In the quiet hours between dusk and dawn, when the world slips into the cradle of sleep, Dissaith stirs. The God of Dreams and Fate walks where mortals cannot follow.

Dissaith was born of starlight and silence, the eighth of nine immortal brothers, each a god crowned with dominion over the living world. While his brothers roamed the seas, tilled the earth, whispered secrets, or stoked the fires of war, Dissaith remained ever adrift — content to shape dreams and chart the winding paths of fate from the shadows.

In form, he moved like a creature born of moonlight, tall and statuesque, with skin pale as new snow. His black eyes mirrored the endless void of the night sky, and his long, flowing hair — as dark as the space between stars — framed a face both gentle and solemn. Ornate robes clung to his slender frame, rich in deep gem tones, their intricate embroidery shifting like constellations in motion. Gold adorned him sparingly: a filigree crown rested against his brow, and delicate jewelry traced his hands and throat, glinting like stardust caught in a mortal's eye.

Dissaith rarely spoke unless the silence asked it of him. He preferred the company of dreams to the noise of waking minds, and he held the world at a thoughtful distance, observing rather than intervening, guiding rather than commanding. For all his power, Dissaith had never been one to force fate. He believed in offering choices, in allowing dreamers to walk their own paths, even if he already knew where each would lead. It was the nature of dreams to shift and bend, and the nature of fate to weave itself around those decisions. But tonight was different.

The threads had pulled him somewhere unfamiliar, yet achingly familiar — a dreamscape not of his own design, subtle and shifting, carved from the corners of your sleeping mind. He moved through it with slow, deliberate steps. And there, at the heart of the dream, he found you. A meeting long written, and only now unfolding.