I have watched ages rise and collapse into dust.But some moments, even for me, carry a weight that shifts the pattern of a world.
This was such a moment.
Three days after Kaelar's death, the Sanctuary of Torvas had stilled into a silence that clung to every stone. The flames carved into the walls no longer glowed with pride they trembled like dying embers.
Inside the hall of council, the High Priest stood before his people, the king's sealed decree in hand.
Priests lined the left side of the chamber. Knights and knights-in-training stood on the right, armor dulled by grief. Varos, Dream walking in mortal skin stood quietly near the rear, a shadow observing shadows. Erias stood beside him, small but burning with a growing storm.
The High Priest raised the royal seal.
"Three days ago," he began, voice heavy, "the King sent word. I am summoned to the capital within five days to discuss the fall of Aramoor."
Whispers rippled through the room.
"He summons you?""The capital moves at last""Will he aid us?"
The High Priest raised a hand for silence.
"It is not only I who will go."
The chamber waited, breath held.
"My escort must be chosen."
Immediately the arguing began.
A senior priest stepped forward, robes still smelling faintly of incense and ash. "High Priest, you must take those of us who can call divine authority. A group of priests should accompany you."
Before the High Priest could answer, the knight-general stepped forward, armor ringing sharply with each movement.
"Priests alone cannot protect you. You must take knights. Armed, disciplined, battle-tested."
Murmurs sharpened into debate priests calling for spiritual wisdom, knights for strength of arms. Voices rose, overlapping, swelling into a discordant storm.
I felt Varos watching them all, quiet behind mortal eyes.
But the High Priest was unmoved.
He lifted one hand.
Silence obeyed him.
His gaze swept the room slowly, as though memorizing every grief-lined face.
"Torvas speaks through conviction," he said softly, "and mine is firm."
The entire room leaned forward.
"My escort will be small."
Someone gasped.
"I will take three knights."
Nods followed knights puffing with pride, priests whispering disapproval.
"I will also take Erias."
Every voice stopped.
Eyes swung toward the boy.
The room erupted.
"What!? He is a child!""The mantle has not settled upon him""The Blade is dead how can this boy represent Torvas?""He can barely wield a sword!"
Erias stood frozen. Varos rested a hand on the boy's shoulder, steadying him.
The High Priest lifted his staff, and the floor throbbed with a faint ripple of divine flame.
Silence fell like stone.
"And finally," he said, "I will take Varos."
The uproar doubled.
"But High Priest he is a stranger!""No priesthood knows him""You trust an outsider with this journey!?""He hides more than he reveals!"
Varos did not move. He simply gazed forward, the flicker of Dream hidden behind mortal amber eyes.
The High Priest set the king's seal upon the table.
"This is my verdict."
His voice cut through every protest.
"Torvas's will is not shouted. It is understood. And I have understood."
One by one, voices died. Arguments faded into reluctant acceptance.
When the chamber emptied, only the echo of grief remained.
Night had always shaped the Dreamborn gently, as a mother shapes her child's first breath. But today the Dream Realm carried tension thin, stretched, uneasy.
Erias trained beneath Seros's watchful eyes, and the Nightmare general's looming presence. Here he appeared older, sharper, his mortal body replaced by his deeper self the self shaped by sleep, spirit, and fear.
Seros stepped back as Erias struggled to rise again after the last fall. His breath was ragged, sweat dripping into silver-blue dream sand.
"Enough for now," Seros said softly. "You push too hard."
Erias's fists clenched.
"I'm not strong enough. Not yet.""You are grieving," Seros replied. "Anger clouds the dream. It turns all paths to shadow."
The Nightmare general chuckled a sound like stone cracking in darkness.
"Let the boy burn," he said. "Fire tempers steel, little dream-sister."
Seros glared. "Nightmares break more than they temper."
Erias looked between them, jaw trembling with the weight of loss, fear, determination.
"Then let him break," the Nightmare murmured. "And rebuild stronger."
The anger in the boy's eyes flared again.
"Seros," he said, voice shaking, "I want the Nightmare to train me. Not you."
The words sliced her like a blade.
She took a slow breath. "You believe pain will make you grow faster. But pain without guidance leads to ruin."
"I don't care," Erias whispered. "If he can make me strong, that's all I want."
Seros hesitated.
The Nightmare general smiled.
"Then come to me, little warrior. I will teach you strength. Real strength."
Erias stepped toward him.
And Seros's heart broke quietly.
In the core of his realm, Varos no, Dream stood over the tear in his domain. It writhed, snarling with corrupted dream-energy left behind by the Fallen's influence.
Each repair cost him strength.
When Seros appeared, Dream did not turn, but he felt her.
"How is he?" Dream asked.
Seros bowed her head low.
"He hides pain behind anger," she whispered. "He trains until he collapses. He has… refused my teaching."
Dream closed his eyes.
"And chosen the Nightmare," Seros finished softly.
The realm trembled faintly.
Dream exhaled not in frustration, but in sorrow.
"You have done well," he said.
With a wave of his hand, he sent her back to her duties. The Dream Realm dimmed around him as he faced the swirling wound in his sky once more.
He placed his palm upon it.
The tear hissed like a living thing.Dream pushed.Reality mended inch by painful inch.
Then
The temperature dropped.
Every dream-light flickered.
Even the tear paused its writhing.
Dream's eyes narrowed.
"Not now," he murmured.
But the realm answered him not in words in shadow.
A tall being.A body carved from solid, shifting night.Edges sharp as black stone, moving with the silence of cosmic death.Eyes burning like collapsed stars lightless, devouring.A presence colder than void, hungering without end.
Evil.
Born from Night's womb, twin of Despair.
It took a single step, and Dream's realm shuddered beneath its weight.
Dream stood tall, weary but unbroken.
"You were not invited," he said, voice low.
Evil's voice rumbled like grinding celestial stone.
"Invitation is a mortal concept."
Dream frowned. "State your purpose."
Evil tilted its head, shadows peeling from its movement like smoke.
"You should leave Vvralis."
Dream's eyes narrowed. "And why is that?"
"Because the Fallen claim it," Evil replied. "And they will take it. The traitor moves. Ellas commands. The planet will fall. You waste your strength trying to save a world already lost."
Dream lifted his hand.
The sky trembled.
"I am warning you only once," Evil murmured. "Turn away. Forget that world. Focus on this realm you can barely keep from unraveling."
Its starless eyes flickered toward the tear.
"I see your weakness."
The realm darkened.
Dream's anger flared.
"You presume too much."
Evil leaned forward, cold hunger radiating from its core.
"Walk away," it whispered. "Save yourself the shame of losing what you hold."
There are few beings in all creation whom Dream truly despises.
Evil is one.
Dream's hand fell like a judgment.
The realm convulsed.
Evil staggered backward as the ground beneath it split a wound opened by Dream's cosmic fury.
"Get. Out."
Dream's voice shook the Dream Realm itself.
Evil's body cracked, shadows splitting like torn fabric. Yet it smiled a slow, void-filled smile.
"As you wish."
And with a sound like a dying star, Evil vanished.
The realm steadied.
But Dream remained still, trembling with fury and fear.
For Evil's final words had echoed with a truth he could not ignore.
Evil's warning was not given out of mercy. It was given because the Fallen are confident.
Too confident.
And confidence in the hands of those born from shadow is always a sign of something new stirring in the dark.
Something nearing its birth.
I watched Dream sink to one knee beside the fracture he repaired with bleeding strength. I watched Erias train beneath a Nightmare's harsh tutelage. I watched the High Priest steel himself for a journey that would reshape the kingdom.
And I watched Evil return to the Fallen, whispering of Dream's exhaustion, sowing seeds of arrogance in the hearts of monsters.
The pattern of Vvralis was shifting.
Threads tightening toward a collision neither mortals nor gods yet understood.
But I saw it.
I always see it.
And I knew
The next break in the pattern would not be a tear in Dream's realm.
It would be a tear in the world itself.