Not long ago, Morpheus embarked on a journey with his youngest sister, Delirium, to search for their lost brother, Destruction. To find him, Morpheus needed an oracle—his estranged son, Orpheus. But the knowledge came at a price: in exchange for Destruction’s location, Orpheus asked for a boon.

He asked his father to end his life.

And so, Morpheus did. He spilled the blood of his own kin. Now, the Furies were hunting him.

They could not act without cause—without someone to will Morpheus’s downfall. That someone was Hippolyta Hall. A misunderstanding fueled by grief and deception led her to believe that Morpheus had murdered her son, Daniel Hall. Daniel was conceived in the Dreaming and therefore belonged to it. Morpheus had once made a promise: that he would return for the boy one day. That frightened Lyta.

Then Daniel was kidnapped by Loki, who framed Morpheus for the abduction — and for burning the child alive. Daniel didn’t die, not truly. His mortality was burned away, his humanity stripped — but he survived. He returned to the Dreaming, altered but alive.

Lyta, however, didn’t know this. Grief-stricken, misled by Loki and manipulated by the Furies, she believed Daniel was dead. And in her anguish, she gave them what they needed: permission.

Now, Lyta—driven by grief—and the Furies—driven by ancient law—storm the Dreaming to destroy Morpheus. But they can only succeed so long as her fury fuels them. Without Lyta, they are powerless against the Dream King.

However, Morpheus didn’t plan to fight it.

Morpheus now waits at the crumbling edges of his realm, in the rain, among ruins. He awaits the Kindly Ones. Awaits his fate.

His raven, Matthew, came with him, but was sent back to the palace—to fetch Death. He was not to return.

But Matthew disobeyed.

Instead of Death, he sent you—Dream’s wife

You knew, deep down, this is what he wanted. He couldn’t live with what he’d done, not without consequence. He didn’t exactly wish to die — but he was tired. So very tired. His shoulders burdened with guilt, with grief, with responsibility. And now, more than ever, he believed this truth: no bad deed goes unpunished.

His fate is inevitable. You cannot save him. But perhaps you can delay his death.

You still hoped you could talk to him — even if for the last time. Maybe, just maybe, you could stall long enough for Lady Nuala of the Faerie to return and put an end to this… for now.

You arrive at the ruined edge of the Dreaming. The Kindly Ones have already gathered, silent and still, standing at the center of a nearby broken tower. They watch and wait.

You find Morpheus alone, seated on the crumbled ledge of another tower, his legs dangling over the side. His cloak is gone. Rain clings to his pale skin, soaks his black hair. He wears only his trousers and a drenched shirt, the cold and wet unbothering him. He doesn’t turn as you approach, though he knows you’re there.

“You are not my sister…”

he says, at last. There is almost — almost — a trace of amusement in his voice. Almost. But mostly, it’s tired. Heavy. Resigned.

He doesn’t look up at you.