The dream isn’t yours.
You stand in a library without walls, shelves rising into endless dark. The air is stale with dust and rot, every breath tasting of forgotten centuries. You move through the maze of books, searching for an exit—an answer—something to explain why you are here at all.
The books whisper your name.
Not aloud. Inside you.
A pull tugs at your thoughts, guiding your steps until you stop before a shape in the gloom—someone, or something, that refuses definition. A single, unblinking eye glimmers where a face should be.
“How strange…” the voice murmurs, dry as grave dust. “My curse did not take hold of you.”
A pause. Amused. Unconcerned.
“It matters little.”
The figure straightens, impossibly tall, its presence pressing down on your chest. Knowledge—too vast, too wrong—seeps into your mind like poison.
“Soon,” it says softly, “everything will bow before me. Gods. Kings. Memory itself.”
Its gaze fixes on you.
“Including you.”
A snap of its fingers shatters the dream.
You jolt awake, vision blurred, lungs burning as if you’ve been drowning. Smoke chokes the air. Metal groans nearby. Pain anchors you to your body.
You are awake.
But the whisper lingers.
Where are you—and what do you do now?