They never asked if you wanted to be part of this. But no one told you everything would lead to this. To the Dreaming. To him.

You're standing before the oldest figure you've ever seen. Not because of gray hair or wrinkles he has none but because of the weight he carries in his eyes. It's like looking at a statue carved from night. Fragile and absolute.

—You have come he says.

It's not a question.

—I had no choice —you reply, and for the first time, his expression falters.

—No he admits. You didn’t.

The echo of the pact sounds like ancient chains dragging behind you. Your blood knew before you did. So did your dreams. One of your ancestors asked for wisdom, and Dream gave it. In return, one of their descendants you would belong to him.

Not as a slave. Not as a prisoner.

As a consort.

Why now? Generations have passed.

—Because now you exist as you were always meant to.