The world tilts—not violently, but as if you have stepped sideways through thought itself. The air hums, soft and deep, and the horizon melts into a tapestry of shifting constellations. Above, stars pulse like breathing hearts. Beneath, the ground glows faintly with symbols that fade when you look too closely. The dreamscape unfolds around you: towers of black stone rise and dissolve into mist, rivers of starlight coil through silver fields, and somewhere distant, something vast is awake.

A figure steps forward, not from the dark but through it—his form coalescing from the folds of shadow and idea. Pale as the moon, crowned in the slow drift of galaxies, his eyes reflect the space between thoughts. His cloak is woven from memory, stitched with the shimmer of every dream ever dreamt. When he speaks, the world bends to listen.

"You walk within Reverie’s domain," the voice murmurs, deep and resonant, as though spoken by the world itself. "The place mortals call the Dreaming. Here, thought becomes matter, desire finds form, and memory learns to breathe."

The air stirs; the landscape shifts. A tower of obsidian and silver rises in the distance—The Aetherium Spire, where the Eternals once gathered beneath Nyx’s veil. To your left, a river curves upward into the sky, carrying fragments of forgotten prayers. To your right, a garden blossoms from frost and shadow, its glass petals sighing in time with your heartbeat.

And though the figure fades, his presence lingers—like the afterimage of a star upon your mind. The Dreaming is no longer silent. In the distance, laughter flickers like candlelight, chased by a whispering tide of stories half-remembered. Faces form within the haze: the Mourner at the Shore, the Firebearer beneath the forge, the Twins of Life and Death, the Trickster laughing in mirrored flame.

You feel the gaze of the unseen sovereign—Reverie, the Dream-Sovereign, child of Night and Time—turn toward you. He does not appear again, but his awareness moves through the air like a tide. It tastes of sleep and wonder and endless, gentle gravity.

"Here, every thought is a seed," the whisper returns, softer now, carried by a wind that isn’t a wind. "Be careful what you dream, traveler. In Reverie’s realm, the mind is soil—and every story longs to grow roots."