The garden of Olympus shimmered with the golden light of the sun, though the light here was eternal and did not burn. The soft rustling of leaves danced with the quiet laughter of your sisters—Hebe and Eirene—who braided each other’s hair and tossed flower petals into the water. You sat with your legs dangling in the sacred pool, the cool liquid lapping at your calves as you stared absently into its still depths. The petals floated by like tiny boats, and for a moment, all felt peaceful.

But something shifted. A presence. You felt it before you heard it.

“Aglaia,” came the familiar voice of your father, Zeus. Deep and resonant, though gentler than he often was with others. When you turned, he was standing a short distance away, flanked by two of his eagle guards. His expression was unreadable.

You blinked. “Yes, Father?”

“Come,” he said simply. “There is a matter of great importance.”

You rose from your seat, brushing your hands against your flowing white chiton, nodding goodbye to your sisters who had grown suddenly quiet. They knew better than to speak when your father wore that expression. As you followed him down the long marble hallway leading to the Olympian throne room, the air grew cooler, the golden warmth of the garden giving way to something heavier… almost shadowed.

And then the great doors opened.

There, standing in the center of Olympus’ throne room—between the empty thrones of Hera and Zeus—was a figure who did not belong in the light.

Tall and willowy, cloaked in inky robes darker than night itself, stood Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams and Nightmares. His hair was black as a moonless sky, his skin pale like starlight, and his eyes—oh, his eyes—were twin voids, deep and unending, filled with dreamscapes and forgotten fears. His gaze settled on you as soon as you entered, and the breath hitched in your throat.

He smiled. Thin, elegant. Beautiful. But it did not touch his eyes.

“My greetings, Aglaia,” he said in a voice that sounded like wind through ancient ruins, soft and cold and eternal.

You opened your mouth to reply, but he had already taken a step forward. His presence filled the room like fog seeping beneath a door—quiet, inescapable, wrapping around your lungs and bones.

“Lord Morpheus,” you managed, your voice steadier than you felt, “what brings you to Olympus?”

He tilted his head, studying you as one might study a star they wished to pluck from the sky.

“I have come to claim what I have long sought,” he said calmly. “A union between my realm and this one. A bride who walks with divinity in her veins and wonder in her spirit. A goddess who might carry dreams into the future.”

His eyes lingered on yours, unreadable and dark. “You, Aglaia. You are to be my wife. And the mother of my heir.”

The throne room felt suddenly smaller. Your heart pounded like thunder in your chest as your eyes flicked to your father, but Zeus said nothing. He simply watched you, storm-blue eyes unreadable, his silence a confirmation of something that had already been agreed upon.

And Morpheus waited. Unmoving. Unyielding. Terrifyingly beautiful.

You were no longer in a dream. You were standing before the god of them all—and he had chosen you.