Elias lay in bed, the ceiling dim above him. The night seemed too quiet, like the world had ended a few hours early.
He pulled the covers up to his chest and stared into the dark.
What if I sleep?
Would Theron be waiting? Would the turtle rise again?
Would another war be fought behind his eyelids?
Then he remembered the voice from when he awoke—soft and certain.
"I am the Owner of Dreams."
He repeated it to himself now, quietly, like an anchor.
"I am the Owner of Dreams. I shouldn't be scared to sleep."
With that, Elias let go.
His eyes opened again—but now he stood in a dense forest. Twilight bled through the trees. The air was cool, earthy. He looked down and saw dirt beneath his feet, soft and real.
He was dreaming.
But it felt like he wasn't.
The dream was vivid—not fractured or nonsensical like dreams should be. Every branch, every crunch of leaves underfoot, every distant owl's hoot…it was clear.
He walked forward, branches brushing his shoulders.
Eventually, the forest opened, revealing a massive stone castle, towers reaching into the sky, ivy curling up its gray walls like veins.
The gates stood open.
He stepped inside.
The grand hall was lined with tattered banners and golden sconces burning with dream-flame. At the far end, on a tall throne, sat a figure cloaked in red velvet and gold.
Elias blinked.
It was Ray.
He laughed aloud. "My dreams are so stupid," he muttered, remembering a time when their parents had forced them into a school play. Ray, of course, had insisted on being king.
Then came the cold.
A soft breeze, unnatural, brushed the back of Elias's neck.
He turned toward the gate—nothing.
When he turned back—
Ray was gone.
In his place sat a manikin, its head slowly creaking as it turned toward Elias.
"This is a bizarre dream," Elias whispered, heart thudding.
The manikin shuddered, violently. Cracks appeared on its surface. Then it collapsed inward—shifting, reshaping—
Until Michael stood there.
Alive. Whole. Unbothered.
"You're alive!" Elias gasped.
Michael raised an eyebrow. "What, you thought I would lose?"
Elias hesitated. "Theron is… he's powerful."
Michael nodded. "That he is."
Then he paused. Something in his face shifted—quiet pride wrapped in humility.
"But I'm…" he tapped his chest with two fingers, "me."
Elias stepped forward, eyes wide. "You killed the god of time?"
Michael laughed—a sound like wind through wind chimes. "No. He got away, slippery as ever. He's old, and clever. Always running ahead of the clock."
Micheal frowned. "You said… god?"
Michael sighed. "He likes that word. 'God.' It makes him feel tall."
"But you don't?"
Michael shook his head. "No. 'Gods' want worship. We—Owners—just keep balance. That's our burden. That's our curse."
He leaned forward on the throne, the firelight flickering over his skin.
"Now… don't you have questions?"
A smirk tugged at his lips.