The night was thick with clouds in a distant kingdom far beyond Seraphina's borders. Stars hid their faces behind veils of darkness, and the wind carried a chill that whispered omens to those who dared to listen.
In a modest chamber at the edge of a forgotten palace, an individual tossed restlessly beneath layers of woven blankets. The room was dim, the walls cracked and forgotten by time. The individual lived in shadows, blending in—a ghost among the living.
But that night, something ancient stirred.
The dream began in silence. Not a silence of peace, but of the void—empty, consuming. Then came the scent of smoke. The crackle of dry grass under bare feet. Through the veil of blackness, a shadow moved and split the void like water.
A voice, low and commanding, whispered: "Go."
Suddenly, a vision emerged.
A kingdom trembling on the brink of ruin. Drought cracked the earth like broken pottery. Shadows slithered where light once lived. Faces were gaunt, hollowed by hunger and fear. And there, high above the suffering, stood a young queen cloaked in royal silk—her eyes distant, her frame heavy with invisible chains.
The name carried through the air like sacred fire: Seraphina.
The vision twisted. The individual now stood upon a scorched plain, blackened and dead. The sky above boiled red as if bleeding. Crows circled in silence. At the plain's edge, Seraphina's kingdom loomed—shrouded in smoke, draped in silence.
Then the man appeared.
He descended from the heavens, clothed in radiant light. His beauty was not human—it glowed, otherworldly, almost painful to behold. A soft smile played at his lips, and his eyes held the weight of eternity. He stretched out his hand toward the dreamer, his voice ringing with impossible clarity.
"Go to her. Go to the one who cries for rest."
The earth trembled. The heavens split apart. From behind him emerged the girl—the one of roots and vines, her body entwined with thorns and blooming nightshade. She was both terrifying and beautiful. Her silence screamed.
Her presence pulled.
The man's light reached forward.
The vines curled.
The individual stood, torn between warmth and shadow, breath frozen.
And just before a choice could be made—
They awoke.
Gasping. Cold sweat poured down their face. The chamber was eerily quiet, the air heavy with the scent of iron and dust. Outside, the wind howled like a wounded beast.
The dream had been no ordinary vision.
It was a summons.
The voice belonged to the Most High God, not just the one worshiped above all in Seraphina's kingdom—but one far greater. He was more powerful than Seraphina's kingdom's god, more powerful than any deity the people had ever known. There was no doubt in the dreamer's mind—the calling came from Him. No other voice could bear such weight, such glory. He was sovereign over heaven and earth. His word alone could shake the heavens and reshape destinies.
The name Seraphina echoed in the individual's mind like a chant, unrelenting. Their path had been chosen. Not by kings or councils—but by the Most High.
Without delay, they rose. Their movements were swift, mechanical. A satchel was filled. A cloak drawn over their shoulders. The face hidden. Their entire life, they had prepared for something unknown.
Now, they knew.
They stepped through the darkened halls of the forgotten palace, unseen. None watched them go. None stopped them.
But as the individual slipped into the night, the winds shifted.
The old gods stirred.
And the world turned its gaze toward a kingdom on the edge of collapse.
The one who had been called in dreams was coming.
And fate, once more, began to move.