrowing, but Lanfear was already watching her, studying her with quiet amusement.

"Now," she murmured, dragging a single finger along the polished edge of Moiraine's old writing desk, "shall we talk?"