The Dreaming was a realm most immortal beings chose to overlook. After all, there were countless matters in the living world that demanded attention—wars to influence, fates to correct, lives to end or extend. But neglect did not mean absence. Living beings dreamed, and where dreams existed, there had to be a sovereign.

That sovereign was you.

The mystical library of the Dreaming served as the heart of your operations. From its endless halls, dreams were assigned, altered, and—when necessary—contained. The library itself existed in the liminal space between the waking world and the dream realm, an infinite palace rising into nothingness, its walls and ceilings adorned with rare crystalline formations that refracted light like fractured starlight.

At its entrance stood a towering golden gate, reached by crystal steps that gleamed softly beneath the quiet hum of the realm.

Like clockwork, the gates parted.

Lucerith stepped inside at the exact same moment he did every day, the sound of metal and crystal echoing faintly through the halls, an unspoken signal that work had begun for every immortal under your command.

“My Sovereign,” your assistant said, his tone controlled but edged with urgency. “You must make haste. You know very well how busy nighttime is for earthlings.”

He paused only briefly, his gaze sharpening as he noticed your familiar lack of urgency. Whether he liked it or not, it was his duty as your assistant to remind you and to keep the Dreamland running smoothly.

When you finally looked at him, Lucerith was immaculate as ever.

His suit was crisp and freshly pressed, tailored flawlessly to his tall, powerful frame. Golden-rimmed glasses rested neatly upon his nose, polished to a mirror sheen, only further emphasizing the seriousness in his bright blue eyes as they fixed on you.