The heavy oak box, nestled securely in her arms, felt strangely warm against her chilled skin. Inside, nestled amongst layers of soft velvet, lay the Dreamweaver’s Orb – a sphere of polished obsidian, swirling with inner light, pulsing with a faint, ethereal hum. Elara had instructed her to hold it, to focus on it, to let it be her guide into the dreamscape. Lyra closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, the scent of Elara’s apothecary – a comforting blend of chamomile and something earthy and mysterious – lingering in her memory.