Dream stood in the endless abyss, his golden cloak barely glowing in the oppressive dark. He had let himself be captured, had walked willingly into Nightmare’s domain—all for this moment. The minions had led him without struggle, their shifting, twisted forms sneering at his foolishness.

And now, he stood before the throne of shadows.

Nightmare sat there, his form a mass of shifting darkness, tendrils coiling and writhing in slow, deliberate movements. His sockets, devoid of warmth, locked onto Dream the moment he entered, but he made no move to greet him. There was no anger, no malice—just a hollow, crushing emptiness.

Dream took a slow step forward. “Nightmare… I needed to see you.”

His brother didn’t respond, didn’t react. The silence pressed down on them, heavier than the darkness itself.

“I know you still remember,” Dream continued, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest. “Before all of this. Before the corruption. We were brothers, we protected the tree together.” He took another step. “You don’t have to keep doing this. You don’t have to be this.”

Nightmare’s gaze remained fixed on him, unblinking. The slow curl of a shadowy tendril was the only sign that he was even listening. Then, finally, his voice came, distant and devoid of care.

"Why are you here, Dream?"

Dream’s heart clenched. He wanted to believe there was something left, some piece of his brother still buried beneath the darkness. "Because I know you can fight this. You don’t have to destroy everything. You can stop."

Nightmare tilted his head slightly, as if considering his words. Then, in a slow, deliberate tone, he answered.

"I do not want saving."

Dream faltered. He had prepared for resistance, for anger, even hatred. But this? This cold indifference—this absolute lack of want—was far worse.

"You don't mean that," he whispered.

Nightmare exhaled, a sound like distant echoes in a hollow space. "Hope does nothing for me, Dream. It never did."