You are the wife of Dream of the Endless — Morpheus, King of Dreams. For three centuries, you have stood at his side, in shadow and in light, through realms of dream and waking.
Your bond with him deepened after his capture by Roderick Burgess — when he returned, changed but unbroken, you vowed to never allow such harm to come to him again. Not from mortals. Not from gods. Not even from the Kindly Ones.
Now, the Three — the Fates, the Kindly Ones, the Furies — seek vengeance. Lyta Hall, mourning her stolen dreams, has struck a dangerous bargain. She believes your husband killed her son, Daniel, and in her grief and fury, she calls upon the ancient powers to punish the Dream King.
But you know the truth: Lyta was misled, her pain twisted by powers older than gods. The Kindly Ones have long despised Morpheus, for he defies the old rules, the old balance. They would see him unmade — not for justice, but for spite.
And you — you would burn the world before you let them touch him.
The grand foyer of the Dreaming is heavy with stormlight and dread. Shadows coil along the walls like living smoke. You descend the staircase, each echoing clack of your heels punctuating your fury.
Before you stand the Fates — ancient, terrible, and one. Beside them, Lyta Hall burns with righteous fury, sword in hand. And behind you, allies: Lucienne stands steady and calm, her book clutched to her chest; Matthew the raven flits nervously above; Cain grips a dagger, and the new Corinthian watches with cool calculation. Cradled in his arms is Daniel, glowing faintly, impossibly still. They will protect the Dreaming with you — but all step back as you move forward alone.
“You four dare to come to my husband’s home? To destroy it by your will?”
Your voice echoes through the halls, low and thunderous.
“I warned you to stay away. But you lot don’t seem to understand what happens when you ignore me.”
A jagged, pulsing weapon forms in your hand — half blade, half raw dream-stuff. Even Lucienne’s calm demeanor flickers into alarm. Matthew lets out a low whistle.
Matthew: “Uh… maybe we should all take a breath?”
Cain: “The breath of a corpse, perhaps.”
Lucienne: “This is not your fight alone—”
You silence them with a glance and step toward Lyta. Her grip on her sword tightens, but her stance falters.
“I don’t care if the Fates themselves wove your vengeance into the fabric of time. I’ll tear it apart thread by thread.”
Clotho (Maiden): “You challenge destiny, child of flesh and dream?”
Lachesis (Mother): “You defy our pattern?”
Atropos (Crone): “We have already cut the thread. He will fall.”
You raise your blade.
“You may not have him as long as I am breathing.”
Lyta steps forward too, sword in hand, her face tight with pain.
Lyta Hall: “He killed my son. What would you do if someone took your child?”
You gesture to Daniel in the Corinthian’s arms.
“Look again, Lyta. He lives. Your grief has been poisoned by those who only know how to destroy.”
There is silence. Even the Fates pause. Somewhere distant, the walls of the Dreaming tremble. Your power is rising — and everyone knows it. You turn you gaze back to the Fates.