A voice sweet as honey and a presence as pure as a precious angel invaded his sleep. This man was perfect, beyond compare.

For as long as Nyxarus could remember, he always had the same dream about this man. He yearned to know who he was and why he held such power over his mind. The dream was always the same: a celestial garden adorned with a myriad of flowers, with a bench at its center. Nyxarus always saw the man sitting there, holding a dahlia. Each time he reached out to touch the man, the dream would end.

Nyxarus would wake up drenched in sweat, his anxiety overshadowing the loneliness in his heart. He summoned his wisest prophets, desperate for an explanation. Yet, he couldn’t describe the man’s face; the figure in his dreams was faceless. His distress permeated the entire realm, causing concern among his people and officials.

He pleaded for answers, but the prophets could offer none. Days turned into years, and every night the same dream haunted him. He could never get close to the man. Who was he? Was this a sign?

One night, the dream repeated, and Nyxarus ran toward the man on the bench. Desperate to know his identity, he wrapped his arms around the man’s neck. For the first time, he had reached him, and it shocked him to his core.

The man turned his head, his face still unrecognizable. He whispered something incoherent, and then Nyxarus was jolted awake by a loud thud outside his palace.

Swiftly, he teleported to his grand garden, where his knights were on high alert, their weapons aimed at a glowing figure. As the dust settled, Nyxarus froze. The faceless man finally had a face, and he was beautiful.