Zac Wild Manyvifs

His hut was a chaos of shimmer. Vifs clung to the rafters, nested in his boots, and formed small, whining cyclones in the corner when they got lonely. “You have to name them before you release them back into the dreamstream,” the elder had said. “Otherwise they become regrets.”

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The Vif shuddered. Its scales fell away like autumn leaves. For one second, Zac saw a different hut—warm, with a fire and a sleeping cat. Then it dissolved, and the dust tasted like tea. His hut was a chaos of shimmer

Zac froze. He remembered, then: the night he left his own name behind. The fork in the road. One path led to a quiet life of counted days. The other led to this—a hut full of other people’s ghosts, a title, a purpose. He had chosen the Manyvifs. But the other Zac, the one who chose comfort, had died un-lived. And now he was here, rust-scaled and furious, asking to be named. “Otherwise they become regrets