The following days were a blur of escalating unease. The once-vibrant village of Oakhaven, nestled amidst rolling hills and whispering forests, now seemed shrouded in a perpetual twilight. The sun, usually a comforting presence, felt distant and weak, its light struggling to pierce the heavy, oppressive air. An unusual chill had settled over the land, a cold that seeped into the bones and lingered long after the sun dipped below the horizon. Even the normally boisterous river that snaked through the valley seemed subdued, its cheerful babbling replaced by a low, mournful murmur.

Lyra noticed the changes, of course. She saw the fear etched onto the faces of her neighbors, the apprehension in their hushed conversations. The cheerful laughter of children playing in the meadows was replaced by a nervous silence. But it was the dreams, the ever-increasing intensity and frequency of the dreams, that truly unsettled her.