Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 409

**Chapter  409: Transmission**
*North Coast of the Conqueror Sea, Navaha.*

Late at night, in a quiet hotel room, Dorothy sat by the warmth of a brazier, her damp hair wrapped in a towel, pajamas clinging softly to her frame after a fresh shower. She had just been listening to the soft, steady cadence of Vania’s prayers—something that had become a background rhythm in her life—but it had stopped, cut short unexpectedly. It didn’t fade gently. It faltered, broke apart, and then disappeared completely. Her brows knitted with faint concern.

Vania, raised in the strict doctrines of the clergy, practiced her faith with steadfast discipline. She adhered closely to the rituals of the Glorious Church, especially the twice-daily prayers at morning and evening. They were more than tradition to her—they were sacred habits, rarely, if ever, neglected.

Before meeting Akasha, Vania had always prayed to the Holy Trinity, following the Church’s tenets to the letter. But everything shifted after that encounter—after Akasha revealed truths and saved her life. Gradually, without Vania even realizing it, the focus of her prayers changed. Though her words remained familiar, their intent veered. The “Lord” she now invoked was not the Trinity, but Akasha.

The liturgies were technically unchanged. The names, the flow, the form—they all echoed past devotion. But the presence she now called upon was different. The transformation was subtle, deep-rooted. She no longer addressed individual divine figures. Her prayers, once directed clearly, now summoned a more abstract “Lord”—a being who was, in reality, Dorothy.

And Dorothy knew this all too well. Because Akasha—at least in part—was her. Every word Vania spoke in prayer was audible to her through the System.

She could have blocked it out, muted the connection with a simple filter. But Dorothy worried that doing so might mean missing something critical—a cry for help, an emergency plea. And beyond that, she found something oddly comforting in Vania’s prayers. Her voice carried a calm, melodic cadence, likely shaped by years of ritual chant. It had a quality Dorothy enjoyed, so she let it play on, lowering the volume only slightly as a kind of gentle background reminder of time passing.

For months now, she had grown used to the regularity of those prayers—dawn and dusk, never far from schedule. So when the connection broke mid-prayer that night, it immediately struck her as strange.

‘Did her voice just… stop mid-sentence? She sounded drowsy before it cut out… Did she fall asleep while praying?’

That would be unusual. Vania was nothing if not dedicated during her prayers. Dorothy had never heard her drift off like that. Was she perhaps overtired?

Sitting near the brazier, towel resting on her lap, Dorothy’s thoughts circled. Maybe Vania had simply fallen asleep, overwhelmed by fatigue. But then again… she didn’t have much reason to be exhausted lately.

‘She’s on pilgrimage right now—basically on a sponsored retreat. She has no active duties. Even during the skirmish at the port two days ago, when the Holy War Knights clashed with Costas, the wounded were treated by their own medical staff. No one called for her assistance. I haven’t assigned her anything either. So how could she be that drained?’

The more she considered it, the less it made sense. While the idea of someone nodding off during prayer wasn’t inherently suspicious, it was uncharacteristic for Vania. And given the time of year—still lingering winter chill—falling asleep in a public space could pose real dangers.

‘If she’s in a church or somewhere exposed, dozing off like that could be risky. She could get sick. Worse, someone might try to take advantage. I need to make sure she’s safe.’

With that thought, Dorothy activated the puppet mark—a subtle psychic connection she shared with Vania. She reached through the link gently, intending to rouse her. But nothing happened. No stir of awareness. That odd silence returned, now with a tinge of unease.

‘Strange… is she just that deeply asleep?’

Her frown deepened. She tried again, this time pushing further, asserting her will through the link. She took hold of Vania’s body remotely, opened her eyes, and looked around through borrowed vision. The church was dimly lit, empty except for shadows. She made Vania’s hand rise and attempt a self-inflicted pinch.

Still nothing. The body responded, but Vania’s mind was absent—completely unresponsive. Dorothy’s chest tightened.

‘No… this isn’t normal sleep. I know this… This is Deep Slumber.’

She whispered the words aloud, dread creeping in. It was the same condition Gregory had fallen into months earlier, aboard the Tivian-bound train, when agents of the Eight-Pointed Nest had dosed him with a coma-inducing agent. He had been unreachable, even while his body lived. Now Vania was experiencing the same unnatural state.

Her expression hardened. This wasn’t a simple case of someone dozing off during prayer. Something—or someone—had forced this upon her.

‘Who did this? The Eight-Pointed Nest again? Could they be targeting her now, trying to swap her like they attempted with Gregory?’

But the circumstances didn’t line up. Gregory had been isolated in a private train cabin, the perfect setting for replacement. Vania was in a public church, surrounded by others engaged in Evening Prayers. Pulling off a switch here would be next to impossible.

‘So if it’s not them, then who? And why? What do they gain by plunging Vania into Deep Slumber?’

Dorothy’s mind raced. She needed answers—and fast. The only way to get them was to speak to Vania. But with her consciousness submerged so deeply, normal communication was out of the question.

‘If I could reach her dream… like I did with Gregory… But I don’t have the location of her dream cocoon. No anchor runes either. Dream travel’s out unless I had help from someone like that dreamwalking fox. But tracking her down could take too long.’

Time was slipping away, and her usual methods were useless. But then she remembered: the Contact Channel.

‘When I helped Gregory, I was able to use the Contact Channel to send and receive messages from his dream. Maybe I can do the same with Vania…’

And Vania had been praying to her—Dorothy—as she drifted off. That moment of prayer might serve as a direct line. It was a stretch, but worth a try.

She focused, channeling her will through the still-active link. If Vania’s last prayer had truly been an offering of herself, it might grant permission to reach into her mental space—even draw out thoughts directly.

Sure enough, the connection held. Dorothy began to receive fragmented impressions from Vania’s dream. A vision formed: the church plaza, bathed in night. Vania stood within it, hazy, her dream-self wavering. And near her—something far more ominous—a shifting, shadowy figure loomed.

Dorothy’s breath caught.

……

“Sister Vania, who leads your fleet?” asked the shade, its form lacking any definite features, voice calm but invasive.

Without hesitation, Vania replied, “Sir Giodo Bianchi. He’s our commander.”

“Bianchi… Ivigian, isn’t he? Where did your fleet depart from? What’s your destination—and your purpose?”

“From Falanor. We’re headed to Ivig… for pilgrimage,” she answered, her voice vacant, compliant.

Dorothy watched, frozen. Vania was giving up sensitive details without resistance. Her mind, clouded by the dream, answered every question truthfully—helpless to the probing.

‘There’s an intruder… inside her dream. That shadow must be the one who dragged her into this state!’

The implications hit hard. Dorothy had opened the channel hoping to ask Vania what had happened. But instead, she’d stumbled directly into the interrogation itself. The attacker wasn’t just there—they were in control, extracting information in real time.

‘Whoever this is… they’re powerful. They can slip into dreams and pull secrets right out of the mind. Just like that little fox. That must be how Vania was forced into Deep Slumber.’

And what’s worse—the questions were zeroing in on Church operations. On the fleet.

Dorothy’s alarm surged. If the shadow continued, it would eventually lead Vania to speak of her. Her influence. Her true identity. That couldn’t happen.

‘If it keeps digging, it’ll uncover everything. I can’t let this continue.’

Desperation gripped her. She didn’t have time to find the intruder’s real body, nor could she storm the dream directly. There was only one path left.

The puppet mark and Contact Channel were her two remaining threads of control. Her mind raced for a solution, recalling what she’d done with Gregory.

‘Back then… I transmitted dangerous knowledge into his dream, overwhelming the invader. Maybe… just maybe, I can do the same here.’

Her eyes narrowed.

“You want secrets, do you?” Dorothy muttered. “Then choke on this.”

She reached into the deepest corners of her mind, unearthing hidden scraps of forbidden texts—cursed lore from Grimoires whose contents no sane person should touch. Pouring those volatile fragments into the Contact Channel, she flung them straight into Vania’s dream, weaponizing the dreamscape itself.

She aimed to drown the shadow in forbidden truths—knowledge so raw and twisted, it could poison thought itself.

Let the intruder learn what it meant to pry into minds that were not theirs.