The Dreamer stood at the edge of the void—a black pit in the Void Realm known as the Black Depth. Unlike the ghostly starlight-glowing void-sea or the shrieking rifts torn asunder by previous wars, the Black Depth neither pulsed nor glowed. It devoured light, thought, and even time.
As per Velmoria's last words when she fainted from the price of sharing her Heart-Furnace, the Depth was the Void's wound that the First King never repaired. It was described as the resting ground for truths too perilous to be spoken of—an ancient prison, or a grave, perhaps.
"Do not take another step forward," warned Yil'Ahra, Warden of Ash-Words, who had trailed the Dreamer silently since Velmoria's downfall. "The Depth speaks, and those who lack a mind of iron will hear… and fall."
The Dreamer did not heed her.
Instead, he knelt. His fingers followed the distorted geometry of the edge, where symmetry was not possible and lines curved back upon themselves. His memories began to take on life in bursts of something old—his earliest memory, or the echo of a life prior to the Void.
A boy. A crown. A mirror. A betrayal.
The Depth said nothing. And then—
A voice. Cold, familiar, sounding like his own but twisted:
"What do you want, Crownless One?"
The Dreamer's eyes narrowed. "Truth. I have killed Titans, broken seals, endured Velmoria's wrath and favor in equal portions. I will not be denied what I am—and why the Void claims me its king."
The Black Depth opened—not in fire or light, but in memory. It reflected not only sound, but intent. The chasm distorted its space into an arch—a mirror of dark obsidian, climbing up out of the center of the pit like a monolith. But what it reflected was not the Dreamer as he stood.
It showed him crowned.
It showed him ruling.
And it showed him dying, pierced by a thousand spears of thought.
The Mirrorborn Lie had been awakened.
K'Tharion once foretold of the three great deceptions that governed the Void. The first was Time. The second was Identity. And the third was the Mirror.
The Dreamer touched the obsidian mirror—and it touched him. A flawless reflection, but with eyes of gold rather than his own silver. Sitting on thorns of starlight. Wearing the dreams of dead gods.
What are you?" the Dreamer asked.
The Mirror self smiled. "I am the version of you that existed before the shattering of the Crown. The version of you that recalled. I am the Mirrorborn King. And I bring you peace."
The Dreamer smiled, tired and bitter. "Peace? In the Void?"
"Yes," the Mirrorborn replied. "Peace, in return for surrender. Forgive your question. Forgive your journey. Come back to me, and I will allow you to sleep."
But the Dreamer shook his head. "I'd rather burn."
The mirror shook and the illusion was broken.
The Mirrorborn stepped out of the glass—a mirror image of the Dreamer, to every breath and every scar. But in his eyes, there was no warmth. Only quiet, as if something had forgotten how to live.
It surrounded them, the Depth. The gravity of truth warped the world. The floor was sky. Whispers hung in the air, shouting the names of the forgotten.
Then, we shall fight, the Mirrorborn declared, drawing a sword made of unspoken regrets.
The battle was not of flesh but of will.
The Dreamer strode on, calling forth the fragments of Void-art he'd stolen from the conquered Titans—Velmoria's Heart-Furnace fire, K'Tharion's control of the mind, even the cry of space from the initial Void Beast he'd slain.
The Mirrorborn retaliated with his memory. Every time the Dreamer struck, the Mirrorborn was ready. For he had the one thing the Dreamer feared most—knowledge of the Dreamer's past.
They fought in a location where form fragmented and words ceased to hold meaning. For each blow the Dreamer struck, a memory was taken. For each wound he took, a lost truth was recalled.
You were never Crownless, the Mirrorborn whispered during combat. "You discarded it. You opted for oblivion."
The Dreamer faltered.
And at that time, the Mirrorborn pierced him through the heart.
But no blood was there. Instead, images erupted from the wound.
A shadow boy crowned. Twelve void-saints in council. Betrayal in the Spiral Court. A voice crying out "Remember who you are!
The Dreamer screamed—and the wound closed. The Depth about him seethed with rage, refusing what had just occurred.
He had taken the Mirrorborn's blade of memory and absorbed it.
Now, he could see.
Not exactly. But enough.
You are a lie, he told the Mirrorborn. "Not a reflection, not a past. You are the temptation of stillness. The sleep of truth. You're not a memory—you're the trap made to make me forget."
The Mirrorborn snarled. "Then what are you?
The Dreamer arose, eyes shining silver with the light of newly gained knowledge.
"I am the one who tore off his own crown and threw it into the void. I had chosen to forget. And now, I choose to remember."
He raised his hand—and the Depth obeyed.
With a cry of will, the Dreamer shattered the obsidian mirror.
It shattered into pieces—each of which revealed some other reality, some other way, some other world in which he failed, or ruled, or perished.
But he looked at none of them.
He walked away.
The Mirrorborn howled, not with pain, but with loss—as if a shard of reality itself had slipped out of place.
Hours went by. Or days. Depth no longer kept track of time.
The Dreamer met Yil'Ahra again at the edge of the chasm. She glared at him with a narrowed eye. "You returned."
"I had to," he replied bluntly. "There's still more to do."
She indicated his chest. "You were injured.".
He shook his head. "I was freed."
Yil'Ahra didn't know—but bowed. "Then the next road lies open."
The sky over the Depth split, and a new star shone to life. Not one forged of flame, but of recollection.
The Dreamer looked up and said only those three words:
"Bring me Northwyn." It was time to face the person who started it all. The individual that rendered him Crownless.