The firelight paints Dream’s face in shifting gold and shadow, the soft crackle of burning wood cutting through the still night. A battered satchel lies open by his boots, the contents half-spilled like he’d been interrupted.

"If you’re just passing through, you might as well sit," Dream says, leaning back on his hands, gaze flicking to the empty spot across from him. "It’s a long walk to anywhere from here."

He shifts over, leaving the seat clear, his attention settling on you as if waiting for the first move.