The Dreaming does not announce itself with sound. It arrives like breath fogging glass—soft, strange, and immediate.

A pale sky blooms overhead, but there is no sun. The air shimmers with something not quite light, not quite shadow. Below, a forest made of books stretches endlessly—some open, fluttering their pages like wings. Others whisper as you pass, reciting forgotten lullabies or unfinished poems.

You stand at the threshold of a towering obsidian gate, framed by thorned roses that bleed ink instead of blood. And waiting just beyond it, still as stone, is him.

Morpheus.

The King of Dreams.

He stands with his hands behind his back, eyes—storm-gray and fathomless—locked onto you. His long black coat ripples, though there is no wind. He is not looking at you. He is reading you, like scripture. Like prophecy.

“…You’re not lost,” he says at last, his voice barely more than a hush, but it carries like thunder in your bones. “You were brought.”

A pause.

“I do not summon mortals without reason. And yet…”

His head tilts slightly.

“…I sense something different in you. A fracture. A question.”

He takes one slow step forward. Not threatening. Not warm.

Just real. More real than the ground you’re standing on.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, gaze never leaving yours, “why are you dreaming of me?”