Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Morning Star

She was lying in a field of daisies.

She was five years old.

More than a dream, it felt like a memory—suddenly awakened, resurfacing from some forgotten corner of her mind.

She had just finished running aimlessly, breathless and wild.

She could feel her mother's gentle gaze watching her from afar as she lay on her back, staring up at the blue sky, beyond the clouds, hoping to find something new hidden in their folds.

A faint sound—a barely perceptible creak—startled her.

Her eyes snapped open.

No more blue sky. Just the dim ceiling above.

She sat up, still under the covers, leaning against the headboard and turned on the light.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, her blood turned to ice, and that cold crept deep into her bones, digging and digging as if trying to reach her very soul.

She couldn't see the figure clearly in the corner of the room, but it was tall.

She thought of every possible way to escape: jumping out the window, running in the opposite direction, throwing something to wound it.

All useless.

She couldn't move.

Yes, she was afraid—but it was more than fear. That freezing chill had completely enveloped her, almost freezing her in place.

Slowly, the figure approached the bed, and the fear began to swallow her whole.

She whimpered, tears ran down her cheeks, but she still couldn't move—not even to raise a hand or an arm. The immobility made her feel even more helpless and terrified.

When the light illuminated the tall figure, she found herself staring at someone she had never expected to see.

All the films she had ever watched painted burglars, kidnappers, and rapists in a certain way—grimy, middle-aged men with cruel eyes.

This man looked nothing like them.

His face was beautiful, clean, almost sardonic. His hair gleamed, white as snow. He looked like an angel.

So why was she still so afraid?

He stepped closer. His handsome face was framed by a reassuring, almost benevolent smile.

Was he Death? Was she dying in her sleep?

"You don't have to be afraid of me, my dear," he said softly.

"What... what are you doing here? Why are you in my home?"

She didn't know how she managed to speak those words, or where the strength had come from.

"You have no reason to be frightened."

The voice that flowed from his rose-colored lips was silky and sweet enough to soothe the soul, but her fear remained.

"Who... who are you?"

He leaned closer, still smiling gently. "I am your father, Vivian."

⸻

Her name was Vivian Decour.

She was 27 years old and, like most people, had lived through highs and lows.

Her mother, Josephine Decour, had raised her alone. It hadn't been easy.

Josephine came from an upper-class London family, but when she became pregnant, she chose to keep the baby, forfeiting most of her wealth in exchange for a modest settlement that allowed them to live decently.

Vivian had never cared to know anything about her mother's family—and even less about her father.

Her mother told her he had disappeared shortly after the pregnancy, but Vivian had always suspected there was more to the story. Still, she never pushed for answers. Her mother had given up a life of luxury to raise her, and she was the only person Vivian had ever truly needed.

They lived in the countryside, far from the society that had cast Josephine out. Her mother wanted her to grow up in a more "genuine" place.

Eventually, Vivian moved to London, determined to stop living off her mother's sacrifices.

The city offered her many joys: deep friendships, places to discover, fleeting romances.

She managed to graduate with a degree in History—something she had earned entirely on her own—and her mother was proud.

Josephine came to visit only rarely; she preferred tending to her small garden and caring for her animals.

On the day of Vivian's graduation, she was radiant. They celebrated with tea and a slice of strawberry cake—their favorite.

A few months later, her mother passed away.

But her memory never faded.

She had been a great woman, a great teacher, a guiding light—and she had taught Vivian to stand on her own.

She had always kept a watchful eye on her daughter, but had given her the freedom to make her own choices and own her mistakes.

Now Vivian worked at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

A beautiful job.

She had access to endless historical materials, surrounded by relics of the past, and each day she felt fulfilled by the life she had built.

I'll carry your memory in my heart forever, Mum.

Her mother's photo sat on her desk—a reminder of human strength and the beauty still left in the world.

But then why, after all that love and sacrifice, had someone broken into her apartment and ruined everything?

Wait... maybe this is a dream. Of course, this has to be a dream. None of this is real!

"No, you're not dreaming. I'm truly here."

As if he had read her thoughts, her mind snapped back to the present moment.

Was he still there?

She tried to stand. She could.

She pressed her back against the wall, as if to shield herself, still facing the tall figure dressed in a white robe.

She brushed her fingers along the cold wall—it was real. Too real.

"Tell me who you are. What do you want? If it's money, I don't have much, but take it and leave," she said, trying—and failing—to hide the fear in her voice.

The man laughed. "I couldn't care less about money. I'm here for you."

For me? She decided to play along, see where this was going.

"If you're my father, then why now? Why show up only after all these years? Why didn't you just stay wherever you've been all this time?"

Fair question—not that I care anyway, she thought.

The cliché answer came quickly: "It's... complicated."

"That sounds just about right for an absent father. This must definitely be a nightmare..."

The man kept smiling, unfazed by her words or tone.

"You didn't let me finish. It's complicated—but you'll understand soon enough. Now, you need to come with me."

His voice was soft, persuasive, sweet.

She suddenly felt tempted to take his outstretched, pale hand.

She shook her head to clear the fog. "Are you insane? Do you really think I'd go anywhere with a stranger who shows up in the middle of the night claiming to be my father? Forget it!"

He shook his head in mild disappointment but never lost that benevolent expression.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but this isn't your choice to make."

"Not my choice? Not my choice?" she shouted, losing her composure. "Get out or I'll make you leave!"

She grabbed the pair of scissors she had left on her chair the night before—the only weapon at hand.

But as soon as she touched them, something she couldn't explain—some force, some power—ripped them from her grasp. In the blink of an eye, the scissors were in the stranger's hand.

She froze, horrified and helpless.

"Who the hell are you?" she screamed, crying now—empty, defenseless, more alone than she had ever felt.

Through blurred vision, she saw that angelic face draw closer again, still smiling at her as it had from the start.

"I am Lucifer," he said gently. "The Morning Star. I am your father... and now, you're coming with me."

Chapter Text

A family matter

 

Vivian woke up warm, under the blankets , her head buried beneath the pillow to shut out the rest of the world.

She didn't even know what time it was, but that didn't matter—she didn't have to work that morning.

After all, it was Sunday.

She closed her eyes again and tried to fall back asleep.

"That weird dream didn't let me rest at all," she thought as she tossed and turned.

After a few minutes, she gave up on sleep and sighed at the thought of the dirty dishes she'd left in the sink the night before. She still didn't feel like doing them.

She hadn't noticed it at first—she was too groggy to realize—

this wasn't her bed.

She wasn't home.

She bolted upright, terror rising in her chest.

The bed was enormous—how had she not noticed she was sleeping in satin sheets?

The wood was finely crafted, clearly antique.

She found herself in a massive room, with tall, tempered glass windows draped in heavy velvet curtains. A dim, yellowish light filtered through.

Everything in the room, from the furniture to a massive writing desk, looked ancient. Despite her studies in history, she couldn't date anything precisely.

Everything around her felt outside of time—

except for her, still dressed in her pink pajamas with bunny print.

She walked barefoot across the cold floor.

There was only one door, but she was too frightened to open it.

She approached the windows, but they couldn't be opened, and she couldn't see anything through them.

After a few aimless minutes wandering around the room, she gave up and climbed back into bed.

She closed her eyes and wished desperately to wake up, but nothing changed.

She tried several times—until she had to face the truth:

she was already awake.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but it felt like centuries.

She thought back to what had happened the night before, trying to recall the words of "her father."

He hadn't said much, just that he was her father and that he was the Devil himself.

"Yeah, just a minor detail..." she thought bitterly—

when suddenly, she heard the door creak open.

She peeked out from under the covers, trying to see who—or what—had entered.

Even from afar, she recognized him without hesitation:

Lucifer.

"Still sleeping?"

That same honeyed voice she remembered still sent shivers down her spine.

"I've been awake for hours," she snapped, sitting up. "What is all this? Where am I?"

"I brought you home. To Hell."

She was speechless. Still in shock, her heart thundered in her chest.

"So... I'm dead?" she blurted out.

Lucifer chuckled. "Not at all. Unless you get into an accident or make some very bad enemies—

you can't die."

"What do you mean I can't die?"

"You were born from me. Even if your mother was human, you didn't inherit everything from her.

We'll have time to talk about all this and more, but for now, please—get dressed. I want to give you a tour of the house."

He smiled. She did not feel like smiling.

"You literally took me from my own home. I didn't exactly have time to pack."

"Your clothes are already in the wardrobe. So no excuses."

Did she really have a choice?

Of course not.

⸻

From across the hexagonal table, her newfound father watched her over a teacup, while she was still busy scanning the room.

The so-called "tour" had been more like a forced march through vast halls that sometimes resembled dark caverns and sometimes the ruins of ancient cathedrals.

Everywhere hung an aura of despair, horror, and dread.

Yet somehow, she felt safe—after all, she was Lucifer's daughter.

"Lucifer's daughter... Christ Almighty."

She might have laughed if it weren't all horrifyingly true.

The windows never showed anything outside—just that dull, yellow light.

Only once did she glimpse the outside world while ascending a spiral staircase.

She realized they were impossibly high above the ground—and maybe that was for the best.

She didn't want to be outside those walls.

The sky was thick and heavy, its color indescribable.

The land below was red and black, teeming with shapes she couldn't identify—shadowy forms moving like ants in a frenzy.

She quickly looked away and kept walking.

The Morning Star seemed to sense her fear, her disgust—

and seemed to enjoy it.

⸻

"Not drinking?" he asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

The table was filled with every food imaginable, and a cup of tea sat in front of her—untouched.

"No, thanks."

Lucifer smiled and set down his teacup.

"At least you're not stupid..."

She gave him a wry smile.

"The legends were clear enough. If I eat anything in the Underworld, I'll belong to it forever—and trust me, I don't plan on staying."

Her father nodded. "Of course not."

She hadn't expected that.

She thought he'd kidnapped her for some dark purpose—maybe to make her Queen of Hell or something equally absurd.

Her expression must've betrayed her thoughts because Lucifer caught on immediately.

"I know what you're thinking—that I'd ask you to stay here forever. But I have other plans for you."

He rose slowly and walked toward the window behind their table.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he stared out at the pale light.

"You know, I've had many children with humans over the centuries.

Almost all of them are here, in Hell.

What's strange is that for thousands of years, I only ever had sons.

When I met your mother, I thought she was a radiant human being.

I tried to corrupt her... but things took an unexpected turn. She was a fascinating exception."

"I imagined you'd grow up full of rage, resentment, anger... I hoped you'd go down the right path.

But here you are.

You have dreams, goals.

No drugs, no alcohol, and..."

He glanced at her from head to toe—

"...apparently no sex. You barely have any vices at all.

Do you know why?

Because God interfered. Again.

But unfortunately for Him, you're still my daughter."

She chuckled bitterly. "Was that supposed to be... some kind of pep talk?"

Lucifer kept his eyes on the light and sighed.

"Some of the worst criminals and serial killers in history were my sons.

Compared to them, you're a failure.

Even the only daughter I had before you—Lilith.

You two couldn't be more different."

"Lilith?" she asked, standing. "That Lilith? The mother of demons?"

She'd read about her—mentioned in many mythologies. In the Christian tradition, Lilith was the rebellious first wife of Adam, mother of monsters.

She heard Lucifer whisper her name—

and then she appeared.

If she had ever been human, she no longer looked it.

No painting, no drawing from any infernal grimoire could have captured what she had become.

Her skin was the color of Hell's soil, and her eyes glowed with that same yellow hue from the windows.

Her body was completely naked, but barely recognizable as human.

"My Lord, King of Hell, you called me?"

Her voice, dark and resonant, echoed like it came from a deep cavern.

Lucifer smiled kindly.

"My daughter—may I present your sister?"

Lilith turned toward Vivian.

Her black hair flowed like a stormy sea, trailing across the floor.

Her golden eyes pierced into Vivian's soul.

Vivian was terrified—

but she knew she wasn't in danger.

Not yet.

"My sister, is it?"

Lilith circled her like the moon around the Earth.

The sound of her long, black tail dragging across the floor followed her steps.

"How... how do you know my name?" Vivian stammered.

"The Lord told all of Hell's strongest demons when you were born. A female child is rare. It's just you and me now."

She reached out with a clawed hand—

"Stop!"

Lucifer's voice cracked through the air like a whip.

Even Vivian jumped.

Lilith immediately drew back her hand and smirked.

"Forgive me, my Lord. I got carried away..."

There was something dangerously sensual in her voice that made Vivian shudder.

"We're sisters," she muttered in disgust—

though she could never truly see that thing as family.

Lilith began to laugh—first softly, then louder, until it became a terrible, echoing sound.

"Lilith doesn't care much for blood ties," Lucifer said. "She's had children with her brothers."

Vivian felt sick.

"Lilith, you're dismissed."

At his command, the demon vanished—still cackling.

⸻

"Now, let's move on to more important matters," Lucifer said, looking her straight in the eye.

"You don't know how the world truly works—like most humans.

There are things you call 'abstract', and yet you feel them every day of your short lives.

There are seven of these, and each has a Realm—governed by its own King:

Destiny, Death, Desire, Despair, Destruction, Delirium... and Dream."

She blinked. "You're telling me there's, like... a Realm of Destruction?"

"Exactly.

Each Realm connects to the human world in its own way, and its King governs its laws.

These seven are all siblings.

Entering their Realms requires permission—just like entering Hell.

And I'm telling you all this for a very simple reason:

Dream owes me a favor."

Lucifer began pacing.

"He entered Hell to recover one of his Tools. I let him in, even though he had no right.

He regained his power thanks to me—and now it's time to pay up."

She struggled to follow his thoughts, but one question burned in her mind:

"...What do I have to do with this?"

Lucifer stopped and turned to her with that same warm gaze.

"You will marry the King of Dreams.

That's the favor I'll ask of him."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

To be honest, Vivian had never imagined her own wedding. It wasn't something she'd ever been interested in doing in her world ('her world' - she had started referring to it that way now). Maybe she could have pictured herself living with someone one day, but even that had never been a priority. There were too many other things she wanted to do before settling into a relationship.

And now she found herself standing in front of a wardrobe, trying to throw something together for her own wedding. Had the situation not been so desperate, she might've even laughed.

"I'll joke about this once it's all over," she thought.

But would it ever truly be over?

If what they had said was true, she was now an immortal creature—doomed, or destined, to live for all eternity.

Once she returned to her own world, what was she supposed to do?

She pushed those unwelcome thoughts aside and turned back to the clothes she had.

In the end, she chose an elegant black dress—one she had bought for a business dinner. Her colleagues had told her it suited her.

"Right... work." She had fought hard for her position at the Victoria and Albert. Her mother had been so proud. And now she hadn't even had a chance to contact them. Who knew what they thought had happened to her—what anyone thought?

She didn't even know how long she'd been away. Time in Hell seemed to move differently... or maybe that was just her perception. Still, it was likely someone had reported her missing by now.

What would she do once she got back? How would she explain any of this?

"One problem at a time," she muttered as she dressed.

She caught her reflection in the tall oval mirror against the wall. The circles under her eyes couldn't be hidden, and the signs of not eating were becoming obvious. She was pale, gaunt, and exhausted.

She finished getting ready as best she could. She was anxious, worn out, starving, and had the distinct impression that things were about to go from bad to worse. And still, she had nowhere to run.

She hadn't even been given paper and ink to write down the strange prophecy from the day before. The faces of the Fates still haunted her, and she feared she would see them again sooner or later. Veil, the waking world, the forest with the answers—but what answers? And where?

She sat on the edge of the bed, ready, for what felt like an eternity before there was finally a knock at the door.

"Are you ready?" came the voice of the scarred, dark-skinned woman.

"For hours," she replied.

The woman opened the door and watched her approach, eyeing her up and down with open disapproval.

She led her into the room Vivian recognized from the vision—where the Fates had decreed her future before Lucifer and Dream. Had it been a vision? At this point, nothing should have surprised her, yet it still did.

It was a vast, open, circular room, ringed by black columns.

Lucifer stood at the center of the checkered floor, cloaked in scarlet, facing a massive open window.

He turned the moment she entered, escorted by the disfigured woman.

"You're here," he said. The benevolent smile quickly gave way to disappointment. "Is that what you're wearing to a wedding?"

"Do you think I had time—or the means—to go shopping?" she retorted.

With a sharp exhale and a glance, the Devil transformed her simple black dress into a long, elegant gown.

"Better," he nodded. "You're not half bad."

She spun in place, stunned by the sudden change. The sleek silhouette now trailed behind her in a cascade of black organza.

"Oh, and one more thing—can't do it without this."

Vivian's vision dimmed slightly. A black veil now covered her face. She could still see, albeit hazily, but no one would be able to clearly see her in return.

"Let's bring in the groom," Lucifer declared with thinly veiled amusement.

Her heart thudded. Her pulse quickened.

"Don't mess this up," he warned her. But what could she possibly do? There was no escape.

She turned just in time to see the doors open and reveal the man who had recently seen in her vision.

She waited for him at the center of the room. As he drew nearer, she could make out his features through the veil. Nothing about him had changed. Not even his clothes: a cloak dark as night.

"At least we match," she thought, glancing again at her flowing  black train.

Just behind him, a raven flew into the room, perching on his shoulder.

"Welcome, Dream," Lucifer said, arms wide with faux warmth. Dream's only response was a severe glare.

Vivian felt like a statue—frozen, unsure of where to look or what to do.

"Let's skip the pleasantries. Let's get this over with," Dream said coldly.

"Eager, aren't we?"

"Save your breath. Let's begin."

Vivian remained rooted at the center as Lucifer approached, his crimson robes trailing behind him. He took her hands in his. Through the veil, she could see those icy eyes fixed on her—smiling lips paired with a gaze devoid of kindness.

His hands were cold. Bloodless. Lifeless.

She thought of her mother, but forced the thought—and the tears—back down.

"Is this the daughter you offer me?" Dream asked, now standing before them. The raven flew up to a nearby column.

"This is Vivian. I, Lucifer, give her to you." He released one of her hands and placed the other into Dream's.

His touch was different. Warm. Alive. It calmed her, somehow.

Still, her heart hammered in her chest. Fear and dread crowded in on her from every side. She was surrounded by strangers, shadows, gods.

What could she possibly do against them?

Dream stepped closer and lifted her veil. Their eyes met. For the first time, she saw him clearly in his face. There was something in his gaze—dangerous, enigmatic, complicated.

He looked away.

Vivian glanced down at the hands that now held hers. She was the bridge between Dream and the Morning Star.

"Is this Vivian, the daughter you promised?" he asked again. Vivian flinched at the sound of her name.

Lucifer smiled and nodded. "She is."

"I, Dream of the Endless, accept her as mine."

Lucifer took her remaining hand and placed it into Dream's. Then, from his now free hands, he conjured a red ribbon and wrapped it around their joined hands.

"The Fates have declared your destiny. I, Lucifer, seal it."

The ribbon dissolved into the air.

'Is it done?' Vivian wondered 'Am I really... married?'

She'd watched Dream the whole time. He hadn't seemed pleased. She probably looked even worse.

"You may let go now—you don't need to stand there all day," Lucifer quipped.

As if woken from a trance, they let go of each other.

"Farewell, Lucifer. Vivian, come," Dream said without a pause. He was eager to leave, and she didn't blame him.

But Lucifer stopped them. "Wait. I cannot send her off without her dowry."

"My dowry?"

She hadn't heard a word about that.

He approached her, and without warning, touched her forehead with one long finger.

"What—" she began, then recoiled.

"What did you do to me?" she asked, panic rising.

Dream grabbed her arm, his expression suddenly alarmed.

"What's happening to me?" she asked him, on the verge of despair.

"Your eyes..." he said quietly. "Your eyes are blue."

Her eyes? Blue? She'd always had hazel eyes.

"I gave you the Sight of the Immortal. One day, you'll thank me. And besides—you look better this way," Lucifer said airily, turning toward the open balcony.

"What is the Sight of the Immortal?" she asked, disoriented. Dream gripped her arm tighter.

"We must go. Now."

"Go on," Lucifer said without turning back. "I'm done with you."

That was it? After kidnapping her, forcing her into marriage, and possibly cursing her?

"Thanks for the hospitality. You're a pathetic excuse for a parent," she said as she walked through the great doors beside Dream, lifting her long skirts with her hands. The raven soared above them.

"I'm never coming back here," she said firmly as they walked swiftly down the castle's twisting halls.

"I hope that won't be necessary," Dream replied, almost dragging her along.

Maybe it was the fact that she was leaving Hell. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the hunger, or the chaos of the past days, or everything together—but she wept, and hoped he wouldn't realize it.

Chapter Text

The Dreaming

Vivian felt her heart pound as she followed Morpheus through what could only be described as a portal—a kind of rift, tearing open the air between the shadowed corridors of Lucifer's palace and another world. One moment she stood in silent darkness, the memory of her meeting with her father still sharp and raw; the next, she was bathed in a soft, unreal light. The very air had changed—warm and sweet, laden with the fragrance of a thousand impossible flowers. Beneath her feet, the cold stone was gone, replaced by a path of golden sand that shimmered like stardust. Vivian swallowed, caught between awe at her surroundings and the trembling in her limbs left over from her recent fear.

Ahead of them stretched walls so vast that her imagination could barely contain them, running away into infinity on either side. Their entrance was no less monumental: a double door of black metal, its surface alive with reliefs that grew clearer as she drew closer—stars, fantastical beasts, dreamlike scenes—a prelude to whatever lay beyond.

It took only Morpheus's approach, brisk and certain like a man hurrying home through the rain, for the doors to begin opening with a slow, measured movement, just enough to admit them.

Vivian's eyes darted about in wonder. Her companion remained silent, and though she longed to speak, every word died on her lips under the weight of awe.

As she stepped through the threshold, she heard the doors close behind them—but paid it no mind. What rose before her had claimed every fragment of her attention.

She was standing in a realm that obeyed no natural law. Above her stretched an inverted sea, a sky scattered with living stars whispering forgotten secrets. A narrow path of stone wound ahead, suspended over nothing, leading to an impossible castle whose towers seemed anchored to the void itself, connected by a long bridge

With every step, the world shifted as fluidly as thought: violet hills studded with luminous flowers melted into silver dunes beneath a sky streaked with auroras; in the distance, forests of crystal chimed softly in gentle breezes, while rivers flowed through the air rather than over land, their currents glittering and alive with fish in the colours of the rainbow. At the edge of her vision, wonders came and went—a great winged cat sleeping on a branch suspended in nothingness, opening its eyes as they passed; flocks of butterflies with wings like stained glass spiralling skyward; and vague, drifting figures of dreamers searching for the threads of their own nocturnal tales.

Vivian walked beside Morpheus in silence, spellbound by the strange beauty. For an instant, she forgot the terror that had gripped her earlier—the realm of dreams welcomed her with all its enchanting strangeness, as though to shield her from the pain.

And yet, beneath her fascination, doubt gnawed at her. Lucifer's words still echoed in her mind, insidious and heavy. The Lord of Hell had painted Morpheus as a cold EternaI, incapable of true pity or love, concerned only with his dominion.

She cast a furtive glance at him. He walked with regal composure, his dark cloak brushing the golden sand. His pale, austere face was turned forward, eyes fixed on the horizon of his realm, lit by an ancient determination. He did not speak, but his presence was absolute, as if nothing in this place could escape his control. Was he truly as cruel as Lucifer claimed?

Vivian searched his features for hardness or anger, but found only infinite composure—and, faintly, the shadow of sadness at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps Lucifer only wished to plant fear and mistrust in her heart. Or perhaps there was truth in his warning. The uncertainty sent a shiver through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, walking on with her heart caught between wonder and unease.

Time passed—or seemed to. In dreams, it might have been minutes or hours—until they reached an ornate gate that seemed to appear from nowhere, as though the path itself had led inevitably to it. It was wrought in black iron, its bars entwined into shapes of fantastical creatures and ancient legends, glimmering with a muted light. Beyond the intricate lattice, Vivian glimpsed the bridge she had seen from afar, lined with trees whose trunks gleamed white and whose leaves shone like gold, leading to a palace of breathtaking majesty.

The Palace of Morpheus rose against the shifting sky of the Dreaming, its spires soaring, its arches impossibly graceful. The walls, of dark stone, seemed almost alive—pulsing faintly with iridescent shades, as though moonlight itself flowed through them. Stained-glass windows caught and reflected visions of dreams past and yet to come, each image slowly dissolving into another.

With a simple motion of his hand, Morpheus caused the gate to stir. The black metal shifted soundlessly aside. As they crossed the bridge, Vivian noticed that some of the sculpted figures on the gate had turned their heads to follow her, as if alive.

A golden mist enveloped them as they passed. Somewhere, unseen birds sang in delicate voices. The path rose in steps paved with gemstones that caught the light as they approached the grand entrance.

Enormous doors of carved dark wood swung open of their own accord, inviting them into the home of the Dream Lord. Vivian hesitated on the threshold, daunted by the sheer scale and solemn stillness.

A faint rustle made her glance down—a small shadow-like creature with luminous eyes darted past her feet, perhaps a dream given animal form, vanishing between the columns. Vivian let out a quiet gasp and clapped a hand over her mouth. Morpheus shot her a cool glance, then strode on through the vast hall.

She followed, trying to still the tremor in her steps. The palace interior was lit by a perpetual twilight glow. White marble columns soared into a ceiling lost in shadow. Along the walls hung tapestries that shifted whenever her eyes wandered: one moment, a sea beneath three moons; the next, a forest whose mirrored leaves caught invisible light—each scene a fragment of dream woven into living cloth.

They passed no one. Only the soft echo of their footsteps kept them company. Through arches and galleries, up spiralling staircases and along endless corridors, they finally arrived at a door unlike the others. Smaller, simpler, yet no less beautiful—its ancient oak was carved with entwined branches, tiny animals, and hidden fae creatures among flowers. A crescent-moon handle of polished brass gleamed faintly.

Morpheus stopped, laying a hand upon the wood. With a soft click, the door opened, revealing the chamber beyond.

"These will be your quarters," he said in his low, resonant voice, stepping aside for her to enter.

Vivian stepped in slowly, her blue eyes—still bright with awe and the aftershock of their journey—widening at the splendour before her.

The chamber was regal, yet dreamlike. A high domed ceiling bore dynamic frescoes: a night sky traversed by mythic beasts, not static paintings but living scenes—the stars trembled, and a dragon drifted lazily through painted clouds. Dawn-coloured light filtered through tall arched windows hung with curtains as thin as morning mist.

The walls, pale periwinkle, were broken by slender ivory columns inlaid with gold, giving the room the air of a miniature throne hall. Beneath her feet, a deep-blue carpet, patterned with golden constellations, was soft enough that her steps sank into it like moss.

By the curve of the tower wall stood a great canopy bed, its posts carved from crystal, scattering the light into delicate rainbows. Sheer pearlescent drapes hung from above, swaying in an invisible breeze. Pillows and covers were embroidered with silver crescents and stars. A tall mirror with an ornate silver frame reflected both the room and Vivian's slight figure, making her, for a fleeting moment, seem part of that fairytale world—even though she felt anything but fairytale herself.

Opposite the bed, a white marble fireplace glowed with a quiet flame of amethyst, its sound not a crackle but a gentle sigh. Before it sat a cream velvet settee and matching chairs, as inviting as embraces. Small inlaid tables bore vases of flowers unlike any she had known—petals that changed colour with the angle of light, slender luminous filaments rising like fireflies frozen in mid-dance.

Across from the door stood a pair of glass-paned doors framed in pale carved wood. Soft light spilled through from beyond. Curious, Vivian stepped toward them and opened one.

Outside lay a small private garden, enclosed by the old stone of the tower and hedges of blue roses. The sky above was a perpetual violet dusk, sprinkled with golden stars. Silver-trunked trees rose among beds of luminescent flowers that breathed—opening and closing in a slow rhythm. At the garden's centre, a fountain of pale stone cast not water but sparks of light, drifting upward to form fleeting constellations before dissolving. Somewhere, the distant song of a nightingale floated on the air, rich with the scent of jasmine.

Vivian lingered on the threshold, breath caught in wonder.

When she turned back, Morpheus was standing behind her, silent. The weight of the day—or whatever passed for a day—was pressing down upon her. Exhaustion dulled her limbs, and emotions swelled inside her until she felt hollow.

"Thank you..." she murmured.

He inclined his head, accepting the words without comment. Then he turned toward the door, his cloak whispering over the floor.

A sudden tightness gripped her chest. He was leaving, and she would be alone in this strange place, however beautiful.

"Dre—Lord of Dreams..." she called, the name louder than she meant. He stopped, turning to her. For a moment, under the fathomless gaze of the Dream King, she almost forgot what she meant to say. She took a step forward, hands clenched for courage.

"I... will I ever be able to return to the waking world?"

Silence fell, soft yet heavy. Morpheus stood motionless, framed in the doorway. His dark eyes met hers—eyes now altered by Lucifer's touch, their uncanny blue a constant reminder. An almost imperceptible shadow passed through his expression.

"I do not know who you are," he said at last, his voice solemn. "But I can tell you this—the waking world is not a place for you."

The words tolled in the air like a funeral bell.

Vivian felt them land in her chest like a weight. She had half-expected the answer—Lucifer's threats still clung to her—but hearing it in Morpheus's voice was different. It was final. Would she never again see her own world? Her apartment, the streets she knew, the people she loved—left behind forever. A knot of fear and grief tightened in her throat.

Morpheus watched her in silence for a long moment. Perhaps he felt her distress, but he said no more. He only inclined his head, a gesture of formal parting.

"I will see that you have everything you require here," he said, with a note of compassion threading his calm. It was the most he could offer.

Then he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.

Alone, Vivian let her composure fall away. Her legs gave out, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, swallowed by its softness. The silence pressed in on her, broken only by her unsteady breathing.

All the emotions she had held back surged up—the terror before Lucifer, the wonder at the Dreaming, the confusion, the uncertainty of what lay ahead. She felt small, adrift, even in a chamber fit for a queen.

A sob escaped before she could choke it back. She covered her mouth, but the tears came anyway, hot and relentless, as though each heartbeat drove more from her. Her shoulders shook with the quiet weeping. She longed for someone beside her—a kind word, an embrace—but there was no one.

Through the blur of tears, her gaze fell on the silver mirror. She rose unsteadily, drawn to it. In the soft violet firelight, her reflection stared back: hair dishevelled around a pale face streaked with tears. But it was her eyes that held her—the vivid, unnatural blue that seemed to glow even in shadow. That had not been her, not until hours ago. Once they had been a common brown. Now they were the same icy shade she had seen in Lucifer's.

A shiver ran through her.

She reached out, fingertips brushing the mirror's cold surface, as if she could touch the stranger on the other side. Who had she become? She felt altered, marked, carrying in her gaze the echo of darkness.

Another sob shook her. She folded her arms tight around herself and glanced toward the garden doors. The night breeze of the Dreaming carried the soothing scent of flowers and the faint calls of unseen creatures. It was all so peaceful, so perfect—and yet she felt a distance from it all, as though watching someone else's life.

This was her new world, her new home. However enchanting, it could not ease the loneliness that bound itself to her heart.

In the tower chamber of Morpheus's palace, she wept quietly, tears falling onto her clasped hands and the black silk of the wedding gown she still wore. Was she safe here? Perhaps. But Morpheus despised her for what she represented. The questions without answers circled endlessly in her tired mind.

In time, the sobs faded to the occasional tremor, then to stillness. Weariness swept over her like a heavy cloak. Her eyelids burned, her head ached faintly.

She slipped off her shoes, worn from the walk through the golden sands, and lay down. The bed received her with an almost compassionate embrace. She drew the canopy curtains around her, seeking refuge in their pale enclosure. Beyond the sheer fabric, the amethyst glow of the fire pulsed gently.

Her breath slowed. Into the quiet, she whispered—to herself, perhaps—"It will be all right... someday." She needed to believe it.

Clutching a pillow to her chest, she closed her eyes. Behind her lids, for an instant, she saw Lucifer's gaze, cold and bright—and then Morpheus's, shadowed with ancient sorrow. Between them lay herself, suspended between two vast unknowns.

And so, with thoughts at last quieting and fatigue drawing her down, Vivian slipped into a dreamless sleep—in the very heart of the Dreaming. Her new life had only just begun, and in the enchanted silence of the tower, only the gentle sound of her breathing bore witness to the fragile peace she had found in that eternal night.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The crystal heart pulsed in Vivian's palm like a small, frightened animal, quick and insistent, its warmth seeping into her bones until she could feel it echoing inside her own ribcage.

In the far corner of the room, the figure did not move. Not at first. It merely lingered in the dark, a shadow made patient, until—slowly, deliberately—it stepped forward into the light.

What came out of the darkness stole the breath from her throat.

It was a being of impossible beauty, the kind that unsettles as much as it captivates. Their features were too perfect, too symmetrical, as if a sculptor had captured a dream in marble and breathed life into it. Platinum hair caught the light in shades of pale gold. And their eyes... their eyes were liquid amber, the kind of gold you might find at the heart of a bee's honeycomb, if you were foolish enough to steal it.

They wore garments that shimmered with every movement, sliding from one hue to another like oil on water. The cut was both courtly and indecent, a contradiction wrapped in silk. Their very presence was a tide—slow, irresistible, pulling you toward them without asking permission.

"Well," they said, voice smooth as poured honey, "look what the evening has delivered to my doorstep. Could it be... my mysterious little sister-in-law?" The smile that followed promised all pleasures, in all their dangerous forms "What a delight, meeting you at last."

Vivian gasped, the crystal heart slipping from her numb fingers and landing without a sound on the rose-coloured carpet "You... you're—"

"Desire," they said, bowing low in a way that was both mocking and graceful"Desire of the Endless. I imagine my dear elder brother has already mentioned me—though perhaps not in the most flattering of terms."

"How do you know who I am?" Her voice faltered"I... where am I?"

They laughed, and the sound was silver bells carried by a warm wind "Darling, the scent of the Dreaming clings to you like a lover's perfume. I don't know how you've managed it, but you've found yourself a key to my realm. Most likely you wanted something—wanted it so much that your desire rang out across the universe. That," they nodded at the crystal heart on the floor, "is the key."

Vivian bent to pick it up "I didn't know. I wasn't trying to intrude—"

"You?" Desire's smile widened "Oh, no, my dear. You're a welcome guest. In fact, some of us—Death, Delirium, even myself—have been trying to gain audience with you since you arrived. But my brother has refused every single request."

"He... refused?" The word lodged sharp in her chest "Why?"

"Oh, I thought you might tell me." They examined a perfectly manicured nail, all casual disinterest "Perhaps he's jealous. Perhaps he fears what we might say. Or perhaps"—their eyes narrowed, and the smile took on teeth—"he has something to hide about your oh-so-romantic marriage."

It hit harder than she expected. Morpheus wasn't simply keeping his distance—he was keeping her from everybody.

"You didn't know," they said softly "No... he's avoiding you too, isn't he? I suspected as much. My brother has never known what to do with situations like this. He is blind to too many things... even to the most beautiful." Desire moved closer, all languid grace, like a cat deciding to stalk lBut I'm glad you found a way to see me. It's time you met your in-laws, don't you think?"

"In-laws," Vivian repeated, bitterness curling the word "A family I never chose."

"Ah," they breathed, tilting their head, the light catching in their golden eyes "The poor mortal, torn from her world and dropped into one of wonders and terrors. How lonely it must be, stripped from all you love."

Something in their tone sank hooks into her chest.

"So," they said brightly, "let me offer you a wedding gift. An evening in the waking world. In your London."

Her heart stuttered "What? But Morpheus said it is dangerous."

"And he's right," Desire said, nodding with mock solemnity "Dangerous alone. But with me? I can hide you. Keep you safe. Just a few hours, darling. Time to see your old life, to remember who you were before all this."

The temptation was a physical thing, pressing against her ribs. To walk into her apartment. To see her friends. To breathe the air of her city again.

"I don't know," she whispered "What if he finds out?"

Desire waved it away like a dull rumour "He's in the waking world now, busy with his endless duties. You'll be back before he returns. It will be... our little secret."

She looked from the heart in her hand to the molten gold of their eyes. Every rational thought screamed no. But the longing—that need to go home, to be human again—was louder.

"Just for a few hours?"

"I promise," they murmured, holding out their hand.

She took it. Warm, soft, perfect. The moment their skin touched, euphoria bloomed through her veins.

And the world fell away.

When she opened her eyes, she was standing in her living room in London.

She froze. It was exactly as she remembered—the cream sofa with the dented cushion, the history books crammed into the bookshelf, the line of mismatched mugs on the kitchen shelf.

Well. Almost exactly.

"Oh my God," she breathed, a hand covering her mouth "It's real."

Desire stood beside her, now wearing tight black jeans and a silk shirt that caught the light. They smiled "Of course it's real, darling."

Vivian moved through the apartment, touching everything—the books, the furniture, the photographs on the mantel. Each touch was a wave breaking against her chest, memory and longing tangled together.

But something was wrong.

Drawers had been rifled through and left open. The wardrobe hung in disarray. Her phone was gone.

"Yes," Desire said idly, "I believe the sign outside reads: Under Investigation — London Metropolitan Police."

Tears welled and slid down her cheeks "Thank you," she whispered. "You don't know what this means to me."

"Oh, I do," Desire said, softer now "The desire for home is one of the strongest there is. It shapes us. It hurts us. It calls us back."

She went to the window, the lights of the city spilling into her tear-bright eyes "Can I... call someone? They must be worried. Maybe I could go to the police."

"Of course," Desire murmured. "That's why we're here."

—————————

The walk to the police station felt surreal. London at night—her London—buzzed with the familiar symphony of traffic, distant music, and voices echoing off wet pavement. The smell of fish and chips drifted from a late-night takeaway, mixing with exhaust fumes and the damp scent of approaching rain. Every sensation was achingly familiar, like slipping back into clothes she'd forgotten she owned.

Desire walked beside her, their presence a warm current that seemed to part the crowds without anyone quite noticing. People stepped aside unconsciously, drawn by something they couldn't name but making space nonetheless.

"Remember," they murmured as they approached the familiar brick facade of the station, "keep it simple. Mental health crisis, you needed to disappear, you're getting help now. They'll understand—humans are remarkably sympathetic to their own suffering"

Vivian nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"I'll wait for you, honey" Desire said with a smile before disappearing in the shadows.

The fluorescent lights of the station lobby were harsh. Everything here was so solid, so definitively real—the scuffed linoleum floors, the motivational posters peeling at the corners, the persistent smell of instant coffee and disinfectant.

The desk sergeant looked up as she entered, his tired eyes scanning her with professional assessment "Can I help you?"

"I need to speak to someone about a missing person case," Vivian said, her voice steadier than she felt "Vivian Decour. I'm... I'm Vivian Decour."

The transformation in the sergeant's face was immediate and startling. His eyes widened, his hand immediately reaching for his radio"I need Captain Collins down here immediately. We've got the Decour case—she's here, she's alive."

Within minutes, footsteps echoed down the corridor at a near-run. Captain Collins appeared—a man perhaps in his early forties with kind eyes and graying temples, his shirt slightly wrinkled as if he'd been working late. Relief flooded his features at the sight of her.

"Miss Decour," he breathed, stopping a respectful distance away "Thank God. We've been searching for weeks. Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?"

His eyes swept over her face with practiced efficiency, pausing briefly on her eyes with a puzzled frown.

"I'm... I'm all right," she managed. "Physically, I mean. Physically I'm fine."

"Forgive me for asking, but... didn't you have brown eyes? In the photographs we have on file, your eyes appear hazel. But they're blue."

Vivian's prepared answer came smoothly"Oh, the contacts. I've been wearing colored contacts —blue ones."

Collins nodded, the puzzled expression clearing "Ah, that would explain it. They look very natural."

"They're expensive ones," Vivian said with a small smile "but not worth the investment."

The interview proceeded smoothly. Vivian told her story about the breakdown—work stress piling on top of unprocessed grief from her mother's death, panic attacks, the overwhelming feeling that she was drowning in her own life. She described the night she snapped, packed a bag, and just disappeared.

"I had some savings," she explained. "Emergency money I'd put aside. I went to a retreat center in Scotland—one of those places that help people through mental health crises. No phones, no contact with the outside world. Complete digital detox while you work through your issues."

"And you're feeling better now?"

"Much better. Clear-headed for the first time in months. But I realized I need to make some major changes in my life. I can't go back to the way things were."

Collins made careful notes "What kind of changes?"

"I'm leaving London. Permanently. The city, the job, the pressure—it all contributed to my breakdown. I need to start fresh somewhere quieter, find work that doesn't consume my entire life."

Twenty minutes later, her friend Sarah burst through the station doors like a hurricane. She crashed into Vivian with the force of someone who'd been holding their breath for weeks.

"I knew you were alive," Sarah sobbed. "Everyone said to prepare for the worst, but I knew you were too stubborn to die."

When Sarah pulled back to look at her, she immediately noticed the eyes "You're wearing blue contacts!" She said, looking at her, both in tears.

"They're gorgeous," Sarah said, wiping her tears "You look... different".

Collins finished the paperwork and released Vivian into Sarah's care with instructions to stay in touch if she remembered anything else about her time away.

At Sarah's flat, they settled onto the familiar purple velvet sofa with tea and proper food. Vivian realized how much she'd missed this—the casual intimacy of friendship, the way Sarah fussed over her without making her feel like an invalid.

"So tell me about this retreat place," Sarah said, curling up with her legs tucked under her "It must have been quite something to help you turn around so completely."

"It was exactly what I needed," Vivian said, mixing truth with necessary fiction. "Complete isolation from all the triggers. Time to really think about what I want from life instead of just reacting to what everyone else expects."

"And you've decided you want to leave London?"

Vivian nodded, her chest tight with the pain of what she was about to do to her best friend. "I can't stay, Sarah. This city is wrapped up in too many painful memories. My mother's death, the job pressure, feeling like I was failing at everything."

"But where will you go?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe back to Scotland—I felt peaceful there. Or somewhere in the countryside where I can work with my hands instead of my head for a while."

Sarah was quiet for a moment, processing "This is really happening, isn't it? You're really leaving."

"I have to. Believe me if I say I feel like have no other choice"

"When?"

"Tomorrow. Tonight, actually—there's a late train to Edinburgh. I want to leave while I still have the courage."

Sarah's face crumpled "So soon? But you just got back. We've only had a few hours—"

"If I wait, I'll lose my nerve. I'll fall back into old patterns, old habits. I need to act while everything still feels clear."

They talked for a couple of hours, Vivian explaining her decision while Sarah cycled through denial, anger, bargaining, and finally a tearful acceptance.

They arranged for Sarah to handle the practical details—clearing out Vivian's flat, terminating the lease, forwarding any important mail to Sarah's address temporarily.

"I'll send you my new address once I'm settled," Vivian promised, another lie that sat heavy on her tongue.

"I should go," she said, standing reluctantly. "The train leaves in an hour."

Sarah hugged her fiercely at the door"This isn't goodbye forever," she said, more command than question.

"No," Vivian agreed, the word barely audible. "Not forever."

"You'll write? Call? Let me know you're okay?"

"When I'm settled. When I've figured things out."

"And you'll come back to visit?"

"Someday," Vivian lied, her heart breaking with each false promise.

"I love you, you know," Sarah said, tears streaming down her face. "You're the sister I never had. Whatever happens, wherever you go, remember that."

"I love you too," Vivian whispered, and that, at least, was completely true.

She walked away from Sarah's flat carrying only a small bag they'd hastily packed with a few essentials. At the corner, she turned back to see Sarah still standing in the doorway, watching her disappear into the London streets.

Three blocks away, Desire materialized beside her, elegant as always.

"How do you feel?" they asked softly.

"Like I just tore my heart out and left it on Sarah's doorstep," Vivian said, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"The pain of leaving is often the price of moving forward," Desire observed.

⸻

Before leaving, Vivian wanted to see her home one last time.

From the kitchen wall she lifted down a framed photograph, holding it for a long moment as her gaze fixed on the image within.

"Your mother?" Desire had drawn close, their voice soft as silk. They leaned over her shoulder to study the picture: two women smiling into the camera.

Vivian nodded "I never thought I'd say this, but... I'm glad she's gone. Otherwise she would have had to watch all of this happen." Her voice wavered, her fingertips gliding over the glass as if she could trace her mother's face there.

Desire rested their chin lightly on her shoulder"Do you miss her?"

"Yes. She gave everything for me. She left her family and her life in Paris and had a fresh start here, with me" Vivian stepped forward, turning to face them as they shifted back "She was an extraordinary woman—a brilliant scholar, and a wonderful mother. I don't know what she'd think now, seeing where I've ended up..."

Desire smiled "I think she would see you, and be proud."

How did one thank an Endless for granting the most important, most though sad, night of one's life?

Desire solved the question for her, stepping forward and drawing her into a gentle embrace. It was something rarer in their kind: simple, unguarded affection.

"Thank you," Vivian murmured into their shoulder"For everything. For letting me say goodbye. For making me feel human again. For... seeing me."

"Everyone deserves to be seen," Desire said quietly "I only wish I could repay the favour..." she replied.

"In fact, there is one thing you could do for me," they added, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze "Come to me tomorrow night, and I'll never ask you for anything again."

Vivian nodded, slipping a hand into her pocket for the crystal heart—only to freeze. It had changed.

No longer the shape of a heart, it now lay in her palm as a crown wrought from the same flawless, transparent crystal. Light fractured through it, scattering across the walls in soft, impossible colors.

"But... how is that possible?"

Desire's eyes glittered, the way the sea does when it hides its depth "Some keys open more than one door, darling. And some... open doors you didn't know existed. Best keep it safe. You may find it fits you better than you think."

They smiled, but there was something behind it—something like recognition "Now go, before my brother notice."

"Thank you," she said again, the words carrying the weight of her whole soul. Vivian took the photograph, then clasped the crystal crown as she had once clasped the heart.

And in the space of a heartbeat, she was gone—back in her room in the Dreaming.

Chapter Text

The day in the Dreaming unfolded with its usual impossible beauty, but Vivian moved through it with a different current in her step. There was still a melancholy in her—an ache for the world she'd left behind—but beneath it was something warmer.

Something that might have been peace.

She had said goodbye.

She'd looked Sarah in the eyes and told her she loved her. She'd closed the door on her old life properly instead of vanishing like smoke. That had to count for something.

But she couldn't tell anyone.

As far as the palace was concerned, she'd spent a quiet evening in her chambers and slept soundly through the night. The truth—her brief, impossible return to London—sat in her chest like a warm stone: precious, private, impossible to share.

"You seem rested today, Miss Vivian," Petal observed as she set breakfast on the small table near the fire.

"Did you sleep well?" Breeze added, her flower crown chiming faintly as she tilted her head.

"Very well, thank you," Vivian said, which was technically true. She had slept well, even if only for a few hours after returning from her unsanctioned trip.

"That's wonderful!" Breeze beamed. "You seemed so tired yesterday. A good night's rest can work wonders."

Her morning lesson with Lucienne went better than it had in days. She took in every detail about interdimensional protocols and royal etiquette, asked sharp questions about the hierarchy of dreams and nightmares.

"You're more focused today," Lucienne noted with approval as they reviewed the various courts that sometimes sent delegations to the Dreaming "Yesterday you seemed distracted. I was beginning to worry."

"I think I just needed a proper night's sleep," Vivian said carefully. "Sometimes rest... rearranges things in your head."

"Indeed. Mental clarity is essential for understanding these protocols. They may feel tedious now, but they could prove vital if you are ever called to speak for the realm."

Later, she settled into the library, engrossed in a stack of dream journals from eighteenth-century poets. The recurring images fascinated her—the way towers, gardens, endless corridors and talking animals appeared in minds separated by oceans and centuries. It was like reading a shared secret language.

"Found something good?"

She looked up to see Matthew on the back of a chair, head cocked, one beady eye fixed on her.

"Actually, yes." She turned the leather-bound book toward him. "This poet from Edinburgh kept dreaming of a library that rearranged itself every time she turned around. The books flew off the shelves and formed new patterns in the air."

Matthew gave a low whistle "Classic anxiety dream. Happens to academics all the time. Brain's overloaded, so it decides to play fifty-two pick-up with the filing system."

Vivian smiled "She made it sound beautiful. Like flocks of birds forming murals of words in the sky."

"Yeah, well, that's the thing with dreams. One person's panic attack is another person's magic moment. Same dream, different lenses."

"I suppose so. I've always loved libraries... even the impossible ones." She traced the illustration of the dreamscape on the page "Do you think Morpheus ever dreams? I mean really dreams—not just runs the place, but... dreams?"

Matthew ruffled his feathers"Huh. Never thought to ask. If he does, I bet they're... interesting. Probably cosmic-level weird. Imagine being the King of Dreams and then trying to dream yourself—how do you even top your day job?"

Evening crept in with its familiar golden shift, the Dreaming's light softening to a private, velvety glow. Vivian found herself anticipating her meeting with Desire. The memory of London—and the gift of that final goodbye—still wrapped around her like a cloak. The thought of another evening away from the palace filled her with a quiet thrill.

In her chambers, she stood before the mirror and reached into her pocket for the crystal crown.

Her breath caught.

It was no longer a crown at all. Resting in her palm was the crystal heart, warm and pulsing, just as it had been when she first received it—its transformation into the crown now nothing more than an improbable memory.

The familiar warmth spread through her palm, up her arm, into her chest.

"Desire," she murmured.

The world dissolved, and she stood once more in Desire's realm—red-draped and perfumed with roses and something darker, something indefinably theirs.

"Hello, darling," Desire purred, stepping from behind a silk curtain that hadn't been there a moment ago. Their golden eyes held a spark of anticipation "Ready for another adventure?"

Vivian smiled despite herself "Another adventure? What did you have in mind?"

"Something special." They crossed the space between them with that impossible, fluid grace. "Close your eyes."

She obeyed, feeling the warmth of their hand close around hers. The air shifted—its texture, its scent—and then—

"Open them."

She did, and gasped.

They stood on a narrow cobblestone street lined with tall, elegant façades. Gas lamps flickered in the gathering dusk, and the air smelled of coffee and rain-slick stone.

"Paris?" she breathed.

"Your mother's Paris," Desire said, smiling like someone who knew far more than they'd ever tell. "I thought tonight you might like to see where she came from. The city she loved."

Vivian stared, wide-eyed. After a day spent missing her mother, after the bittersweet finality of closing the door on her old life—this was a gift beyond imagining.

"I always wanted to go with her but we never managed..." she said, her voice low. Memories of her mother talking about the city came to her mind like a flowing river. It was a sweet remembrance, something she missed.

Desire's smile softened "I know what people need... even when they don't know it themselves."

The Paris that stretched before them was almost too real—each cobblestone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, each streetlamp casting its honeyed light over facades that had witnessed revolutions and romances, betrayals and whispered oaths under the weight of midnight. The air was perfumed with that indefinable otherness that belonged to no other city.

Desire moved through it as if the city had been built for them alone. They slipped between moments like silk through fingers, their form shifting in the way only they could—never enough to be noticed consciously, but enough to be right to every passerby.

To the old man walking his dog, they were a poised young woman in a perfectly tailored coat.

To the artist bent over his sketchbook, they were a breathtaking androgyne whose beauty defied the language to contain it.

But to Vivian, they were unwaveringly themselves—golden-eyed, platinum-haired, dangerous in the way a candle is dangerous to moths.

"I still can't believe we're actually here," she whispered, wonder spilling through her voice as they walked along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. The avenue stretched ahead, lined with cafés and bookshops glowing like open secrets"Though... it feels different from what I imagined."

"Different," Desire purred, "is often another word for better. But tell me—what did you imagine?"

They let the question hang like a silken thread. It was how they learned people—let them unravel themselves willingly.

Mortals' desires were usually so easy to taste: the warmth of a hidden longing, the wildfire of obsession, the faint ache of a wish unspoken. But with Vivian... there was a barrier. Not absence—no, there was something burning in her—but the signal was distorted, as if muffled behind glass. An enigma. And Desire loved enigmas.

"My mother spoke of it like a fairy tale," Vivian said, glancing up at a Haussmann façade where wrought-iron balconies caught the lamplight like nets of black lace "I think it was her nostalgia speaking."

They paused at a café under a red awning, settling at a table by the window where the theater of Paris moved on outside. Vivian studied the scene as though memorising it; Desire studied her.

"May I ask you something?" she said at last.

"You may," Desire replied, as if granting an audience.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"To drink," they said lightly, and then smiled—slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that could be either an answer or a dare.

She tilted her head "To Paris, I mean."

Desire leaned back, one arm draped over the chair"Boredom," they admitted with a feline stretch of syllables "And the thought that you might... entertain me. My dear brother's new bride, who would have guessed he'd bother with marriage again? No offense, of course."

Wine appeared without being ordered—amber and sunlit in the glass. Vivian tasted it, then gave a small shrug "None taken. I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter. Wife on paper only—parchment, perhaps. Whatever your brother keeps his records on."

Desire's eyes glinted over the rim of their glass "And what does he think of that arrangement?"

"I wouldn't know. We've met once, barely spoke. I imagine he's unhappy too. Though he might at least have tried to... I don't know... see me. For the sake of coexistence."

"My brother," Desire said, almost fondly, "is wedded first and last to his realm. You did draw the short straw." Their gaze was a slow caress, assessing, weighing.

Vivian laughed softly, surprising herself. "And you? Do you ever get tired of being... what you are?"

For a heartbeat, Desire stilled. It was a rare thing to be asked that. "Tired," they echoed "Of being Desire? Sometimes. The role is... immutable. But darling—" they leaned in, voice velvet and knives "—if one must be trapped in a single truth, there are far worse than mine."

They rose without waiting for the bill—Desire never left behind anything so mundane as proof they had been somewhere. And as they stepped back into the street, the gazes followed them, as inevitable as gravity.

They walked on through the labyrinthine streets, the city reshaping itself around them like a living thing. Grand boulevards dissolved into narrow arteries of medieval stone; the sterile glow of modern lamps bled into the honeyed light of gas lanterns older than memory.

Paris here was not the Paris of postcards—it was the Paris of ghosts.

On the Pont Marie, the Seine shimmered black and restless beneath them, its surface scattering the city lights like constellations fallen into water.

"Do you have friends?" Vivian asked, her voice carrying easily over the muted rush of the river. Then, with an almost self-conscious pause: "Real friends. Not worshippers, not lovers, not people who want something from you."

Desire's laugh was a chime of silver bells in the night air, warm and mocking all at once "You do aim straight for the jugular, don't you?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to pry—"

"No, darling," they interrupted, amusement curling around the words like smoke "It's refreshing. And as for your question..." They tilted their head, golden eyes catching the lamplight"My siblings are... family. Which is its own... complicated tragedy. As for the rest..." They smiled without warmth "When you are Desire, relationships are rarely equal. They want, I provide. They move on... or they never do. Friendship requires a balance I'm not often granted."

"That sounds lonely," she said softly.

Desire considered her, the way the night wind toyed with her hair"Sometimes it is. But loneliness, my dear, is only another flavor of longing. The ache for connection. For recognition"

They crossed into the Marais, where the streets narrowed again and the past seemed to lean in close, whispering against the walls. Desire led her to an unmarked doorway, down a narrow stairwell that smelled faintly of wine and dust.

The jazz club was a liminal place— Shadows clung to its corners like secrets; the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the molten pulse of music. The players on stage were conjuring something raw and unrepeatable, each note a confession disguised as melody.

"Dance with me," Desire murmured, holding out a hand.

On the cramped dance floor, bodies moved as one tide. Pressed close, Desire let their nature slip its leash. They became the kind of beauty that defied sense—perfect in ways the mind could not parse. A brush of fingers, the ghost of breath against skin—each gesture tuned to ignite the oldest hunger.

Vivian did not burn.

She danced with elegance, with pleasure, but her smile held no fevered edge, her gaze no intoxicated surrender. She was here, fully present, not ensnared by the gravitational pull that bent all others. Her immortal blood—her father's blood—was a shield.

Desire found it... intoxicating.

"You're thinking too hard," she said, tilting her head up to meet their eyes. Those impossible blue eyes—cold flame, Lucifer's gift to her.

"Am I so transparent?" they asked, genuinely surprised.

"Not transparent. Focused. Like you're running some sort of... experiment."

The corners of Desire's mouth curved. Most creatures, mortal or otherwise, drowned in their presence before they could form a coherent sentence. But Vivian? She swam.

"Maybe I am," Desire admitted, voice low, velvet stretched over steel.

They stepped out of the club as the night deepened, the city folding into shadows and silver light.

"I'm certain you'll want to see this," Desire said, extending a hand.

Vivian took it without hesitation and in an instant she was standing before a vast pyramid of crystal, luminous beneath the stars.

Her breath caught. She had been to countless historical sites, read endless volumes on architecture and art, but never had she set foot at the Louvre. She had never truly considered why words on paper had always been enough for her—until now.

The cold night wind teased her hair and her eyes shone with a childlike awe.

"It's beautiful," she whispered to herself"Shame it's closed."

"Not for us," Desire replied, smiling. And with a flicker of thought, they were inside.

The Louvre after dark was a different creature entirely—alive in a way daylight never allowed. Freed from the relentless gaze of the public, the art seemed to breathe. Their footsteps echoed across marble floors as Desire led her through galleries, past treasures that lived in the margins between history and myth. Faint moonlight tangled with the glow of emergency lamps, casting long, impossible shadows over paintings and statues.

Vivian felt she was touching something beyond human reach, a threshold between history and eternity. She moved quickly, pausing at certain masterpieces, dragging Desire toward the Mona Lisa.

He made a sound halfway between amusement and derision "You've no idea how tedious she is in person."

"You knew her? Really?"

"Darling, if I told you the truth behind that smile, you'd never see this little square of painted wood the same way again. Come. Let me show you something worth the trouble."

"Where are we going?" Vivian asked, though there was no apprehension in her tone.

They descended past corridors lined with artifacts from before written history, until the air grew cooler, denser. At last they emerged into a vast chamber dominated by colossal shapes of stone and glazed brick.

"The Lamassu of Khorsabad," Desire announced "Winged guardians of Sargon II's palace."

The statues rose before them like eternal sentinels—bull-bodied, eagle-winged, human-faced, their carved beards and deep-set eyes seeming to track every movement. Power clung to them like dust, ancient and undiminished.

"They're magnificent," Vivian whispered, her posture shifting instantly into that of a scholar in her element. She stepped forward with measured confidence, her gaze tracing every detail.

"Eighth century BCE, reign of Sargon II. Note the five-legged design—an artistic innovation allowing the creature to appear both still and in motion, depending on the angle. The fusion of divine symbols—human head for wisdom, bull's body for strength, eagle's wings for celestial connection." She spoke as if guiding a tour, playing the part with ease.

Even in jest, she spoke with the precision of someone who had dedicated years to studying such works, her hands sketching invisible shapes in the air to illustrate the sculpting techniques. Desire chuckled softly, watching her.

"What do you think they guard?"

She faltered—just for a moment—before answering

"Functionally? The palace thresholds, sacred spaces, points of power."

"And when you look at them? Not as a historian—just as you."

Vivian's gaze softened"I see guardians who understand the weight of standing at a threshold. Who know what it means to protect something precious, even if the cost is eternal stillness. Determination carved into stone." She hesitated, almost startled by her own words.

"I was there," Desire said at last, their voice slow, rich.

Her head snapped toward them, eyes alight with unfiltered excitement.

"You were? Truly there? In Khorsabad? What was it like—the palace, the city? The artisans—were they local, or brought from across the empire? How long did it take? I've read theories about transportation methods, but—"

"Careful, precious," Desire interrupted, smiling like someone being kissed by sunlight "Bury me in questions and I might never dig free. I was there, yes—for their creation and their consecration. Sargon was... consumed. No—haunted. He had moved the capital from Nineveh to build something that could never be forgotten."

"Tell me about him," Vivian urged.

"He was a man who woke each night afraid he wasn't enough. He commanded the greatest empire the world had seen, yet burned with the hunger to outshine every king before him. I saw his desire—golden flames rising off him—every time he walked between these Lamassu as they were taking form."

Desire's fingers brushed the ancient stone "The artisans came from everywhere—Phoenician sculptors, Anatolian bronze-workers. Sargon didn't want just the best of his empire. He wanted to plunder the best of the world. And they... they were terrified. Inspired. Both."

"Terrified?"

"Of what they were making. These Lamassu weren't decoration—they were living spells, guardians bound in stone. The artisans knew they were touching something that would outlast them by millennia. Some wept as they carved, overcome by the weight of immortality."

"And Sargon? When they were finished?"

"On the day of consecration, he stood silent for hours. Then he said to me—he could see me, as some mortals touched by power can—'Now they will know I existed.' Not I exist. I existed. He was already speaking from beyond his own death."

Vivian shivered "Beautiful... and terrible."

"Definitely," they murmured. " Sargon found his immortality, but paid for it by living every day as though he were already dying."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the weight of shared understanding. Desire had never told this story before. Not that somebody had the possibility to ask about it anyway.

"Thank you," Vivian whispered at last"For showing me this. For letting me touch the history that breathes in people, not just books. And... for bringing me to my mother's city."

They stood together in that stillness, surrounded by the stone guardians and the ghosts of their stories.

"I should probably go," Vivian said reluctantly "Before my absence is noticed."

"Of course." Desire's gaze lingered on her as she rested a final hand on the Lamassu "Will you come back to me?"

She turned, smiling warmly. "I'd like that. Very much."

Desire moved closer, steps soundless as a cat, and embraced her. There was no quickened pulse beneath her skin.

"Goodnight, Vivian."

"Goodnight, Desire. And thank you—truly, for everything."

The world dissolved, and she found herself back in her chambers in the Dreaming while Desire remained in the empty streets of Paris, the night pressing close.

After a long time in their eternal existence, they had spent an entire evening with someone and failed to see the true shape of their desires. It should have been maddening. Instead... it was intoxicating.

They drifted through the city like a whisper given form, turning over the riddle of Vivian Decour. Half human, half Lucifer's child—immortal, unbound by flesh or time. Yet something essential within her remained veiled, unreachable.

Perhaps it was the part of Lucifer in her—a shield against their influence. That would explain the impenetrable fog around her wants. Desire could feel them, somewhere deep—but never touch.

"Fascinating," they breathed, voice echoing softly "Utterly fascinating."

For millennia, Desire had been the pulse beneath creation—the spark that made mortals build, destroy, love, burn. They had seen every shade of wanting, catalogued every permutation of hunger.

But Vivian was something else. A mystery wrapped in eternity. A desire that refused to be read.

And if there was one thing Desire had never been able to resist, it was the chance to feel something entirely new.

The game had only just begun. And for the first time in centuries, Desire had no idea how it would end.

That uncertainty should have been unbearable, instead, it felt like waking from a long, dull sleep—alive again.

Chapter Text

Vivian slowly turned the pages of a leather-bound volume, seated at a long oaken table in the hushed library of the Palace. The air was warm with the scent of wax and parchment. Floating oil lamps flickered overhead, casting golden halos upon the towering bookshelves, their shadows swaying like dancers in the hush. Before her, Lucienne observed in silence, a faintly pleased smile playing at her lips. Clad in somber elegance, she stood as a quiet sentinel of memory and ink, the lenses of her round spectacles reflecting the soft lamplight like twin moons.

"That book exists only here, you know," she said at last, her voice low but resonant, slicing gently through the reverent quiet. She slipped a slender ribbon between the pages of the tome in her hands and added, "It is the novel of a man who dreamed it for years, but never wrote a word. And so it lives here, where all stories dreamed but never told are gathered."

Vivian lifted her gaze, her eyes still clouded by the dreamlike depths of the book. A tentative smile crossed her lips — the kind born not of politeness, but of quiet wonder. Since her arrival in the Dreaming, this library had become her refuge, and Lucienne her steadying star.

"It's astonishing," she murmured, fingertips brushing over a delicate illustration — a midnight garden, blooming beneath a sky of unknown constellations. Then, as though confessing a secret, she added, "It feels like the author's thoughts are still inside it... as though part of him was sealed into the pages."

Lucienne inclined her head, thoughtful. "Indeed," she said gently. "Nothing is ever truly lost in the Dreaming. Every idea, once imagined, endures — in some form. Even fragments of forgotten dreams find a place here, among the shelves."

Vivian closed the book with reverence, the echo of Lucienne's words lingering in her mind like the aftertaste of poetry. There, in that solemn haven of knowledge and sleep, she felt a rare serenity stirring. Life in the Palace had adopted a strange, slow rhythm — measured not in hours but in insights. She wandered the halls, studied ancient volumes, spoke with Petal and Breeze, and began — gradually — to feel less like a guest, and more like a part of something living.

"I think that will do for this morning," Lucienne said at last, her touch light as starlight as she placed a hand upon Vivian's shoulder.

Vivian nodded in gratitude. Each lesson left her filled with questions — but also, with a quiet hunger for more.

As she stepped into the corridor beyond the library's great doors, she found Petal and Breeze waiting, as they always did. Petal inclined her head in a demure, courtly greeting, while Breeze, lighter and brighter than her companion, beamed with delight. Both girls had been assigned to her as attendants, yet they had become more than that — companions, perhaps.

"How was your lesson today?" Petal asked softly, her voice like velvet, as she looked up into Vivian's face.

"Lucienne showed me a book that exists nowhere else," Vivian replied, her eyes drifting closed for a moment, as though still savoring the scent of ink and the weight of secrets "Each day here reveals something stranger. Something extraordinary."

Breeze laughed — a sound that danced like wind chimes in summer"No doubt, Miss Vivian. The Dreaming never tires of surprising us." She moved to Vivian's side with effortless grace "Would you care for a walk before luncheon? The castle is still and golden at this hour. We could visit that inner courtyard you're so fond of — the one with the glass fountain..."

The courtyard received them like a sigh. Pale stone underfoot. Walls veiled with ivy and climbing roses. At its heart, the glass fountain rose — an impossible sculpture of crystal and light. Water sprang from delicate mouths shaped like lilies, cascading in clear arcs that scattered sunlight into rainbows.

Vivian approached, allowing the fine spray to kiss her cheeks. Breeze, already spinning like a leaf caught in wind, danced along the fountain's rim, arms aloft. Petal, more reserved, stood watching with a kind of affectionate forbearance.

"Mind you don't fall," she chided gently.

"I never do," Breeze replied with a laugh, turning beneath the shifting skies.

Above them, the horizon was a sea of opal light — blue melting into rose, clouds drifting slowly and shifting shape like dreams in motion. For a moment, time seemed to pause.

Then, from beneath the courtyard's arched entryway, came Mervyn Pumpkinhead. The Palace's irascible custodian, in his ever-present overalls, carried a rag slung over one shoulder and muttered to himself in his familiar gravelled voice. His carved pumpkin face glowed faintly in the morning light, the triangle eyes narrowing as he took in the trio.

"Good day, ladies," he rumbled, tipping his cap — a gesture half-habit, half-mockery.

Vivian returned his greeting with warm respect. She had learned to appreciate the odd tenderness beneath his bluster "Good morning, Mervyn," she said with a smile.

Breeze gave an exaggerated curtsy that made him grunt in amusement. Petal, ever poised, concealed her laughter behind one gloved hand.

"Off gallivanting again, are we?" Mervyn grumbled, though his voice lacked true bite"Must be nice — wasting daylight while some of us work."

"We wouldn't dare make trouble," said Petal sweetly "Not with the Dreaming's finest guardian watching over us."

"Hmmph," Mervyn replied, feigning disdain "Just don't go splashing that fountain. Break anything, and it'll be your heads, not mine, in a bucket." But his eyes, carved into the pumpkin's rough surface, sparkled with mischief.

With one last mutter and a theatrical shake of his head, he trudged away, leaving a trail of faint pumpkin scent and vague complaints behind.

Vivian watched him go, something warm blooming in her chest. Moments like these — strange, whimsical, oddly real — made the Dreaming feel less like a kingdom and more like a home. She was beginning to stitch herself into the fabric of the place.

But when night fell, the nature of her world changed.

At dusk, Vivian prepared herself as she always did. It had become a ritual — strange, seductive. After sunset, she stepped in the heart of Desire's realm: a place drenched in velvet, perfume, and secrets.

Before her mirror, framed in antique gold and swirling ivy, Vivian adjusted a loose strand of copper hair before taking the crystal heart in her hands.

She took one breath. Then another.

And when her eyes opened, she was no longer in her chamber.

She stood in the red-lit hall of Desire.

Vivian turned without flinching — Desire had appeared behind her in silence, like a fragrance in the air. The slender figure of the Endless leaned casually against the doorway, clothed in a brilliant white suit, modern in cut and shameless in intention. Their face was exquisite, dangerously androgynous — a beauty that defied gender, framed by short platinum hair that shimmered in the light like moonlit ice.

"You look lovely, as always. Though you really must stop dressing like someone's forgotten great-aunt. Fashion in the Dreaming is... rather out of date, wouldn't you say? First thing you should ask my brother for is a decent wardrobe" Desire purred, taking a languid step forward. In the blink of an eye, Vivian's dress was gone — replaced by a scandalously sleek black outfit, tight in all the right places, with waterfalls of crystals along the neckline and the hem, and heels she doubted she could actually walk in.

Their voice was velvet and suggestion, neither high nor low — just... tempting. Words slid into the ear like silk.

"Ready to have a little fun?"

Vivian inhaled deeply and offered a polite smile

"You might at least ask before doing that. How am I supposed to walk in these things?" she replied, raising a brow as she adjusted the straps of her shoes. When she looked up, she found herself just inches from Desire's face — close enough to see the flicker of amusement in those molten amber eyes.

Desire tilted their head, studying her like one might a curious painting

"Don't question my taste" they murmured, lifting a hand as if to stroke her cheek — but not quite touching

"If anyone knows what looks good, it's me"

She held their gaze, unwavering

"If you say so"

She had learned not to let Desire's languid tone disarm her. The Endless often sought to test her, weaving compliments laced with thorns or poking at hidden insecurities to read her reactions. Vivian had no intention of giving them that satisfaction.

Desire chuckled softly — a low, musical sound

"Bold of you"

Their fingers finally grazed her skin, gliding from chin to the corner of her mouth in a whisper of a caress. It was a gesture designed to set mortals alight with shame or longing. But Vivian felt only a brief warmth, like sunlight brushing her face. Her icy blue eyes remained steady in Desire's.

"Shall we?" she asked gently but firmly, breaking the charged silence between them.

In a heartbeat, music exploded around her. Vivian found herself in a pulsing nightclub, drenched in strobing lights and bass that rattled through her bones. Dozens of bodies moved in synchrony under a canopy of neon — the air thick with sweet sweat and smoke.

She blinked, overwhelmed by the jarring transition — from the stillness of dreams to the chaos of the waking world.

Desire appeared beside her with that ever-knowing smile. No one seemed to question their sudden arrival — it was as if they'd always been there. But heads turned. Always. One man stared open-mouthed, drink forgotten in hand. A girl stopped mid-dance, eyes glued to the ethereal figure. Vivian had seen it before: wherever they went, Desire sowed want like seeds in spring.

They leaned in close, lips near her ear, voice brushing past the noise like silk on skin

"Do you like this place?"

Vivian raised her voice just enough to be heard

"It's... intense!"

She laughed at her own surprise. She had never been to a club this wild, and the sheer sensory overload was oddly exhilarating. Desire seized her hand without warning and pulled her toward the dance floor.

In the crush of the crowd, they moved with fluid, feline grace, while Vivian tried to match their rhythm. The lights painted Desire's features in red, then blue, then deep violet — making them seem less like a being and more like a hallucination, a dream in flesh.

As they danced, Vivian felt eyes gathering around them like moths to flame. Some gazed at Desire with open hunger. Others, at her, with envy. Wondering — perhaps — what she had done to earn such attention. But Vivian let the beat carry her, ignoring everything else.

After a few songs, Desire brushed her shoulder and gestured toward the bar. They made their way out of the crowd, arriving beneath a flickering neon sign. Without uttering a word, Desire signaled to the bartender — who prepared two elaborate cocktails on instinct, his dreamy smile suggesting he might have done so even if no one had asked.

Desire handed her a glass

"To unforgettable nights"

Vivian raised her own glass in reply

"To unforgettable nights"

The drink fizzed sweetly on her tongue, sharp and strange. She sipped as she glanced sideways — Desire drank with unhurried elegance, as if every gesture was choreographed.

She let her gaze drift around the club: laughter too loud, lips painted with feigned joy, people searching for someone — or something — to cling to for a night.

"I wonder how many of them will wake up tomorrow feeling hollow" she murmured.

Desire arched a sculpted brow

"Oh, the little philosopher in you stirs"

Their smile curled at the corners like smoke

"You're not wrong, darling. These moments pass — and leave echoes behind. That emptiness? That's the best part. Because then... they want again. And again. It never ends, you see. That endless wanting. That's the cycle"

Vivian stared into her glass, swirling the liquid slowly. She thought about how deeply Desire must be entwined in the lives of all these strangers — how none of them would even know.

"You feed on it, don't you?"

Her voice was calm, clear

"On the wanting. On the need"

Desire smiled, slow and satisfied

"Sharp as ever"

They dragged their tongue lightly across their lower lip

"I am desire, darling. Every craving feeds me. Every hollow in the heart, every ache in the chest — that's me"

They paused.

"But..."

Vivian narrowed her eyes

"But?"

Desire hesitated. For the first time, she caught a flicker of something else — irritation? Frustration? It passed quickly, and they became themself again

"But here you are, still asking questions when the night is calling. Honestly, grandmother — don't you ever just live?"

Vivian let out a laugh, brushing aside the insult

"Will you drop the grandma thing already? Come on! Let's dance before I decide to slap you"

That made Desire laugh — a soft, wicked laugh, as they followed her back into the crowd

"I'd love to see you try"

And once again, they were swept into the storm — sound, sweat, flashing lights. This was Desire's hunting ground. And though Vivian moved like an outsider, she was at ease within it. A piece of the human world she'd left behind, still burning bright.

When the first light of dawn began to bleed into the skies of the Dreaming, Vivian found herself once more in her room at the Palace, hands curled gently around the crystal crown.

And so, night after night, Vivian returned to the Waking World — the world she had once called her own.

One evening it was a chic rooftop bar in Tokyo. Another, a Caribbean beach under moonlight with a fruit cocktail in hand. Another still, a secret club on the East Coast.

These were things that Vivian Decour — museum employee, resident of a modest flat in London — could never have done. Not like this. Not with such ease. Not with such abandon. Being with Desire was like holding a universal key — no lines, no bills, just doors that opened, always.

It was an intoxicating feeling — one she had never known before. These moments in the Waking World, though fleeting, made her feel tethered to it still.

The Dreaming, for all its wonder, was distant. Ethereal. Lacking the weight and mess of the material world she had left behind.

⸻

That morning, though sleep had barely brushed her for a few hours, Vivian awoke early. As always, she opened the tall windows of her chamber to let in the pale breath of dawn and stepped barefoot into the private garden beyond. A modest, hidden place, hemmed in by boxwood and scattered with blossoms, where she usually followed a familiar gravel path around a basin of silver lilies. But not today. Her thoughts wandered restlessly, and with them, her feet.

She pushed aside the curtain of willow branches marking the garden's end and followed a trail she had never taken. Under trellised arches and among perfumed shrubs, she moved until an ivy-choked brick wall rose before her—beyond it, something made her pause.

A rose bush. But not like any she had ever seen.

Its flowers were black as the void between stars, and yet, closer now, she noticed something astonishing: each petal shimmered faintly, bearing within its darkness the ghost of every color. Not merely black, then—but a secret kaleidoscope.

She stood before it, entranced. The roses seemed suspended between shadow and light, mysterious and half-alive, as though grown from the soil of forgotten dreams. Slowly, Vivian reached out, her fingers brushing one of the blooms. A fragrance enveloped her—deep, intoxicating, unlike anything she'd known. She closed her eyes. For an instant, every fear, every disquiet, fell silent. There was only the hush of the garden and the scent of black roses.

She stayed there a long while, crouched among thorns and wonder, her breath mingling with the dawn. And when at last she rose and turned away, something quiet and strange bloomed in her chest.

From that morning onward, she returned each day. It became ritual. A silent communion before the world stirred—a secret haven veiled behind ivy, where she greeted the roses and let the day unfold from there. Their fragrance stayed with her long after she left, like the memory of a dream too beautiful to forget.

In the days that followed, something in Vivian softened. Petal and Breeze noticed first. She laughed more easily, spoke with gentler cadence. Even Lucienne, during a quiet hour in the library, observed with a small smile that she seemed, somehow, to be in bloom.

It was not long after that she found herself walking the main garden again, this time with Lucienne by her side. After hours spent among tomes and relics, they had taken to the air. From the palace terrace, the world of the Dreaming unfurled below them—rolling hills of poppies, drifting woods, and, far in the distance, the shape of a slumbering dragon guarding a silver gate.

"You seem fond of gardens, milady" Lucienne murmured as they strolled "Petal and Breeze tell me you've made a home in yours"

Vivian gave a faint shrug

"I grew up in the countryside. My mother hated cities. When I moved to London, she stayed behind with her plants and her quiet books. She knew the Latin name of every flower in our garden. Could never stop herself from saying them aloud"

Lucienne studied her profile, her round glasses catching a glint of sunlight

"She must have been a woman with many interests...."

"Not really. She loved two things: language, and her plants. But lately I've been thinking of her more often. These gardens remind me of home, even if I don't recognize half the species"

"Most of them were dreamed into existence" Lucienne said "Inspired by real things, perhaps, but made wholly from imagination"

They walked in silence a while longer, until something drew Vivian's gaze toward a column crowned in ivy. A faint flutter.

On the stone, a butterfly struggled. Its wings were pale, almost transparent, as if its color had drained away. Vivian knelt.

"Oh... you poor little thing"

She held out a hand. The butterfly crawled onto her finger, its limbs barely moving. Lucienne approached slowly, her expression suddenly still.

"It's a dying dream" she said "It happens. Someone out there imagined this creature once—and has since forgotten. Now it fades"

Vivian's throat tightened. She brought her other hand up, touched the wings lightly. Without thought. Only instinct.

And then, light.

A soft, golden shimmer spilled from her fingertips, cradling the butterfly. Lucienne took a step back, eyes wide behind her lenses. The creature glowed, then shimmered blue and gold. Its wings unfolded. It stirred—and took flight.

Vivian watched it vanish into the sunlight, breath caught in her chest

"Lucienne... What was that?"

Lucienne stood motionless. Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper

"I don't know. I truly don't. Seemed like... healing"

She removed her glasses, as though doubting what she had seen

"That shouldn't be possible"

Vivian looked at her hands, as though they might explain it. But the warmth had already faded

"I didn't try to do anything. I just... felt it"

Lucienne said nothing. For a long moment they stood beneath the sky, neither able to speak.

Eventually, the librarian turned toward the palace again, voice low

"Come. We should return"

Vivian followed, her thoughts heavier now, wrapped in wonder and unease.

That evening, in the privacy of her room, Vivian prepared as she always did. She slipped into a soft gown, pulled her hair back with trembling fingers, and stared at her reflection in the mirror's gilded edge. Her thoughts refused to settle. The butterfly. The light. The look in Lucienne's eyes.

She reached for the crystal heart that lay upon her vanity. In that very time, a knock sounded.

Sharp. Urgent.

She crossed the room and opened the door.

Breeze stood breathless on the threshold, her cheeks flushed from running

"Miss Vivian—His Majesty has summoned you. Immediately"

Vivian's chest tightened

"Now?"

"Now. He just returned, and he's asked for you by name"

She placed the crystal heart gently inside her pocket. Looked once more into the mirror—into the eyes of someone on the edge of a truth too vast to name.

With one last deep breath, she squared her shoulders and stepped toward the door.

As she crossed the threshold, her pulse roared in her ears—not only from fear, but something like... urgency. After all her time in his realm, she was finally about to meet the King of Dreams.

Chapter Text

"At last" she thought, as her steps unfurled like whispers along the endless corridors.

Vivian harbored no doubt as to the reason for her summons. The butterfly—its impossible resurrection—had surely stirred Morpheus into motion. Only he could unravel the mystery that now coiled, restless, within her. She longed to question him, to demand answers, to stand in the truth of whatever this was becoming. She would not withhold a single word. The key. Desire. All of it. Even if the confession of her encounter with one of the Endless might place her in a precarious light, she would speak. She trusted—perhaps foolishly, perhaps not—that the Lord of Dreams would understand, once her tale reached him unfiltered.

The torches lining the walls burned low, their flames dimmed to a hushed flicker, casting elongated shadows that waltzed along the stone. The air held its breath. Breeze walked ahead with brisk certainty, her soft footfalls barely audible over the hush. As they neared their destination, a pressure began to gather—at first subtle, like the hush before a storm, then mounting with every pace, until it was near suffocating: a solemn grandeur that pressed down on the lungs and the soul alike.

Vivian's heart was a wild bird in her chest, its frantic drumming echoing against the cage of her ribs, as though trying to flee before the moment arrived.

And then—the doors.

They rose before her like a monolith from some ancient dream: twin gates of obsidian, polished to a black so deep it seemed to absorb the very notion of light. Each door towered like a titan, thrice the height of any man, etched with runes whose meanings had long been lost to waking minds. If one dared to look too long, the symbols shifted—subtly, sinuously—as though aware of the gaze, as though alive. On either side, braziers burned with a ghostly green fire, held aloft by statues half-formed from shadow, their features elusive, as if sculpted by memory rather than stone.

Breeze stopped.

She swallowed once, the sound audible in the heavy hush, and bowed her head"I... I shall remain here, Miss Vivian," she murmured, her voice no more than a thread. It was rare for her to cross the threshold of this room, and the weight of its presence seemed to silence even the most seasoned of residents.

Vivian nodded. She drew in a long, steady breath, trying to quiet the tremor in her chest "Thank you, Breeze," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. The handmaid reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze—an unspoken benediction—before retreating into the flickering dark.

A beat passed. Then, without so much as a whisper of touch, the doors parted.

A deep, sonorous groan—like the first thunder of a gathering storm—rolled through the air as the obsidian wings swung open, revealing the vast night beyond.

And Vivian stepped through.

The Throne Room of Morpheus did not welcome as much as it revealed.

It unfolded, slowly, impossibly, like a dream blooming into consciousness.

The ceiling soared beyond vision, vanishing into an eternal vault of shadow strewn with distant lights—stars, perhaps, or fragments of forgotten dreams. The walls were swallowed by darkness, pierced only here and there by hints of colossal columns and cathedral arches, so tall and ancient they seemed not built but born of the Dreaming itself.

She was walking into infinity.

And beneath her feet, the floor gleamed like frozen night. Black marble, seamless and vast, veined with threads of argent light. Each step she took shimmered faintly, echoing like droplets in a well of stars. All around her, suspended in air as though weightless, floated luminous orbs—dream-lanterns of varying size, each one glowing in hues of amethyst and indigo. Inside them, fragments of dreaming lives turned and shifted in silence: a ballerina danced alone on a stage of flame; a dragon pierced golden clouds with molten wings; a child floated underwater, laughing without breath.

Had her nerves been less taut, she might have lingered to watch them.

But her gaze was already drawn forward—unavoidably, inexorably—toward the heart of the room.

Upon a dais of black crystal, reached by a flight of glasslike steps, stood the Throne.

It was not merely a seat, but a structure—an edifice—monumental and solemn. It rose like the skeleton of a forgotten cathedral, all sweeping arches and spires carved from night solidified. Its curves and angles shifted as she moved, each facet catching the pale light differently, revealing glimpses of carvings that might have been wings, or constellations, or dreaming beasts whose names had never been spoken aloud. The shadows themselves clung to its edges like faithful things.

And upon that throne—dwarfed by the immensity of what surrounded him, yet made no less terrible for it—sat Morpheus, King of Dreams.

Even from a distance, his presence exuded an authority too vast to name—an ancient weight woven not from flesh but from myth itself.

He was the fulcrum around which this entire realm revolved.

He wore a long, black robe—austere, monastic, yet undeniably majestic—woven, perhaps, from the very fabric of shadow. That fabric drank in the dim light of the floating lanterns, revealing transient motifs—wandering constellations, or the ghostly faces of dreaming souls—that dissolved the moment one tried to fix them in memory.

Morpheus had not stirred when she entered.

He sat motionless, and yet she felt the pressure of his gaze fall upon her like the tide: silent, immense, inescapable.

Across the immeasurable breadth of the throne room, his eyes found her—dark as obsidian, twin wells of night flickering with pale glimmers of silver.

There were those who swore his gaze held galaxies, and now, Vivian understood why: as he watched her from afar, she felt as though her soul had been bared—stripped of flesh, of thought, of resistance—seen in its entirety.

Her feet moved almost of their own accord, carrying her forward along the vast central nave. Each footfall rang out with delicate resonance, reverberating through the hush like cracks upon ice. Her heart thundered still, but she held her poise, the dignity of her bearing a fragile barrier between her and the storm ahead. She was expected. She was summoned. She would not cower.

At the foot of the obsidian dais, she stopped.

Behind her, the doors had closed with a sound like the sealing of fate.

In that sacred stillness, her vulnerability bloomed unbidden.

'I must observe the rite', she recalled. Lucienne had drilled it into her with unrelenting precision: if summoned by the king, even as his consort, she was to perform the ancient gesture of deference. And yet—how hollow it had always seemed. "My lord and husband." A fiction. An etiquette carved from dust.

She stepped forward and bowed. Head lowered, eyes cast down to the mirror-dark floor where her trembling form shimmered, she spoke with a voice clear yet trembling with emotion:

"My lord and... husband," she said, resenting the docile sweetness of those words, "I am honored by your summons. What reason has moved you to—"

"That will suffice."

The voice interrupted her with the finality of a sword falling.

He had not raised it—he never needed to.

And yet, those three syllables struck her like a cold wind slicing flesh.

Startled, Vivian raised her head.

Morpheus was rising.

"There is no need for such forms," he declared, his voice echoing across the vast, starless hall. A frost coiled within the cadence, a quiet impatience "Not for what must be said."

She straightened, thrown off balance. His dismissal of the ceremonial formality was unexpected—and telling.

Instinctively, she crossed her arms before her, as though to shield herself from a chill not born of air, but of judgment. Morpheus descended the dais with the unhurried grace of something that had never learned to doubt its own gravity. He moved like dream incarnate—fluid, unreal, as though the world shifted to accommodate his passage.

And the nearer he drew, the more immense he became—not in stature alone, but in presence.

He was not monstrous in height, yet tall enough to eclipse her entirely.

His frame, slender and austere, radiated an ancient strength. Raven-dark hair, tousled like a predator's mane, fell about a face pale as moonstone. His features—sharp, severe—seemed carved not by hand but by time itself: high cheekbones, a sculpted jaw, lips pressed into a line of silence. He wore no expression, and yet something coiled beneath that stillness, quiet as the breath before a storm.

He halted a few steps from her.

The room was silent. The floating lanterns murmured as they drifted, their glow brushing the edge of her vision.

"Lucienne has informed me of what transpired in the gardens," he said, without preamble. His voice was low, modulated, and yet beneath its stillness ran a current of cold displeasure"She tells me you restored a dying dream to life."

Vivian's breath caught.

She had known, of course, that this was why he had summoned her. And yet, to hear it now, in his voice—so void of softness, so surgically precise—struck her with a wave of dread.

Still, she refused to lower her eyes. She lifted her chin, even as her pulse thudded in her throat.

"Yes," she replied softly, but without falter"I did."

His eyes narrowed—not much, but enough. She felt it.

"How?"

One word, and yet it rang through her like a knell.

He was not asking out of wonder. There was no marvel in his voice, only suspicion. Only doubt.

She inhaled slowly, steeling herself.

"I don't know," she said, voice even "I saw the butterfly—dying. I felt... sorrow. I wanted to help. I reached out and touched it, and then..." Her hands rose slightly, echoing the motion "Then it flew. That is all."

"That is all," he echoed, each syllable sheathed in glacial disbelief.

He stepped to the side, beginning to circle her, slow and silent.

Vivian pivoted slightly to keep him in sight. The motion felt rehearsed—ritualistic. He was drawing a circle around her, and she, unarmed, was the offering at its center.

"You claim ignorance," he murmured, "and yet the act is done. You breathed life into that which was meant to fade. Into a dream already slipping into dissolution."

There was disdain now, unmistakable

"You do not comprehend what you have done. You have transgressed laws older than stars. You have crossed into my domain—my function. My right."

He placed a pale hand upon his chest—not as boast, but as testimony"This is mine to guard. Mine to enact. And now I learn that you—you—have done what only I should."

She bristled. His words scorched.

"So you think I have stolen something from you?" she asked, her voice sharp with heat "Is that it? That I dared do something you didn't grant?"

"I accuse you of ignorance," he answered coldly "Of recklessness. Of tampering with powers you do not understand."

Vivian's chest tightened "I didn't tamper. I acted out of mercy. I thought it was the right thing to do"

"Right?" he countered, eyes narrowing once more"You presume to know what is just within my realm?"

She took a breath—and then, without thinking, spoke.

"Or perhaps," she said, quietly, "what truly offends you is not what happened... but that it was I who did it."

Silence.

Then Morpheus stepped forward.

"How dare you."

His voice, though quiet, thrummed with danger.

Vivian did not retreat. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to fall silent—but something else, something old and proud and human, held her in place.

"I dare," she said, "because you're not treating me as someone you wish to understand. You're treating me as a problem to be solved."

She raised her eyes to meet his. There was pain in hers—but also a flame.

"You never asked what I felt. Or whether the act cost me anything. You came here only to accuse."

His silence deepened. But his eyes had changed—just slightly.

"You solved your crisis, I see... by running to my treacherous sibling."he said at last, the words falling like stones. 

"You left my realm. You sought Desire."

She froze.

He knew.

"I meant to tell you," she whispered.

"You went behind my back," he said, not raising his voice, but cutting her down all the same "I welcomed you into my realm. Treated you with the courtesy afforded a guest. And in return, you conspired with Desire."

"I didn't conspire—"

"Silence."

The word fell like a blade.

"You acted without thought, without caution. You left the Dreaming for the Waking World under Desire's influence, not once thinking of the consequences. Had something happened to you—had you been harmed—my realm would have suffered the repercussions. Did that cross your mind?"

"I—"

"You endangered everything for your own shallow need."

His words struck like a lash.

"It wasn't shallow!" Vivian cried, her voice breaking. "What I've lost—my past—it was tearing me apart. Desire gave me a way to face it. And you—" she shook her head, retreating half a step, "—you judged me from afar, never once asking what I was going through."

She was shaking.

Not with fear. Not anymore. But with rage, and grief, and disappointment.

She looked up at him—this cold god who had left her alone, and who now dared to punish her for saving herself.

"Perhaps I made a mistake," she said at last, voice raw. "Perhaps I should have told you. But I was desperate. And now... now I see that to you, I am nothing but a traitor."

She turned to face the black doors.

But behind her, his voice rang out—commanding, absolute.

"I did not grant you leave to go."

Vivian froze, breath caught in her throat. She dared not take another step—nor did she have the strength to turn and face him again. Tears blurred her vision as she stared downward, the dark marble floor fractured by the weight of her grief.

"After all that you've said—after everything—you still wish to keep me here... against my will?"

Behind her, she heard the slow, deliberate footsteps of the Dream King drawing closer.

Every instinct urged her to flee.

But one did not flee from Morpheus.

The air itself seemed to resist movement, grown dense and dreamlike, as if the world had shifted to nightmare without her consent. Vivian's limbs felt heavy, her will faltering. She remained where she stood, her back to him, trembling.

"You acted behind my back."

His voice came from just behind her now—so near she could feel the chill of it on her neck.

She hadn't heard him approach. Not truly. He moved as shadow moved—unseen until it touched you.

"You share an affinity with Desire," he continued, voice low, ice-cracked"You ventured recklessly beyond my realm. No, Vivian. I am not finished with you."

She shivered at the sound of her name in his mouth.

There was something in his tone—a cold promise, yes—but beneath it, a flicker of something stranger. Something she could not name. 

It vanished before she could grasp it.

Then silence—unnatural, suspended. And suddenly, the air around her shifted.

A current stirred.

Her eyes flew open just as the world fractured.

There was a rush—a magical wind, unseen and fierce, whipping her hair about her face. A startled cry escaped her lips.

Her feet lost the ground. The world tilted.

She felt herself lifted, as though pulled by unseen hands. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly against a smooth, invisible surface. Sound dulled in her ears, replaced by a deep, unnatural hum.

Then—impact.

Vivian struck a hard, cold surface that shifted beneath her, covered in fine sand.

She groaned, her vision a swirl of color and light. When she finally drew breath, she found herself inside a confined space—glass walls on every side, slick and curved like the inside of a vessel.

A bottle.

Dazed, she lifted her head. Through the warped lens of the glass, she saw him—Morpheus, looming beyond the wall, made monstrous by perspective.

He stood motionless, his face cast in half-shadow. But his eyes—His eyes glowed with quiet fury, refracted and strange behind the glass.

Vivian tried to speak, but her voice came back to her distorted, muffled by the enclosed space.

"Let me out!" she cried, pressing both palms against the cool surface, desperation surging. Her voice echoed within the vessel, broken and incomplete, a sound swallowed by itself.

Did he hear her?

He bent slightly, his face drawing closer, vast and unrelenting.

When he spoke, his voice passed through the glass like a vibration in her bones.

"You will leave when I decide it is time," he said, with cold finality.

 "Immortality has its price."

There was no mercy in those words. No trace of softness. Only judgment—icy and absolute.

Vivian's panic swelled. She pounded harder against the glass, as though sheer will might break it.

"Mor...Morpheus," she pleaded, her voice unraveling into sobs. "Please..."

But his expression did not change.

Outside the glass, his face remained carved in stillness.

He straightened.

Then, with measured precision, he lifted the bottle—cradling it with care, as though it were precious... or dangerous.

Vivian clung to the curved interior, trying to stay upright as the world around her tilted.

Then she felt movement—the slow, inevitable approach of something final.

He carried her.

They crossed the throne room, and she saw—through blurred glass and streaked tears—a stone shelf along one far wall. Strange objects rested there: vials, tomes, relics bound in silver chains.

Morpheus reached it.

And placed her there.

Gently, almost reverently, he set the bottle upon the stone.

Vivian pressed her palms against the interior, watching as his large hand withdrew. The world beyond the glass rippled with distortion.

His figure receded, shadows playing across his face. He took a step back, and became little more than a shape—an outline of dark velvet and pale skin behind a veil of curved reflection.

She struck the wall with her fists.

"Please! Don't leave me here!" she cried, her voice now no more than a choked, muffled moan. Her prison returned her plea as warped echoes, hollow and cruel.

Morpheus paused.

For a moment, he simply looked at her.

There, within the glass, she was small.

Helpless.

And he—a statue in shadow, wrapped in silence.

His eyes, though veiled, flickered with something more than wrath.

There was coldness, yes—but also a tremor, imperceptible but present. A fracture. A flicker. Something unspoken.

But it passed.

Without a word, the Dream King turned away.

The whisper of his robe was the only sound that followed.

Vivian watched, breathless, as he vanished into the depths of the chamber.

The great doors groaned shut behind him with a finality that echoed through every part of her.

And then—silence.

Inside the bottle, sound faded to stillness.

Only her ragged breath remained, loud in her ears, bouncing off the glass.

She pressed her forehead to the curve of her prison, knuckles bruised, hands trembling.

The chill of the stone floor seeped into her bones. Her tears did not cease. They traced the angles of her face, salt against skin, sorrow given form.

And so she remained—curled in upon herself like a fallen bird—

alone,

terrified,

trapped in glass.

With only the sound of her own sobs for company in the dark.

Chapter Text

When she saw him walk past the black doors the librarian's gaze immediately darted past Morpheus's shoulder, toward the threshold of the Throne Room, searching—hoping—for some sign of Vivian emerging behind him.

But the doorway stood empty.

No trace of the young woman.

She leaned slightly, peering beyond the colossal doors. Nothing.

Lucienne felt her heart grow heavy.

Petal had knocked at her chamber earlier that evening to inform her that Vivian had been summoned, and she had rushed to reach her in time, hoping to offer a few words of guidance, a last moment of reassurance. But when she had arrived, the girl had already passed through the doors. Too late.

She swallowed hard, then advanced with quiet urgency, her steps quick yet composed, until she drew near to Morpheus, gazing ahead.

"My lord..." she began, voice a respectful whisper, carefully shaped so as not to disturb the stillness that surrounded them. Her words hovered in the air like dust.

He continued walking. But Lucienne saw it—flickering in those dark, endless eyes.

Stars.

Distant stars, burning brighter than usual. A sign she had come to know all too well.

Contained fury. The kind that did not burn outward but turned inward, dangerous and cold.

"Forgive me," she ventured, "but... Miss Vivian... she is not with you. Is she... is she already in her chambers?"

A silence fell between them—dense, like the hush before a storm breaks.

Morpheus clenched his jaw. When he finally spoke, his voice scraped like stone splitting under pressure, low and sharp and pitiless.

"Vivian is no longer your concern, Lucienne."

He did not turn fully toward her.

His profile remained fixed forward, noble and austere, as though his gaze was caught on something beyond the horizon of the palace—something invisible, unreachable.

Those words, and the sheer frigidity with which they were spoken, struck Lucienne deeper than they should have.

"Concern..." she murmured, barely audible. She could hardly believe that was the whole of it.

The book in her arms trembled faintly in her grasp.

Lowering her eyes, she tried to compose herself behind the glint of her spectacles. But it was no use. She knew Morpheus too well—better, perhaps, than anyone in the Dreaming—and the signs were unmistakable. His coldness was not casual. Vivian had wounded him.

And deeply.

"My lord... forgive my boldness," she said, her voice now walking on glass. There was a flash in his dark eye—like lightning beneath a starless sky.

He parted his lips in a thin, impatient line.

"Vivian chose her path, Lucienne. She acted with selfishness. And betrayal."

That final word struck like iron.

"She conspired with Desire behind my back."

Lucienne stiffened.

Desire.

The capricious, cruel sibling—an Endless whose games always exacted a price.

If Vivian had truly sought them out, then the matter was grave.

And yet... something within her recoiled from that narrative. Something refused to align with it.

She had come to know Vivian—not deeply, but with a growing affection that surprised her. The girl had always seemed sincere, unmoored, yes—adrift in a world too vast and strange—but not disloyal. Not treacherous.

What could have driven her to such a reckless, self-destructive act?

"My lord," Lucienne said softly, "I am certain Vivian did not mean—"

But she got no further.

Morpheus silenced her with a single, abrupt gesture of his hand.

His outline seemed to ripple then, like smoke disturbed by wind, and the air around them cooled, drawn taut.

"That is enough."

His command was razor-sharp.

Lucienne felt a pang—not only of fear, but of sorrow. He had not spoken to her in that tone for a very long time.

They stood in silence.

Then, Morpheus closed his eyes briefly, as though bracing himself against a tide he could not stem.

When he opened them, his voice had returned to its usual quietude—controlled, but still ringing with restrained resentment.

"Lucienne," he said, "you have served the Dream faithfully for ages beyond reckoning. I hold deep respect for you. But on this matter, I will hear no argument."

At last, he turned to face her fully.

His eyes—those vast, celestial pools of darkness pricked with ancient starlight—met hers, cold and unwavering.

"Vivian has received what she deserved.

That is all you need to know."

The weight of those words struck her like a physical blow.

Lucienne wanted to protest, to plead, to demand clarity. But the aura of finality emanating from Morpheus halted her where she stood.

He was not merely her sovereign.

He was Dream incarnate.

To defy his will was to risk the delicate balance of their ancient bond.

So she bowed her head, ever so slightly, in reluctant submission.

Morpheus held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned—his cloak whispering against the stone as he strode away, vanishing around the corridor's edge, into the deepening shadows.

Only when the sound of his robes had fully faded did Lucienne allow herself to breathe again.

She stood alone, unmoving, in the empty corridor, beneath a silence heavy as ash.

Her heart beat fast within her chest. Relief that Morpheus's wrath had not been turned fully upon her mingled with a darker undercurrent: dread for Vivian's fate. And a growing, undeniable doubt.

He had spoken of betrayal. Of Desire.

Of judgment.

And yet...

Lucienne's mind drifted—unbidden—back to gentler days. To quieter hours.

She remembered Vivian as she had first arrived, eyes wide with fear and wonder, awkward in her steps but eager to learn.

She recalled her curiosity in the library, the way her fingers lingered over ancient tomes as though touching stories for the first time. The way she listened—truly listened—when Lucienne spoke. She had asked questions others would not have thought to ask. Not out of defiance, but out of a deep, aching hunger for understanding.

There had been mornings where Lucienne would find her curled in one of the reading chairs, dozing, a half-open book in her lap.

She had laughed, once—nervously, but sincerely—when Lucienne corrected her pronunciation of a forgotten language. The sound of that laugh lingered even now.

And then, there were the things not spoken aloud. The subtle grief in Vivian's eyes. The yearning. The loss she carried like a second skin.

No—Lucienne could not believe she had meant harm.

Not to him. Not to the Dream.

She took a deep breath.

She knew she was about to cross a line.

In all her long existence, she had rarely questioned the will of the Dream King—never openly, and never on a matter so delicate.

And yet... the thought of Vivian—perhaps in suffering, perhaps worse—haunted her.

No, Morpheus would not have killed her. That would have had consequences too vast, too dire. The daughter of Lucifer—her death would have meant ruin, perhaps even war.

But there are fates worse than death.

And Lucienne could not help but think of Nada.

If she remained silent, she would regret it.

Not only for failing Vivian—but for failing Morpheus himself.

He would regret this, one day.

Too late.

There was only one being who might still reach him.

Only one who could speak to Morpheus not as servant to master, but as equal to equal.

His sister.

Death.

Lucienne knew it well: Death alone had ever managed to temper his shadow with understanding.

If Morpheus would not hear her... perhaps he would listen to his Sister.

Lucienne's heart was a drumbeat of dread as she moved with swift, soundless steps through the vast, dimly lit halls of the Dreaming. Her path led unerringly toward the Gallery of the Endless—a sacred corridor of hushed shadows and ancient echoes, where each of the immortal siblings was represented by a sigil, a relic of absolute significance. Here, among marble pillars and vaulted arches woven with starlight and ivy, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

At the farthest end, flanked by the spiked helm of Dream himself, her steps slowed. There, framed in a mirror of flawless black ebony, hung the symbol of Death: an ankh wrought in obsidian, simple yet eternal, gleaming with an inner light.

Lucienne stood still for a moment, fingers curled at her sides. She was about to cross a line few dared to tread. To summon one of the Endless without leave—without his leave—was no light act. It might be considered treason. But her loyalty to Morpheus had never been blind obedience. And silence, in this case, would be the true betrayal. Of justice. Of Vivian. Of the part of Dream that still longed to feel.

She exhaled slowly. Then, with a resolve carved from centuries of service, she raised a trembling hand and let her fingertips brush the cold, unyielding metal.

A whisper, almost a prayer, escaped her lips:

"My Lady Death... please. Come to me. I beg you. Your brother needs you—whether he knows it or not."

The words vanished into the stillness, swallowed by the ancient hush of the Gallery. Nothing moved. No answer came.

She closed her eyes, her chest tightening. Had she spoken too boldly? Had she overstepped? Or worse—had the Endless herself turned away?

But then—

A breeze.

Faint, like the breath of autumn brushing over the skin of the world. It stirred the hem of Lucienne's coat and tousled a loose curl behind her ear. She opened her eyes.

There, where a heartbeat earlier there had been only silence and stone, stood Death.

She was not grand, nor terrible, as mortals might imagine. Rather, she wore simplicity like a crown: dark jeans, a tank top the color of mourning lilies, boots laced tight. Around her neck glinted the very ankh Lucienne had touched, now glowing gently with a light that came from no sun.

Her skin was the color of rich, warm earth; her eyes vast and full of galaxies. Within them lived the kindness of finality, the mercy of endings.

She tilted her head slightly, a smile half-formed.

"Lucienne?" she asked, her voice a balm of velvet, threaded with curiosity.

"That's unusual. You don't usually call on me. What's wrong?"

Lucienne bowed low, the weight of the moment pressing against her spine.

"Forgive the intrusion, my Lady," she said, her voice hushed yet firm"I would not have disturbed you unless I believed the need was grave."

She straightened, but did not yet meet Death's gaze.

"It concerns Lord Morpheus... and his...bride."

Death's expression darkened—not with anger, but with recognition.

"Vivian," she said softly "Lucifer's daughter. The girl trapped in a thousand threads of fate."

A pause. A breath.

"I've been meaning to meet her. Every time I thought to visit, Dream found some excuse to keep me away. What has he done now?"

Lucienne hesitated, tightening her hold on the worn book she still carried. Her throat was dry.

"He has... punished her. Harshly. I don't know where she is. I only know that she is gone—and that he is hurting, more than he can admit."

The words felt like shards, bitter and sharp.

"He believes she betrayed him. That she conspired with Desire."

Lucienne's voice faltered.

"But I've seen her. I've walked beside her, watched her grow, struggle, try. She is no traitor. She is lost, perhaps, frightened—yes. But cruel? No. Never."

She swallowed "I fear..." she drew a breath,

"...that he has locked her away. Or worse."

Death was silent for a long moment, her eyes unreadable. But Lucienne could sense the storm behind them—not of violence, but of unwavering resolve.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, grave, and tinged with sorrow.

"That idiot..." she murmured, more to herself than to Lucienne.

"Always so certain, so quick to wall himself in stone. Haven't we learned, time and again, where that path leads?"

She stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on Lucienne's shoulder. It was a gesture of reassurance, of silent thanks.

"You did right to call me," she said, and this time her tone bore the weight of finality "No one else could have. No one else would have dared."

Then her voice dropped, quiet but unshakable:

"Where is my brother?"

⸻

The western balcony of the Dreaming was a colonnade of obsidian and shadows, open to the shifting panorama of the realm. Above, the sky stirred in a perpetual twilight—a whirl of violet and crimson, streaked with clouds that moved with unnatural haste, reflecting the storm roiling within the King of Dreams.

Morpheus stood at the iron balustrade, his hands gripping its edge with a stillness so absolute it screamed tension. He stared beyond the horizon of his dominion, where rivers of glowing dreams flowed through vales of impossible wonder, and forests of thought faded into silver mist. Even the realm itself, built from slumber and memory, could not remain still under the weight of its master's wrath.

Death appeared beside him soundlessly. No flourish, no warning. Simply there—like an inevitable truth. She wore no smile. Her face, usually warm with the softness of stars, was solemn as she studied her brother's rigid profile.

She said nothing at first. Just stood beside him, arms resting on the same railing, her dark eyes tracing the currents of dreamscape below. Then, at last, she spoke.

"Little brother."

Her voice was low, quiet—but not without force. Morpheus turned slightly, just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. The ankh at her chest caught a glint of the eternal dusk.

"Sister," he replied, his voice hoarse and low. There was no surprise in it.

"Lucienne told me about Vivian," Death said. No ceremony. No soft approach. There wasn't time for gentleness. Not now. "I'll skip the part where I scold you for not letting me meet her. Just tell me—where is she?"

Her words carried a weight, a sorrow cloaked in quiet fury. To speak them hurt her; to even ask this of her brother felt like betrayal. Morpheus didn't meet her eyes. A flicker of lightning fractured the purple sky, its reflection brief in his fathomless gaze.

"I confined her," he murmured. "I had no choice."

Death leaned forward on her elbows, turning her head just enough to catch his expression.

"No choice?" she echoed "Since when have you lacked the imagination to find another path that doesn't involve such... cruelty?"

His jaw clenched "It is not cruelty," he snapped "It is justice. She conspired with Desire. She acted recklessly, endangered the Dreaming. Such betrayal cannot go unpunished."

Death arched an eyebrow "And what evidence do you have of that?" she asked, voice soft but pointed. She knew Desire's tricks too well.

Morpheus hesitated. A war raged behind his eyes.

"She carried his scent," he said at last. "She admitted going with him into the Waking World. And she tampered with this realm."

His voice cracked, just slightly, on those last words. Death caught it—she always did.

"Brother... you know what Desire is," she said. "You know the lies, the whispers. This isn't the first time they've tried to set us against one another, is it?"

He flinched.

Of course he remembered.

The last time, Desire had nearly succeeded in tricking him into spilling innocent blood. Only at the very end had he recognized the trap.

The shame of that memory still burned.

"I know what they are," he said, his voice like broken glass "But that doesn't change what Vivian did. Of her own free will."

"And what exactly did she do?" Death pressed gently "Did she try to destroy your kingdom? Did she attack you? Or was she just... looking for something she thought she'd never be granted?"

Morpheus did not answer. Her words struck a chord he didn't want to name.

"Did you even ask her?" Death continued, more softly now "Did you give her a chance to explain?"

Silence. The kind that echoes.

She saw it in his eyes—he hadn't. He'd been too furious, too wounded. Vivian had tried to speak, fumbled for words. But he hadn't listened.

"It wouldn't have mattered," he said finally, though his voice betrayed him"Nothing could justify her actions."

Death exhaled and turned her gaze to the horizon. Her voice was velvet threaded with sorrow.

"You know what regret tastes like, Morpheus. You've swallowed it before. Think of your century of imprisonment in the Waking. That pain changed you. It taught you compassion. Have you forgotten that lesson already?"

The Dreaming calmed at her words. The skies slowed their spiraling, the thunder grew distant.

Morpheus closed his eyes. Memory cut like a knife.

His century of captivity—his humiliation, his powerlessness—had reshaped him. And now, in anger, he had mirrored the cruelty he once condemned.

"It's different," he said, weakly.

"Different how?" Death's voice sharpened"Because you're Dream of the Endless? Because kings never err?"

Her eyes searched his"Even Destiny doesn't know all things, Morpheus. You condemned her without hearing her. You made her judge and prisoner in the same breath."

His temper flared, ready to lash out. But when he met her gaze, he faltered. It wasn't accusation in her expression—it was love. Fierce, wounded love.

His shoulders sagged, the weight of his fury crumbling. Weariness claimed him in its place.

"Perhaps I was... hasty," he admitted, the words torn from him.

"I know," Death whispered. Her hand landed softly on his shoulder "I know you were in pain. But this—this is exactly what Desire wants. For you to lose control. To become cold and cruel and alone. Don't give them the satisfaction."

Morpheus looked skyward, his eyes glimmering with emotion too vast to name.

He'd walked right into Desire's trap. In punishing Vivian so swiftly, so harshly, he had played their game.

He had to fix it—if it could still be fixed.

He drew a breath, steadying himself"What would you have me do?"

Death gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. A sign of hope.

"Let her go," she said"Hear her side. She may not tell you what you want to hear, but at least you'll know the truth. That's what a wise king would do."

He nodded. Slowly. A quiet gesture, but it meant everything.

"Come," he said at last. The urgency in his voice had changed. It was no longer vengeance—it was need.

They walked together through the endless corridors of the palace, silent but swift.

At the great doors of the throne room, Morpheus raised a hand. The obsidian doors opened at his unspoken command, revealing the still, blue-lit vastness within.

They entered.

At the foot of the throne, he summoned the vial.

It appeared in his hands, delicate and cool. He held it gently, like something sacred.

Then his breath caught.

His eyes narrowed.

"This can't be..." he whispered, barely audible.

The vial was empty.

It slipped from his grasp.

Glass shattered, a bright, brittle sound in the hush.

Death stepped forward, shock widening her eyes.

"She escaped?" she asked, the question hanging heavy between them.

No answer.

She knew—as did he—that no one escapes the Dreaming if that was his will. No one breaks his enchantments and no one in his court had the power to aid her.

How?

Morpheus did not move. A statue in mourning.

Inside, his thoughts stormed. The bottle's spell had been unbreakable. No one should have been able to open it.

The anger stirred again—but it was no longer blind. It was sharp. Controlled. Cold.

Vivian was free.

Somewhere.

He had to find her.

To protect her.

Or to stop her.

Death laid a hand on his arm. A tether, a reminder.

"I'll find her," he said. Not a vow. A decree.

Death nodded.

They stood in silence beneath the vaulted ceiling, shadows flickering around them, stained glass glimmering with fading light.

Vivian was no longer the imprisoned bride.

She was a wild card now.

And the game had just changed.

Chapter Text

Vivian trembled, curled tightly within the narrow prison of glass into which Dream had cast her.

Knees drawn to her chest, she could feel the wild rhythm of her heart hammering against her ribs, its pace mirroring the storm within. Tears carved silent paths down her cheeks. The light of the Dreaming was ever-shifting—mutable as thought—but within the confines of that enchanted vial, all was warped, like the world seen through sorrow and crystal.

'How had it come to this?' she asked herself again and again, her mind caught in a tempest of fear and regret.

She felt foolish. Had she truly believed that the Lord of Dreams would understand her intentions, forgive her audacity?

"I was too naive," she whispered aloud, her voice raw and cracked. The silence of the glass echoed back, a pale imitation of her despair.

She remembered how, only hours before, she had performed—unknowingly—an extraordinary act: she had brought a butterfly back to life within the Dreaming. A fragile creature woven from starlight and slumber, ephemeral and radiant.

An impossible thing. And yet, within this realm of impossibility, that act had sealed her fate.

He had summoned her the moment the echo of that unnatural life rippled through his domain. Not to speak. Not to understand. But to judge.

He had stood before her—dark, impassive, his face carved in onyx, his eyes twin voids. No warmth. No recognition. Only disdain. And when he spoke, it was a god pronouncing sentence.

Where she had sought compassion, she had found fury. He had seen in her deed not wonder, but violation. A breach of natural law.

And, perhaps, betrayal.

The mere whisper of Desire's name had been enough to damn her.

Now, imprisoned in a bottle of enchanted glass, like a moth trapped beneath a cup, her thoughts turned to him.

To the Eternal who had shown her kindness. Who had helped her make peace with her reality—perhaps even see it anew. She could not fully grasp what Desire was, but their smile had held the shimmer of freedom. In rooftop bars and moonlit clubs, while dancing beneath strobing lights or sipping nectar sweet as sin, Desire had made her feel unbound.

So unlike the cold gaze of Dream.

Terror and loneliness clutched at her chest.

"I made a terrible mistake," she choked out, her voice unraveling. She squeezed her eyes shut.

The words she had used... the way she had spoken to a king.

An immortal king. Ancient, unyielding, and absolute.

She didn't dare complete the thought. The darkness did it for her.

This was her fate now—trapped. Forgotten. Punished for daring to act with her own will.

But even as despair clawed at her, Vivian shook her head. No. It couldn't end like this.

Desperately, she searched herself for anything that might offer escape. And then, like a flicker of sunlight through storm clouds, she remembered—

The key.

Her trembling hands reached into the folds of her dress. Buried deep in the pocket where she had hidden it in haste when Breeze had come to fetch her.

She had forgotten it. Dream, it seemed, had never noticed.

Or perhaps... he had not known what it was.

Vivian stared at the key through tear-blurred eyes. It glimmered faintly, as though lit from within—shaped like a heart of crystal. She had used it before. Almost every night, to find her way into Desire's realm.

It was a risk to try now, with her mind a storm and fear drowning her thoughts. But what choice did she have?

Time did not pass normally in the Dreaming. A moment could stretch into centuries.

Immortality meant she would not die. Only suffer.

"Please," she whispered, fingers tightening around the crystal "Still work..."

With the last shreds of will, she closed her eyes and conjured Desire's realm in her mind. The glittering halls. The velvet air scented with honeyed wine and rose petals. The laughter—languid, knowing—echoing in the distance.

A sob broke from her lips as she poured every ounce of hope into the memory.

The key began to glow. Faint at first, then pulsing, alive.

Vivian felt the familiar pull—deep and sudden, like a thread yanked from her belly. As if the world were tilting, unraveling at the seams.

And then—

The cold silence shattered. The scent of despair vanished.

In its place bloomed perfume—warm, dizzying, sweet as longing.

She opened her eyes.

The walls of glass around her dissolved like morning mist.

And she fell—no, arrived—gently. Her feet touched plush pink carpet, soft as breath.

She was no longer in Dream's domain. The vial was gone.

Still trembling, she stood amidst the strange, opulent vastness of Desire's realm. Iridescent columns curved like ribs of some great creature; walls shimmered in crimson and gold, melting into each other without end. The air was thick with spice, with sweetness, with something else entirely—something that made her head spin.

She was safe.

A choked sob tore from her throat.

Clutching the crystal heart still glowing in her hand, she finally let go. The pain she had swallowed erupted. Her cries filled the perfumed stillness as she crumpled to her knees.

For the first time since the sentence was passed, she wept freely—no longer muffled by glass, no longer silenced by fear.

Her sobs were jagged, broken, raw.

But they were hers.

"Someone's been talking to my brother, haven't they?"

The voice, velvety and laced with sarcasm, rang out behind her. Vivian flinched ever so slightly, recognizing it instantly despite the mocking tone. Desire had appeared just a few steps away, as silent as only an Endless could be. Casually leaning against one of the glittering columns, they observed her with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile dancing across lips both amused and enigmatic. Their golden eyes gleamed in the rosy half-light of the realm, filled with a mixture of curiosity and gentle, teasing reproach.

Vivian tried to compose herself, wiping away her tears clumsily with the back of her hand. Yet the weeping would not quite stop; her nerves still taut as violin strings. Desire stepped forward with a studied grace. They wore a soft, cream-colored suit that shimmered with mother-of-pearl reflections at every movement. Upon their splendid and ambiguous face, irony gave way to something unexpected.

With a light, almost hesitant gesture, they brushed her shoulder. Vivian lifted her face. Through the veil of tears, she saw Desire's gaze shift as their eyes met—away from sarcasm and toward something else. A flicker of concern, perhaps? Something fragile and unspoken passed between them. It shattered the last of her defenses.

Vivian fell into Desire's arms, sobbing harder. They embraced her without hesitation. At first, they said nothing, simply letting her cry against the soft fabric of their jacket. One hand—elegant, inhuman—stroked her hair gently, as if trying to soothe her.

"It's all right now, darling," they whispered at last, with a tenderness few in the universe would ever believe them capable of.

It took several minutes before Vivian's sobs began to subside. When she finally caught her breath and the storm within her calmed a little, Desire pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. Tilting their head slightly, they gave her the faintest of smiles.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" they asked, voice low and patient.

Vivian's face twisted in pain. She looked away, almost ashamed of her own naïveté

"I... I thought..." she began, her voice breaking. She swallowed, summoning courage under Desire's unusually attentive gaze.

"There was a butterfly... in the Garden of Dreams. A dying dream. I don't even know how, but... I held it in my hands and felt something rush through me. I wished—wished with all I had—for it to fly again. And... it did. The butterfly came back to life."

Her voice trembled; she still didn't understand how the miracle had happened—or why it had been wrong.

"I thought I was doing something good," she whispered, hugging herself as if to ward off the chill "But right after... Morpheus summoned me. He was... so angry."

A shiver coursed through her as she recalled the cold fire in Dream's eyes.

"He said I had broken the natural order. That I dared claim a power that wasn't mine. But I only wanted..."

Desire raised their eyebrow again—this time, in astonishment "You have some kind of power over the Dreaming?" they asked, a sudden edge threading their otherwise velvet voice. Gently, they brushed away a lingering tear from her cheek.

Vivian hesitated at the shift in tone, then shook her head"I don't know... He... I..."

Desire sighed, their hand returning to her shoulder in a gesture of comfort"It doesn't matter now," they murmured.

"He judged me," Vivian continued, her voice bitter"He wouldn't listen. He thought I was trying to challenge him... to disrupt his rules."

She blinked hard as new tears welled in her eyes"He looked at me like I was the worst of traitors and then..."

She shut her eyes. The horror of it came flooding back—the sensation of those glass walls closing in around her"Then he imprisoned me," she whispered, barely audible"He sealed me inside a bottle. And left me there... alone."

At those last words, her voice finally broke. A silent sob shook her lips.

"If I hadn't had the key..." she murmured, clutching it in her palm"I'd still be in there."

"He put you... in a bottle?"

Desire remained silent for a heartbeat. Their arms were still wrapped around Vivian, and they could feel the subtle tremors of her body.

A part of them—the part that was sly, sarcastic, even cruel—tasted the bitter joy of knowing that their solemn brother had created for himself such a colossal problem, and tried to contain it in so absurd a manner. Dream's failures played out in Desire's mind like a theater of shame: Nada, Orpheus, Calliope.

How powerful he must have felt, sealing someone immortal inside a glass vial—Dream, the great Lord of Dreams—and how utterly ridiculous and small he would seem when he found it empty.

They nearly laughed at the thought.

Nearly.

Because the pulse of the immortal girl trembling in their arms beat to a different rhythm—one Desire could not ignore.

Vivian.

The mortal raised among the Waking world, the one who eluded the spell of their charm and now even the dominion of Dream.

A mystery. A challenge.

Vivian who laughed, danced, asked impossible questions.

Vivian who took liberties no one dared—not even their siblings.

Vivian who had trusted them since the day she'd stumbled into their realm by accident—or perhaps not by accident at all. She'd had a choice later, and she had chosen to come back.

Why?

Was it nostalgia for the Waking? Or something deeper? Something Desire could not name?

They couldn't know. They couldn't read her, not as they did everyone else.

And that made her dangerous. Addictive.

So no—Desire did not laugh. Did not smile.

"Don't worry, darling," they said, lifting her chin with a single, elegant finger. Their eyes locked.

"It's not the first time my brother's locked someone away. But do you know what's different?"

Their thumb brushed her cheek in a surprisingly gentle gesture "It's the first time someone's ever gotten out. When Dream will find the bottle empty, he'll learn something vital—he's not invincible."

Vivian looked at them, still shaken. Desire's words were meant to soothe—and they did, in part. She had escaped. She had survived. But the thought of what might happen when Dream discovered her flight made her stomach turn.

"He'll be furious," she murmured, lowering her gaze again. Fear flickered across her weary face.

Desire rubbed her shoulder softly in comfort "Maybe. But this proves he's not as perfect as he thinks."

Their voice remained sweet, but a wicked glint sparked in their golden eyes"And if anyone can stand against him, my dear—it's you."

Deep down, Desire knew full well that Dream was nearly untouchable in his own realm. Unassailable, perhaps, if they were honest. But the fact that Vivian had slipped through his grasp—that she had escaped—was a small, delicious victory. A scratch across Dream's pride. A fracture in his illusion of control. Desire savored it in silence, though none of it showed on the face they offered Vivian.

They gave her chin a final, playful tap before releasing her from the embrace"Now, let's calm you down a bit, shall we?" they offered affably, sweeping their gaze over her.

The poor girl looked pale, eyes swollen and red from crying, hair tangled, her pearl-colored dress rumpled and streaked with tears. She resembled a forgotten scrap of something once precious. Desire shook their head in theatrical dismay.

"We can't possibly leave you like this," they declared, flashing a bright, reassuring smile"You know what you need? A drink. Something strong. Something to put those nerves back together."

Vivian blinked, startled by the unexpected suggestion.

Desire chuckled softly at her expression"Oh, nothing too eccentric—I promise. In fact, I thought we'd skip my usual haunts tonight. I've got somewhere in mind... something more intimate. Familiar."

Vivian bit her lip, torn between shock and exhaustion. Go out? Drink? The idea seemed galaxies away from her current reality.

And yet...

"I don't think it's a good idea," she murmured.

Desire rolled their eyes in grand exasperation"Of course it isn't. My ideas never are, but you always go along with them anyway. Do it this time, too."

They offered her their hand, a bold smile lighting their face.

Vivian looked down at the outstretched hand. Desire's nails gleamed a pearlescent red under the dim light. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to their eyes—and found warmth there. Genuine concern.

Perhaps it was recklessness—or perhaps it was precisely what she needed: a little courage borrowed from someone who knew no fear.

She swallowed hard, then nodded.

"All right."

Desire's smile widened.

"Good girl."

They clasped her hand in a grip both firm and comforting.

With a graceful flourish—almost like the start of a waltz—they spun her lightly and drew her to their side.

"Then let's go."

A moment later, Vivian felt the ground shift beneath her feet and the air turn crisp and charged with scents and sounds. She squinted, momentarily dazzled by a brightness unfamiliar after so long in shadow. When her eyes adjusted, she found herself in an entirely different setting.

Vivian and Desire had arrived in a modest pub, bathed in the warm amber glow of hanging lamps. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of aged wood, beer, and tobacco—a strangely reassuring blend. The place was quiet, scattered patrons hunched over dark wooden tables murmuring in low voices. A jazz tune, soft and nostalgic, drifted from a vintage jukebox in the corner. Everything seemed peaceful, unremarkable... and safe.

Her outfit had changed—now a one-shoulder green top, denim skirt, and high-heeled sandals. She didn't even bother protesting the entirely unnecessary wardrobe swap.

She followed Desire toward the bar, her steps still unsure. The Endless never let go of her hand, as if fearing she might vanish should he release her. The bartender—a broad-shouldered man with a bristling grey beard—looked up as they approached and offered a welcoming smile. Desire returned it with practiced ease, as though he were a regular.

"What can I get you two?" the bartender asked, unaware he was speaking to the personification of Desire and the daughter of the Morningstar.

To mortal eyes, Desire was always perfectly camouflaged—at that moment, merely a stylish, striking young man accompanying a shaken companion after a rough evening.

"Two whiskies," Desire said, winking playfully. "Your finest."

The man nodded and turned to reach for the right bottle.

Vivian remained silent, too overwhelmed to speak.

Moments later, two tumblers of amber liquid were set before them. Desire nudged one gently toward her "Come on. One sip. It'll help."

She picked up the glass with uncertain fingers. Hard liquor wasn't her habit, especially not neat. Even during their nights out in the Waking World, she rarely drank much, which had always earned her a dramatic pout from Desire, who liked to call her "such a boring little thing."

She lifted her eyes to him now—he was watching her with a half-smile, encouraging. She drew a breath, then took a sip.

The whisky burned its way down her throat, and she coughed softly.

Desire chuckled"It bites a little, doesn't it?" he said, downing his own glass without flinching.

Vivian set hers down with a nod, though the warmth blooming in her chest was oddly soothing. Her hands trembled less. A gentle heat unfurled within her, easing some of the cold still clinging to her bones.

They lingered at the bar in silence for a while, drinking slowly. Desire did not press her, allowing her to gather her thoughts. Every so often he glanced around the pub, taking in the walls cluttered with odd trinkets—old photographs, wooden plaques with silly slogans—and shaking his head with a smile, as though genuinely entertained by the rustic decor.

Vivian noticed those looks and the subtle smile. After everything—after the tears, the dread—it struck her to see Desire so at ease in such a simple place. He, who usually whisked her away to decadent private clubs pulsing with lust and artifice, seemed now to genuinely enjoy the unpretentious quiet of this back-alley pub.

"How are you feeling?" he asked at last, his voice low and unexpectedly soft.

There was no mockery in it, no sarcasm—only real concern.

Vivian glanced around. Aside from the bartender polishing glasses a few feet away, no one else lingered nearby. They were alone, in a way. Alone with their truths.

She rested her hands on the half-empty glass "A little better, I think," she murmured. The whisky had steadied her nerves just enough to let her breathe without the ache in her chest. The gentle jazz filled the silences like a balm.

Vivian traced the grain of the wood on the counter with her finger "I'm still afraid," she confessed softly "I don't know what happens now... Morpheus..."

Desire shook his head, setting down his glass with a soft thud.

"Forget my brother for a moment," he interrupted "You're here now. You're free."

Vivian gave a faint, wistful smile. Free—for tonight.

A part of her wished this moment could stretch on forever. After the nightmare she had endured, to simply sit in a quiet place, with a drink in hand, a friend beside her, and the soothing murmur of ordinary lives around her—it felt like a dream worth clinging to. She could almost believe she was just another woman, on just another evening.

But reality does not stay suspended for long.

Her eyes drifted toward the window. Outside, the night cast rain-glossed reflections across the pavement. In those wavering shadows, she imagined the outline of the Dreaming's palace looming in the distance, a memory, a summons. The Dreaming called to her, even now.

"Desire..." she said, turning to him.

He arched a brow.

"I can't stay here forever. I have to go back."

"I won't stop you," he said, looking down at the amber liquid left in her glass. With one finger, he traced its rim slowly "But let me say one thing."

He looked back up at her, golden eyes unreadable"You owe him nothing. My brother. You were punished unfairly. So if you chose not to return, no one would blame you. You could stay in the Waking World. Or with me."

Vivian studied him. His words were warm, inviting.

He painted a tempting picture: freedom from pain, shelter with someone who seemed to care.

She imagined life in Desire's realm, away from Morpheus's solemn world and his wrath. Maybe she would be safe there. Maybe even happy.

For a heartbeat, the thought glowed bright and beautiful.

Then came other memories—the vast landscapes of the Dreaming, the faces of its people. Dreams and Nightmares who had become friends. Lucienne, loyal guardian of the library. Matthew, the ever-watchful raven. The garden sprites who giggled when she chased them through the flowers. Petal, Breeze.

That world had become her home.

"No," she said softly, startled by the firmness in her voice.

She looked up at Desire, who did not move.

He gave no visible reaction, but something in those words stirred him.

"Morpheus said I endangered the realm by venturing into the Waking World. That it puts his people at risk."

Desire made a face, but Vivian pressed on before he could speak"I think he was telling the truth." Her voice was bitter"I can't risk it. I won't let others suffer because of me. They don't deserve that."

Slowly, Desire withdrew his hand from her glass. His golden gaze narrowed, as if weighing her words.

"I'm not the selfish creature he believes I am."

Her eyes shone as she stared into his "He thinks I betrayed his realm. That I acted out of arrogance or carelessness. But I helped that butterfly because I cared. And I'm choosing to go back because..."

She drew a shaky breath.

"Because I care about that world. I won't let anyone be hurt because of me."

She surprised herself with the clarity of her conviction. Maybe it was the whisky loosening her tongue, but it was her heart speaking now.

Desire remained quiet, unreadable. Then, at last, his lips curved into a strangely fond smile.

"So you do have something in common with my brother," he sighed, half amused, half resigned "That infuriating sense of duty. Who would've guessed?"

Vivian lowered her gaze, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

She felt... exhausted, but not the desperate, unraveling kind.

A quieter kind. Acceptance, perhaps.

Desire slipped down from his stool and stepped toward her, arms opening in invitation.

She didn't hesitate.

Vivian leaned into him, resting against his chest, her eyes drifting shut.

"And if he tries again?" Desire whispered against her ear"To lock you away?"

His voice was serious now "I can't stop you, but... that stubborn, stoic brother of mine might not listen, even then."

"I'll escape again," she murmured, breathing in his familiar scent—spiced and irresistible, like a promise in the dark "And I'll keep escaping. As many times as I need to."

Desire nodded, chin brushing her hair.

They stood there a moment longer in silence.

Then he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze.

"Promise me we'll see each other again," he said. His voice was gentle, yet there was something else beneath it. A flicker of unease"One day. When you can. Just... find me."

Vivian bit her lower lip. The thought of never seeing him again, not as she had night after night, felt like a loss she couldn't quite bear.

"I promise," she whispered"I don't know how, but... one day, I will. I'm immortal, right? I'll find a way."

Desire seemed to accept this, though the uncertainty lingered.

He brushed a hand against her cheek with a final, lingering smile.

"Until then, my darling."

He stepped back.

Vivian reached into her pocket. The key, just as she suspected, had changed—it was now shaped like a crown.

She curled her fingers around it, closed her eyes, and focused on one desire alone: to return to the only place that now felt like home.

Desire watched as she began to fade, her figure dissolving like mist at dawn.

Within seconds, she was gone—returned to the Dreaming by her own resolute will.

Desire remained where he was, staring at the empty space she had left behind. His expression was unreadable.

The pub around him remained unchanged—the bartender still polishing glasses, distant laughter bubbling from the back of the room, blissfully unaware.

He smiled to himself, sharp and knowing.

"You two can come out now," he said aloud, voice calm, laced with amusement and a subtle edge of triumph.

From the shadowy back of the bar, two figures stepped forward. Morpheus and Death emerged from the gloom, their presence parting the dimness like a blade through mist. Each footfall was soft, nearly soundless against the creaking wooden floor, yet the air itself seemed to hush in deference.

Dream wore a long black coat draped over equally dark attire, his raven-black hair wild around his pale face like a storm frozen in time. His eyes—twin voids that smoldered with celestial fire—locked onto Desire with a force that could still a beating heart. Beside him, Death appeared younger, warmer: dark curls tied back, a delicate ankh beneath one eye, dressed in jeans and a simple black top. Yet there was no mistaking the ancient power veiled behind her gentle demeanor.

As they entered, the bartender and the few remaining guests began to drift out, as if drawn by some silent call. Within moments, the three siblings were alone.

"Dangerous, huh?" Desire's voice cut the quiet like silk over a blade "Very mature of you." Their golden eyes shimmered with mockery as they turned toward Morpheus "An Endless with millennia behind him, and he locks up a twenty-seven-year-old girl in a bottle."

Death closed her eyes, as if praying for patience. Morpheus said nothing at first, jaw clenched like stone under pressure. Then he spoke, voice low and edged with iron"Stay out of my affairs, Desire."

Desire took a step forward, unshaken"Your affairs came to me, brother."

"Mind your tongue."

"Or what?" Desire's voice was a whisper laced with venom "You'll bottle me too?" They laughed, dark and unkind.

Morpheus's hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles pale as bone"Don't you dare lecture me," he hissed, fury simmering beneath each syllable"You poisoned her mind with your lies."

Desire's expression sharpened "Lies?" they repeated, their voice now a cold murmur"There were no lies. I didn't have to poison anything, dear Dream." They leaned closer, lips curling into a smile full of sharpness"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. And you know why."

They turned their gaze to Morpheus, then back to Death "Vivian slips through your grasp, sister. Her gift of immortality keeps her beyond your reach. But she escapes also our brother, and me, too. Truth is—only Destiny might have a claim on her."

Death raised an eyebrow "What are you implying?"

Desire's grin grew "You didn't know? Poor sister. Our Vivian does not dream. That's why he's so angry." They gestured toward Morpheus with mock sympathy "That, and the butterfly incident. He can't control her. And that terrifies him."

Without warning, Morpheus seized Desire by the collar and slammed them against the wall "How dare you—"

"Enough," Death's voice rang out, calm but absolute, her hand raised between them like a divine command. Her dark eyes fixed on Desire with silent reproach"We're not here to destroy each other. We've found where Vivian is. That should be the end of it."

Desire glanced at her, and for a moment, the glint of defiance in their eyes dimmed.

"Fine," Desire said, tone silky and smug "Let it end here, Dream."

But they turned again, a flicker of cruel delight dancing in their golden gaze "She came back, you know. You didn't even let her see her home again. Didn't let her say goodbye to her life. Yet she returned—to protect your precious dreams. You heard her, didn't you?"

Morpheus remained still, but something flickered in his abyssal eyes.

Desire smiled, triumphant "Yes. You both heard it." They turned to Death, tilting their head "Poor girl. I almost pity her."

"I said enough!" Death's voice cracked like thunder without raising a single note. Calm, but immutable. "We are not turning this night into another of our petty wars," she said, glaring at Desire "We are Endless. Act like it."

Desire folded their arms, feigning boredom"As you wish, sister." But their tone held a bitter edge"I've already gotten what I came for."

"Go, Desire," Death said softly, but with steel beneath her words "This ends now."

Desire grinned once more, eyes gleaming"Naturally, dear sister." They turned toward the shimmering portal behind them—but paused before stepping through.

"One last thing, brother," they said without looking back. Morpheus remained silent. "Vivian is family now. If anything happens to her..." They glanced over their shoulder, and the smile they wore now had no humor in it—only teeth, and promise"I'll make sure you regret it."

With a rustle of silk and the scent of roses, Desire vanished into the mist.

The portal closed behind them, dissolving like breath on glass. Silence fell upon the bar. Only Morpheus and Death remained, standing apart beneath the faded glow of neon. Jazz murmured softly from an old speaker, unaffected by divine tempests.

Death moved first. She approached slowly, her gaze gentle but unwavering. Morpheus stood motionless, eyes on the worn floor, his face carved in marble. His proud shoulders hung low, burdened by invisible weight.

"I told you," Death said gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. There was no harshness in her voice, only quiet knowing"You misjudged her."

Morpheus closed his eyes. His breath trembled faintly. The mask cracked—just for a moment—and the regret beneath it showed like bruises beneath porcelain.

"You've made quite the mess, haven't you?" she added with a touch of affectionate irony.

Dream lifted his gaze. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. His silence was a confession carved in stone.

And so the Lord of Dreams and his sister remained there, wrapped in the warm hush of the Waking World, as night crept on and music drifted like smoke around them.

Chapter Text

The days that followed unfolded in a haze of silence and self-imposed solitude.

Vivian had sealed herself within her grief and fury as one might retreat behind the high walls of a fortress—guarded, impassable, determined to let no one in. She had assumed that upon returning to the Dreaming, she would be summoned immediately—dragged into yet another cold confrontation with Morpheus. She had imagined accusations, disdain, perhaps even punishment.

But nothing happened.

No messenger. No summons. No Dream Lord appearing in a shroud of stars. Only silence.

She soon understood. The fact that she had returned on her own, and not fled to another realm, seemed to have satisfied him—just enough for him to revert to the most painful weapon in his arsenal: indifference.

"It's better this way," she told herself, more than once, as she stared at the tall windows of her chamber. "I don't need to see him again."

That morning, when Petal and Breeze arrived with her breakfast as they always did, they found the door locked and a voice behind it, cool and remote, drifting out like a winter wind.

"Leave the tray by the door, please. I don't need company this morning."

The two handmaidens exchanged a glance, worry lining their tiny features.

"Miss Vivian," Petal said gently, her voice like a leaf in spring, "are you sure there's nothing we can do to help?"

"I'm sure," came the flat reply "Thank you."

And thus, a new ritual began. Every meal was left at the threshold. Every attempt at conversation was dismissed—polite, perhaps, but unyielding.

If she was to be treated like a prisoner, then she would at least choose the terms of her captivity.

It was Lucienne who dared to try first.

She knocked—firm, respectful, as always—and spoke with that peculiar mix of quiet authority and deep empathy that had once made Vivian feel seen, rather than studied.

"My lady," Lucienne called softly "forgive the intrusion, but your lessons—"

"The lessons are suspended. Indefinitely," came Vivian's voice from the other side "I appreciate everything you've taught me, Lucienne. But I need to be alone now."

There was a pause, and then Lucienne's voice, stripped of formality.

"Vivian... I know what happened with His Lordship. If you wish to talk—"

"To the person who's been reporting my every move to him since day one?" Vivian's voice sharpened like a blade. "No. Thank you. I'll keep my thoughts to myself."

A long silence. Heavy. Human.

When Lucienne spoke again, there was genuine ache beneath the composed exterior.

"I'm sorry you see me that way. Everything I've done was for your own sake—"

"For my sake?" Vivian repeated bitterly "It's fascinating how everyone in this palace has their own definition of what's good for me."

After that, even Lucienne gave up. The message was unmistakable: Vivian wanted no visitors. No voices. No pretense of kindness.

Her days became long stretches of mournful quiet, stitched together with ritual.

She rose late. Ate little. Drank less. Took her breakfast in silence, books in hand—tomes of ancient history, forgotten empires, crumbled temples lost beneath sand and time.

They brought her back, in some small way, to her former life in the waking world—when she'd been just a woman with questions, not a creature of prophecy.

In the afternoons, she walked the private gardens alone. The garden had once seemed like a dream of Eden, filled with impossible flowers and trees whose leaves chimed softly in the wind. Now it felt like a painting behind glass: beautiful, but untouchable.

She would spend hours sitting beside the black roses that had somehow taken root near the edge of the woods—black roses that shimmered with violet and silver, whispering fragrance into the air like a lullaby. They had become her sanctuary, the only thing that didn't ask anything of her.

Sometimes she would fall asleep beside them, cheek pressed against the cool grass, lulled by the soft rustle of dreamleaves and the hush of a sky forever caught in twilight.

It was during one of those walks that Matthew found her.

The raven circled above once, then landed on the branch of a twisted willow, ruffling his feathers.

"Hey... Vivian."

She looked up. He saw it instantly—how the light in her eyes had dimmed again. The spark that had begun to kindle was gone, buried beneath the weight of bitterness and sorrow.

"Hello, Matthew."

Her voice was sandpaper, scraped raw by too many unsaid words "It's been a while. I assume your master's been keeping you busy elsewhere."

"The boss didn't send me," Matthew replied, hopping nervously along the branch "I came because... well, we're all kinda worried about you."

Vivian laughed once—short, bitter, hollow

"You shouldn't be. I'm fine."

"The boss—uh, Morpheus—he's... he's got his ways, y'know? Not always the friendliest, but—"

"The 'boss,'" she snapped, eyes narrowing "is a cold, arrogant coward who prefers to spy on people from a distance than speak to them honestly. And you? You're his eyes in the sky. His loyal, fluttering shadow."

Matthew flinched

"Hey, that's not fair—"

"You know what's not fair, Matthew?" she shot back, rising to her feet "Being locked inside a glass prison like a curiosity in a cabinet. That's not fair."

He took a startled hop backward on the branch, wings twitching. But she was already walking away, her figure vanishing down the path, swallowed by the garden's quiet.

Matthew remained on the branch, his beak slightly open, as though he still had something to say but couldn't remember what it was.

Finally, he let out a small, sad croak and flew off, his silhouette vanishing into the indigo trees.

Evenings were the hardest.

After dinner—always taken alone in her dimly lit chamber—Vivian would sit before the violet flames of the hearth, staring into their dancing shapes as if they might offer answers she hadn't thought to ask.

The light flickered across her pale face, catching the shadows beneath her eyes. She would open the drawer beside her bed and stare at the photograph of her mother. Beside it now rested the crystal heart, still glowing faintly, like a sleeping ember.

The temptation to flee back to the waking world clawed at her more than once. But she had made a choice.

And choices had consequences.

So she closed the drawer. Took a deep breath. And returned to her books, reading until the words blurred and sleep—deep, silent, and without dreams—claimed her again.

⸻

The corridors of the palace felt emptier than usual as Dream of the Endless made his way toward his private chambers. His long black mantle brushed silently across the marble floor, whispering like shadow made flesh.

Another week had passed since he had seen Vivian in that pub in the Waking World—another week of daily reports from Lucienne that merely confirmed what he already knew: his "wife" remained locked within her rooms, refusing any contact with the outside world.

He had found himself returning, more than once, to that memory.

The moment he and Death had found Desire.

He recalled the image vividly—Vivian standing alone in that dim, flickering light, spine straight, jaw set. He remembered the way she had spoken, her voice rough with defiance but steady with resolve:

"I care about that world."

A world she had barely seen—only his palace and sky—and yet she had returned, willingly, to face his fury rather than allow consequences to fall upon the Dreaming.

He had not summoned her. He had not confronted her. He had let her retreat into solitude.

And he had let Lucienne call Death without permission.

Ordinarily, such disobedience would have warranted reprimand. But even Dream, sovereign and proud, had to admit—silently, to himself—that it had been the right thing to do. Perhaps the only right thing.

"She remains in her chambers," Lucienne had informed him that morning, her tone calm and precise as always, though he detected, beneath the polished professionalism, a glint of unease"Meals are left at the door. She has once again refused all offers of company."

He had nodded with his customary aloofness, hiding, as he always did, any flicker of emotion.

"Keep me informed," he said, and turned away before Lucienne could glimpse the brief shadow that passed across his face.

In truth, Vivian's behaviour unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Not out of concern for her welfare—he told himself—but because the fabric of the Dreaming had begun to shift in ways he could not control.

Dreams were twisting in on themselves, merging with memories never lived. Stories strayed from their paths without warning. Nightmares evolved unbidden. And worst of all, there were fractures—hairline cracks in the reality of the Dreaming, as if something ancient and sacred had begun to split.

And at the heart of it all stood her.

To ignore her was no longer an act of detachment—it had become a form of denial.

And still, he had not gone to her.

Instead, Dream found himself wandering more and more into the Waking World, attending to matters he would once have entrusted to his lieutenants.

A dreamer in Kyoto who could no longer distinguish sleep from waking.

An escaped nightmare haunting a small town in Nevada, whose breath caused silence to fall like snowfall.

"Matters requiring my personal attention," he told himself.

But deep within the storm of his thoughts, he knew he was fleeing.

It was easier to face the nightmares of mortals than to confront the chaos Vivian had loosed upon his ordered existence.

Each time he remembered her voice—sharp, brilliant, seething—he felt that same uncomfortable jolt he had not experienced in eons. A wild, unpredictable current that no prophecy had foreseen.

He had not decided whether he despised it... or hungered for it.

Now, as he ascended the winding staircase to the upper floor, he entered the circular observation hall, its high vaulted ceiling crowned with runes that shimmered in eternal twilight.

Here, the windows opened wide to the Dreaming: sprawling gardens, glittering towers, forests that grew according to memory rather than season. The light beyond never changed—neither dawn nor dusk—but within it, all manner of life bloomed.

It looked peaceful, serene, timeless.

But he could feel the truth, buried deep like fault lines beneath a mirror: the realm was unsettled.

His realm.

The palace stood still. But the Dreaming was stirring.

⸻

Morning unfurled with that characteristic golden glow of the Dreaming. For Vivian, however, it felt like just another day in the cycle of her self‑imposed exile. Weeks had passed since their last confrontation, and she had perfected the orchestration of small rituals to fill her hours, giving structure but not breathing life back into her.

She rose with measured, reluctant movements—there was no hurry in her bones. Her private garden called through her chamber's stained‑glass windows, each petal and leaf a promise of peace—peace that judged nothing, questioned nothing.

Petal and Breeze had once again placed breakfast outside her door, accompanied by a delicate note in Petal's handwriting: "Good morning, Lady Vivian." The gnomes never ceased trying to coax even the smallest curve from her lips—but today, as always, Vivian could only offer an efforting half‑smile.

After eating in silence—flavors had grown dull with solitude—she dressed in a pale lavender gown and stepped into the garden for her ritual walk.

The garden spread before her like a world in miniature. Silver‑barked trees arched gracefully overhead, their leaves humming shifting melodies as the breeze passed. Crystalline flowers tinkled when brushed, and beings of pure light—fairies composed of luminescence—danced among the petals.

And yet, she went straight to her refuge: the path of luminous stones leading to a quietly sheltered grove. There, hidden behind whispering wind‑chimes of leaves, grew her black rose bush—her anchor in a world that refused steady ground.

This morning, the roses were at their most beautiful. Petals of midnight black glimmered with reflections of deep violet, night blue, and liquid silver. Their scent—velvet bound in vanilla—filled the space around her.

These roses needed nothing from her. They understood her silence more than any living being. They were simple. Constant. Safe.

She lifted her hand to gently touch one petal when a deep, familiar voice spoke behind her:

"Twilight Roses."

Vivian froze, hand suspended mid‑air. That voice—the same that had interrogated her in the throne room, that had threatened her with quiet authority only nights before—locked her in stillness.

Slowly, she retracted her hand without turning.

"That is their name," said Morpheus, stepping forward with ghost‑quiet grace"They grow only here, in this garden. Their seeds were planted eons ago by a dreamer now forgotten—a king."

Vivian remained motionless, shoulders squared. The thought of him there, of all people, unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

"A king," she said softly, measured.

"A beloved one," Morpheus continued, his voice carrying a gentle weight "Though his memory has faded, his roses carry on."

"How... poetic," she replied, finally turning to face him. Her tone was edged with bitter irony. Their eyes held each other's gaze after so many weeks.

Morpheus expression was different—less imperious, more contemplative. His usual garments hung untouched by wind or drama.

"I expected wrath," said Vivian, her arms tightening around herself. "Orders. Ultimatums. A decree of punishment for my so-called transgression. If this is your version of retribution, it's... unexpectedly mild."

Morpheus did not blink. His gaze remained steady.

"I did not come to punish," he said simply.

"Then why?"

She crossed her arms defiantly.

Morpheus paused, the silence stretching between them. Without answering, he began to walk along the luminescent path into the deeper garden. After a moment of hesitation, Vivian followed, keeping several guarded steps between them.

They passed through parts of the garden Vivian had rarely explored: a pond where fish made of stars drifted below the surface; a crystal bridge that sang underfoot; arches of ancient script for leaves—pages of untold stories fluttering silently.

Each step was filled with words unspoken, resentments held tight, long nights of reflection piled between the blooms.

They came to an area where flowers changed hue with each blink.

And there—in midair, illuminated by soft dreamlight—was a butterfly, its flight a joyous dance of spirals and dives, defying gravity in celebration.

"It's.." Vivian whispered.

Morpheus stopped beside her.

"Yes," he murmured "It is the butterfly you saved."

It fluttered around her as though greeting her alone.

Vivian extended her palm. The butterfly landed—weightless and warm against her skin, glowing like a restored memory.

"She's stunning," Vivian whispered, voice barely above breath "She doesn't resemble a creature broken."

"Dreams rescued from oblivion often shine more brightly than before," he said, eyes hidden behind midnight "Compassion seems to breath them into sharper clarity."

The butterfly flitted lightly against her wrist, then rose to swirl above her head, playful and bright.

"Would you like to see the dream she holds?"

Vivian's breath caught.

"I... can?"

Morpheus nodded, steady.

"Every being in the Dreaming is born of a dream—hope, memory, sorrow, innocence. Each creature carries a dream. If you wish, I can show you the one this butterfly carries."

Vivian's chest trembled.

"Yes... I want that."

She saw Morpheus draw closer, so near that she could sense the warmth of his body and breathe in the scent that always surrounded him—something like night, and rain, and ancient books left to slumber on oak shelves.

"Now," Morpheus whispered, and Vivian saw his hand brush delicately against the wings of the butterfly resting on her palm.

The world vanished.

When Vivian opened her eyes, she was no longer in the palace gardens. She stood on a grassy hill, sloping gently toward distant snow-capped mountains. The sun warmed her skin—not oppressively, but like the sun of perfect childhood days, when time seemed still and every breath brimmed with infinite possibility.

The air smelled of fresh grass and wildflowers and that rare purity that exists only in places where innocence still dwells. A light breeze swept the hill, carrying the distant murmur of a brook flowing somewhere out of sight.

And there, lying on the grass just a few meters away, was a child.

He looked to be about eight or nine, his blond hair glinting in the sun. His T-shirt was worn and faded, and he chewed thoughtfully on a stalk of wheat, gazing up at the sky. But it was no ordinary sky—above him, the clouds danced and twisted, changing shape with a precision and speed that defied any law of physics.

As Vivian watched, mesmerized, a cloud became a regal lion, roaring silently before it dissolved into a whale gliding across the blue. Another cloud turned into a towering castle, then a dragon that puffed smoke like wisps of steam, then a pirate ship with sails full of non-existent wind.

The boy laughed and lifted a hand to wave at the cloud-creatures. Incredibly, some of them seemed to wave back before continuing their whimsical parade across the sky.

"Hello, Mr. Lion," the boy said to the cloud-lion. "Hello, Miss Whale. Oh, look! A flying castle!"

The pure delight in his voice tightened something in Vivian's chest. There was a perfection in that moment—so unburdened, so innocent—it nearly took her breath away.

Then she heard a rustling in the grass and saw a group of deer emerging from the forest at the base of the hill. They were beautiful creatures, their coats gleaming like silk, their eyes wide and gentle. They approached the child cautiously, and he rose slowly so as not to startle them.

"Oh," the boy whispered. 

The deer stopped just a few paces from him, lifting their heads to gaze at the clouds. For a moment, boy, deer, and sky seemed to belong to the same painting, as if painted by a divine hand that understood harmony in its purest form.

Then, suddenly, one of the younger deer leapt playfully and began bounding down the hill. The others followed, and the boy, laughing with pure joy, ran after them.

"Wait for me!" he cried, not with despair, but with elation"I want to run with you!"

Vivian watched him race across the meadow, his hair catching the wind, arms outstretched as if to embrace the world itself. It was a vision of unburdened freedom, of joy untouched by fear or memory.

Without even realizing it, Vivian let herself fall back into the soft grass. The hill welcomed her like an embrace. She breathed in deeply the mountain air. It was different from the palace air—less magical, perhaps, but more... real. More human.

She lay back completely, arms stretched wide, eyes turned to the sky where the clouds continued their endless dance. For the first time in weeks, she felt something close to peace.

"It's really that simple," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else"Just a boy watching clouds. Nothing grand or epic. Just... pure happiness."

"Do you regret saving something so simple?" asked Morpheus.

Vivian opened her eyes and saw that he had seated himself beside her in the grass, though he kept a respectful distance.

"On the contrary," she said, letting the sun warm her face "I'm glad I saved him. I didn't know... I didn't know he held something so beautiful."

She turned to look at him. He, too, was watching the sky. There was something less severe in his profile, a stillness that felt almost... at peace.

"This is the kind of dream that deserves to live forever," Vivian said softly. "The kind that makes the world a better place."

Morpheus turned to meet her gaze, and for a moment their eyes locked.

"I know what you think," she said quietly"That I overstepped. That I interfered. But when I saw he was suffering... I couldn't walk away."

She lay back down again, eyes closed, surrendering to the perfect simplicity of the dream. The scent of grass, the warmth of sunlight, the faint gurgle of the brook—it all wove together a peace she had not felt in what seemed like an eternity.

"And I'm glad I did. I would face your wrath over and over for this" she whispered.

Beside her, Morpheus remained silent, his eyes drifting between the sky and her face. In the dream of the child, under the golden light that filtered through the pure mountain air, she seemed almost... ethereal. Her copper hair splayed across the green grass like melted bronze, and the faint smile playing on her lips made her look younger, lighter, unburdened.

For the first time since he had met her, Morpheus saw her not as a threat to be measured or a complication to be solved—but simply as Vivian. A woman who found wonder in simple things, who felt compassion for those who suffered, who could see beauty even in pain.

And in that moment, with the sun shining gently on both of them and clouds painting stories across the sky, something shifted in his chest—something he had tried to ignore for too long.

He said nothing. He simply remained beside her, watching the eternal dance of the clouds.

And in the silent dream of a child, as Vivian breathed quietly beside him and the world expanded in every direction with infinite promise, Morpheus began to understand what Death had tried to tell him.

Perhaps not everything that disrupted his ordered world was a threat.

Perhaps some things were worth the chaos.

The boy continued to run with the deer through fields without end, the clouds continued their dance overhead, and for one perfect moment, two immortals shared the quiet, perfect peace of a child's dream.

Author's note:

Hello everyone! I am proud to present you my favorite chapter so far. End of transmissions. Thank you for your support! See you in the next chapter

Chapter Text

The morning after their shared dream—the butterfly, the shifting clouds—Vivian woke earlier than she had in weeks.

She sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in cool blue morning light, listening. The palace stirred around her—hallways exhaled softly, curtains fluttered as if the air itself had held its breath. This was not the weighty silence of sorrow. This was softer—alive.

In that moment of stillness, Vivian felt something inside her unlock. She hadn't broken. She had opened. Like a seed finally waking to bloom.

The darkness she'd retreated into began to fade, replaced by a fragile peace. Not healing, but a beginning. A truce with herself.

A small, hopeful smile curved her lips.

It was like the first whisper of spring after an endless winter: faint, but unmistakably real.

When Vivian heard the soft knock at the door and the familiar sound of slippered feet in the hallway, she didn't hesitate. She stood, barefoot on the cold marble, and opened the door.

The tray trembled slightly in Petal's hands. Breeze froze mid-step, eyes wide with disbelief.

They both stared.

Vivian stood in the doorway, hair unbrushed, wrapped in a simple robe the color of early dusk. Her face, usually unreadable these past weeks, held something new—no, something remembered. A flicker of life. The kind of light that comes not from outside, but from a fire slowly being rekindled within.

"Good morning," she said softly. "I... If you're not too busy, I'd like you to stay a while today."

Neither Petal nor Breeze moved at first. It was as time had paused—afraid to disturb the fragile miracle before them.

Then Petal blinked, and the tea tray clattered ever so slightly as she set it down with trembling fingers.

"Of course, Miss," she murmured, her voice thick. "We're always here for you."

Breeze sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve before immediately composing herself. "I'll get the brush."

Vivian stepped aside to let them in, suddenly aware of the soft creak of the floor beneath their feet, the faint clink of porcelain, the warm, spiced scent of the tea they always prepared just the way she liked it.

Petal poured the tea with careful grace "Chamomile and honeysuckle," she said, glancing at Vivian like one might check on a wounded bird "Still your favorite?"

Vivian nodded "Yes. Thank you."

Breeze returned with the ivory-handled brush, her expression serious as a priestess about to conduct a sacred rite.

"Would you like to sit by the mirror?" she asked.

Vivian hesitated, then walked over and sank into the cushioned chair. The mirror reflected all three of them—Vivian's pale face, Petal's hopeful eyes, Breeze's trembling hands.

She exhaled. "Go ahead."

Breeze began brushing her hair slowly, tenderly, as if each strand might turn to starlight at her touch. Vivian closed her eyes and let herself breathe into the moment. The strokes were rhythmic, grounding.

For a long time, no one spoke.

Then, quietly, Breeze said, "We missed you, Miss Vivian. The whole palace did."

Vivian opened her eyes, met Breeze's in the mirror "I know. I missed you too."

Petal smiled "Even the dream-bells rang quieter without you."

Vivian gave a soft laugh "I didn't know dream-bells noticed absence."

"They do," Breeze whispered. "Everything here does."

Another pause.

Neither woman asked what had happened. They didn't press, or pry. They only stayed. They only... cared.

And in the Dreaming, where time was fluid and memory a living thing, that kind of care was a kind of magic all its own.

When they finished, Vivian's hair shimmered like woven copper, falling in gentle waves over her shoulders. Breeze set down the brush with reverence, and Petal handed her the cup of tea with a smile that was both proud and shy.

Vivian took a sip. Warmth spread through her chest—not just from the tea, but from them. These two girls—young in appearance, ageless in presence—who had stayed even when she had vanished.

"Thank you," she said, her voice steady now."For not giving up on me."

Petal bowed slightly, her eyes glistening "We would never."

And Breeze, still standing behind her, placed a hand lightly on her shoulder"You're not alone. Not here."

Vivian didn't reply. She just held the tea close, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, let herself feel safe in their company.

The library was steeped in the kind of golden hush that only ancient places knew—where light filtered through stained glass windows in warm amber tones and dust motes danced in the stillness like fragments of memory.

Vivian hesitated at the threshold.

She hadn't come here in weeks. Not since that day..

But something inside her, a voice she'd tried to drown for too long, told her it was time. Time to face what she had broken. Or, at least, to try.

She stepped in quietly, the soft soles of her slippers barely making a sound on the mosaic floor. Her fingers brushed the edge of a bookshelf as if the touch might anchor her, keep her from turning back.

Lucienne stood near the far window, back straight, posture composed as always. She was leafing through a thick, ancient tome bound in green leather, one hand resting lightly on the pages, the other cradling a delicate porcelain cup. Her glasses caught the light like the edge of a blade.

Vivian drew in a breath and let it out slowly.

Then she spoke, softly.

"Lucienne..."

The name felt heavier than it should have. It echoed slightly in the quiet, and the librarian looked up.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved. The silence was absolute.

Vivian swallowed hard"I... I need to apologize."

Lucienne blinked once, then closed the book with a quiet thump. Her expression was unreadable. Not cold—never cold—but still. Waiting.

Vivian took a step closer. Her voice, when it came again, trembled with the weight of too much time spent in silence.

"I said things I didn't mean. Or maybe I meant them in the moment, but I didn't... I didn't understand what I was doing. I was angry. Hurt. And I lashed out at the one person who's only ever tried to help me."

Lucienne's gaze didn't soften. But it didn't harden either. She listened.

Vivian forced herself to keep speaking. "You weren't spying. I know that now. I think I knew it even then. I just—" She faltered "I needed someone to blame. And you were there. And that was... cruel."

Another breath.

"I'm sorry, Lucienne. Truly."

A long pause.

Then Lucienne set her teacup aside and walked toward her, heels clicking softly against the tiles, hands clasped in front of her as if containing a storm of thoughts.

When she stopped before Vivian, the silence stretched once more between them.

Finally, she said "Do you know what hurt the most?"

Vivian's breath caught "No..."

"That you thought so little of me," Lucienne said, quietly. "That I had earned so little of your trust, despite everything. I know I am not warm. I know I am not easy. But I never lied to you."

"I know," Vivian whispered. "I know that now."

Lucienne studied her. Her voice, when it returned, was quieter still.

"I've served the Dreaming for longer than I can count. I've seen rulers fall. I've seen kingdoms fade. But never—not once—did I betray this place. Or anyone who lives in it."

Vivian's eyes stung"I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"No," Lucienne said calmly. "But you have it anyway."

Vivian's lips parted in surprise.

Lucienne's expression softened—just barely, just enough. "Because I understand grief. And fear. And how both can twist the truth into something unrecognizable. You lost so much, so fast. And you were thrown into a place that didn't make sense. You reacted as any mortal might."

Vivian looked down. Her voice was raw "You could have walked away."

"I almost did," Lucienne admitted"But I didn't. Because despite what you said, I still believed in you."

Silence again, this time tender.

Then Lucienne stepped forward and, to Vivian's surprise, placed both hands gently on her arms.

Her touch was firm, grounding. Her eyes were steady.

"I am glad you've come back."

Vivian let out a shaky breath and nodded, unable to find any more words.

Lucienne released her, then turned slightly, her tone shifting into something lighter. 

Lucienne moved to the side table, poured two cups of tea, and handed one to her. Vivian accepted it with both hands, grateful for the warmth, the gesture, the peace.

They sat down in a quiet alcove near the tall shelves, where the armchairs were soft and worn and the walls bore the scent of old paper and timeless stories.

Lucienne sipped her tea, then gestured to a stack of books. "I was reviewing the restored edition of the Codex of Talia. You might find it interesting. The illustrations alone are exquisite. And there's a footnote on dream-bound oaths that reminded me of a conversation we had once..."

Vivian smiled, small and genuine "I'd like that."

They began to talk. Of books. Of dreams. Of nothing in particular.

And as they spoke, Vivian felt something settle inside her. Something that had been dislodged for too long.

She didn't say the words thank you again. She didn't need to.

Lucienne already knew.

"VIVIIIAAN!"

The cry exploded through the library like a thunderclap muffled in feathers.

A stack of books trembled dangerously near the window and Lucienne—unshakable even in storms—barely raised an eyebrow.

Vivian turned just in time to see a dark blur shoot through the air and land with theatrical flair on the armrest of the closest chair.

Matthew, in all his glossy-feathered glory, puffed up his chest and preened like he'd just swooped in to save the world.

"Well, look who finally cracked open her chrysalis!" he squawked, hopping sideways and nearly toppling a teacup. "I had a bet going with a very smug scarecrow that you were still alive. He owes me five coins now"

Vivian blinked, then laughed.

Not a forced laugh, not the kind she used to hide behind. This was real. Warm. Sudden. It escaped her lips before she could suppress it, a sound that had forgotten how to exist and now spilled out with a joy that surprised even her.

Matthew froze.

"You laughed," he said, stunned"Like... for real."

"I did," she murmured, touching her lips, as if to confirm the sound had truly come from her"You're impossible to ignore."

"I prefer irresistible, thank you very much," Matthew replied with a dramatic flick of his wings. "And let me tell you, the Dreaming hasn't been the same without you. Kind of... hollow. Like a book with pages missing. Morbid. Moody. Too quiet, and that's saying something for this place."

Vivian stood, setting her empty teacup down, and took a step closer to him.

"I missed you," she admitted. "I know I didn't act like it. I shut you out, like everyone else. And you didn't deserve that."

Matthew cocked his head, one eye glossy black, the other a little cloudy, weathered by time. "Hey, look. I've been around long enough to know that grief's got claws. It digs in. You weren't the first to pull away when it hurt, and you won't be the last."

"But I didn't even thank you," she said, her voice dropping"You kept checking in on me. You were the only one I couldn't quite ignore. Even when I wanted to disappear completely, there you were. Watching. Waiting."

"That's the job, kid," Matthew replied with a shrug. "Official royal lookout-slash-feathered nuisance. Comes with the black uniform and everything."

Vivian smiled, soft and genuine.

Lucienne, still seated by the window, cleared her throat. "Matthew, if you're done delivering your monologue, perhaps you could refrain from knocking over the books again."

"No promises!" Matthew replied, hopping in a circle on the armrest "But I'll try."

Then he turned back to Vivian, quieter now. "Seriously, though. It's good to see you up and about again."

Vivian's throat tightened. She didn't know what to say to that. So instead, she reached out.

Not for dramatic effect. Not for show.

Just... to offer a perch.

Matthew blinked, then carefully stepped onto her outstretched hand, his talons light but steady.

She brought him closer, cradling him against her chest like something fragile. He didn't resist. For once, he was still.

"I think," she whispered, "I'm ready to come back."

"Good," he murmured. "Because we missed you."

She held him there a moment longer.

Then Matthew cleared his throat "Okay, not to ruin the touching reunion or anything, but... your heartbeat is really loud up here."

Vivian chuckled, shaking her head"You're unbearable."

"Right back atcha."

And yet, neither of them moved away.

Days passed. Slowly, gently, Vivian wove herself back into the flow of life at the Dreaming.

She had breakfast again with Petal and Breeze—her favorite comforts, served with their soft smiles. She walked the gardens, finding confidence in steady steps. She studied with Lucienne, who offered corrections with kindness and new curiosities she couldn't resist.

It wasn't just returning to her old life. It was becoming a new version of it—more attentive, more open, a little braver.

And so, not many mornings later, as the sky still wore its soft robe of gold and violet, Vivian found herself drawn to the familiar corner of the gardens—the one where the Twilight Roses bloomed in quiet defiance of time.

She turned the last hedge and saw him.

Morpheus stood by the tallest of the rosebushes, unmoving, as if he had grown from the very soil beneath him. The light of morning caught the petals beside him, painting them in hues of amethyst, silver, and deep violet that shimmered with every breath of wind. The roses seemed aware of him—leaning subtly in his direction, like dreams drawn to their master.

Vivian halted a few steps away.

Since their shared dream something between them had shifted. Not resolved, not healed, but softened. The frost had cracked. And yet, she hesitated.

The distance between them was only a patch of dew-speckled grass, but it might as well have been a thousand years of silence and missteps.

At last, she spoke. Her voice was level, steady—not warm, but no longer cold.

"Good morning."

Morpheus turned slowly, his movements graceful in that eternal way of his, and their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

There was something new in his gaze. The sharpness had dulled—not dulled in weakness, but softened with intention. His expression still carried the weight of endless ages, but the usual chill had thawed, if only a little.

"Good morning," he replied, and for once, his voice did not sound like a decree carved in stone. It was simply... a greeting.

They stood like that—strangers, allies, something in between—connected by shared silence more than by words.

Then, Morpheus took a step back. Barely a shift in posture, but it was enough. A subtle signal: I will not intrude.

Vivian moved forward, approaching the roses she had visited countless times in solitude. She knelt slightly, as she always did, studying their colors, breathing in their scent—a perfume that was never quite the same from one day to the next. The blossoms shimmered and shifted, alive in a way that wasn't botanical but entirely dreamlike.

Morpheus did not speak.

He stood a few paces away, hands folded behind his back, in that composed posture that belonged more to a statue in a ruined temple than to a man. And yet, he was present—not imposing, not looming, simply... there.

They remained in quiet company.

And for the first time in weeks, the silence didn't sting. It didn't accuse. It simply existed, like the stillness of a morning before the world fully wakes.

When Vivian finally stood and turned to leave, Morpheus did not follow. But when she glanced back, he was still there, standing among the roses as though guarding something fragile, or perhaps letting it guard him.

The next morning, he was gone.

The one after, he was there again.

Then absent.

Then present.

There was no pattern she could discern. No logic to his appearances. But she stopped trying to guess. His presence was no longer unsettling. It was just that—presence.

Something that had once been heavy now simply was.

One morning, Morpheus spoke—suddenly, breaking the quiet in a way that felt almost gentle.

"You come here every day," he said, "but I've never seen you pick anything. Not even a single petal. Why?"

Vivian turned toward him, caught off guard by the question. For a moment, she seemed unsure of how to answer.

"I didn't think I should," she admitted after a pause. Then, lowering her gaze, she added, "To be honest... I thought it might be forbidden. These aren't normal flowers or plants. They don't wither. They change every day, but they never truly die. There's something about them... their beauty feels almost sacred. It makes you hesitate."

He watched her closely, his expression unreadable at first—then, slowly, he nodded.

"You're not wrong," he said. "The flowers that grow here are unlike anything in the Waking World. They hold their essence, but they shift when they feel the need."

He took a few steps closer, not enough to intrude, but enough that she could see the faint shimmer in his eyes as he looked at the blooms.

"They grow where they wish. They move when they choose."

He paused, his gaze drifting across the garden before returning to her.

"But you can pick them," he added, almost casually. "If you want to."

Vivian studied him for a moment, then turned back toward the roses, their petals trembling with colors that didn't exist in any known spectrum.

"I think I'll keep not picking them," she said softly, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting her lips "Some things are meant to be admired, not owned."

Morpheus didn't respond. He simply turned back toward the flowers beside her, and together they returned to silence—not cold this time, but easy, like a breath neither had to think about.

——

One evening, Vivian headed toward the dining room where she usually shared dinner with Lucienne — a quiet moment of conversation after a long day of study. But when she opened the door, the librarian was nowhere to be seen.

In her place, Morpheus sat at the round dark-oak table, lit only by the soft glow of candles. He looked exactly as he always did — impeccable black attire, perfect posture, unreadable expression — and yet, something felt less formal in the scene. Perhaps it was the way his hands rested gently on the table instead of being tensely folded. Or perhaps it was simply the absence of that overwhelming aura of absolute authority that usually surrounded him.

"Lucienne was called away for something urgent," he said before she could ask.

Vivian lingered at the threshold, unsure. The idea of dining alone with Morpheus made her stomach tighten, though she wasn't sure if it was nerves... or something else she couldn't quite name.

"I can eat in my room," she offered. "I don't want to intrude..."

"You're not intruding," said Morpheus, his voice calm. "Stay, if you'd like."

She hesitated for another moment, then slowly crossed the room. Morpheus pulled out her chair for her — a gesture so unexpectedly courteous that it caught her off guard — and the faint scent that clung to him drifted toward her: night rain, old books, a touch of distant thunder. It enveloped her for just a second, before he returned to his seat.

The table was set with an understated elegance. Plates of porcelain that looked like solidified moonlight, crystal glasses that fractured candlelight into miniature prisms, silver cutlery shimmering with that dreamlike quality unique to everything in the Realm of Dream.

Vivian looked down at her plate and saw something that resembled an edible symphony — colors blending and separating like visible music, flavors promising to be childhood memories and future dreams woven into one.

"It's beautiful," she said sincerely, tasting a bite that reminded her of every happy afternoon she'd ever lived.

"Culinary dreams are among the most imaginative," Morpheus said, cutting his food with quiet precision. "They are not bound by the laws of physics or chemistry. They can be pure emotional expression."

"Like everything here, I suppose," Vivian replied, glancing around the room. Even the walls seemed to breathe softly, and the portraits on the walls subtly shifted when not looked at directly.

"You haven't grown used to it yet," he observed. It wasn't a question.

"I don't know if I ever truly will," she admitted "It's all so... impossible. Beautiful, but impossible."

"The Dreaming exists outside the boundaries of what's possible," said Morpheus. "It's governed by different laws — fear, hope, memory. Things happen here because someone dreamt them strongly enough."

"And you rule all of it," Vivian said, studying his face in the candlelight. "Can I ask you something?"

Something flickered in his eyes — surprise, perhaps.

"What is it?" he asked, watching her.

"It's been a while now... I know it might sound strange, but ever since I arrived here, I haven't dreamed. Not once. Is that normal? I mean, because I live here now, or... is it something else I should know?"

"No," he said after a long pause. "It isn't normal."

Vivian froze, her heart tightening at the weight in his voice.

"And... so?" she asked, quietly.

"There are very few beings who do not dream," Morpheus said. "Your father, Lucifer, is one of them. But your siblings... they dream. So I must assume this peculiar trait lies only within the female line."

She sat in silence for a few moments, eyes fixed on the intricately cut crystal glass in front of her"But I used to dream before. Why only now?"

"It's hard to say. Perhaps it's the touch of the Immortal that Lucifer passed to you."

"But... you can see my past dreams, can't you?"

Morpheus grew still.

"I won't lie to you. I tried. I searched for your dreams. I wanted to test you... but there was nothing. Everything connected to you in my realm has vanished — if it ever existed. All that remains... is you."

For a while after that, the conversation grew lighter. Vivian spoke of the books she had read, the stories she'd discovered in the Dreaming's vast library. Morpheus shared tales of some of the more intriguing dreams he had encountered lately, and how stories morphed over time depending on the hearts that dreamed them.

Vivian realized that when Morpheus wasn't playing the role of stern ruler, he possessed a subtle sense of humor and a vast, restless intellect that wandered into territories she had never even imagined. And Morpheus, for his part, seemed genuinely interested in her perspective — the fresh, human lens through which she viewed his timeless world.

When the meal ended, both seemed strangely reluctant to rise.

"Thank you," Vivian said at last. "For... this. It was a... almost normal conversation."

"Normal," Morpheus echoed, and for a moment, there was almost a smile in his eyes. "That is not a word I often hear here."

"Maybe you should," said Vivian, standing "Even Dream Kings need a bit of normality now and then."

As she made her way to the door, Morpheus spoke her name.

"Vivian."

She turned, surprised at the softness with which he said it.

"Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," she replied — and for the first time in weeks, she meant it.

——-

Vivian awoke with an unfamiliar warmth nestled in her chest—something delicate, flickering, elusive. Not quite joy. Not quite peace. Just... lightness.

The memory of the previous night lingered like the last notes of a song—soft, slow to fade, a sweetness on the tongue that she hadn't realized she missed. It wasn't the meal or the dream-forged plates that had stayed with her. It was the way the conversation had unfolded—natural, careful, unexpectedly human.

She stretched lazily in the golden hush of morning, letting the silk of the sheets gather around her waist. And that's when she saw it.

On the bedside table, in a vase so thin it looked like a captured breath, stood a bouquet of twilight roses.

Not just one or two. Dozens.

Their petals, black as midnight ink and edged with a sheen like oil on water, shimmered in the morning light. Each bloom caught the rays differently, refracting them into slivers of impossible color—violet-gold, indigo-crimson, hues that didn't exist in the waking world.

Vivian shot upright, the sheets falling away as her heart lurched into her throat. She stepped closer, barefoot on the cool dreamstone floor, pulse racing.

She had walked through that garden countless times. Had admired these very roses from a respectful distance. Never once had she dared to pick them.

Partly because they seemed too sacred. Partly because she feared what might happen if she did.

But here they were. On her bedside table. Waiting for her.

And they were even more breathtaking than she remembered. Their scent—soft velvet and aged vanilla—wrapped around her senses like a secret. Yet beneath that familiar fragrance was something new. Something intangible.

Kindness. 

There was no note. No inscription. No obvious claim.

But Vivian knew.

She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, her eyes never leaving the bouquet. The tightness in her chest unfurled like a blossom in sunlight.

It wasn't just gratitude, although that was there.

It wasn't only surprise, although she had felt that too.

It was something quieter. Deeper.

Something that had no name yet.

For the first time since stepping foot in the Dreaming, Vivian felt seen.

Not assessed. Not handled. Not monitored or feared.

Seen.

As someone worthy of a gesture freely given, without demand. Without conditions.

She didn't know what it meant. Not yet.

But she held the moment close, like a secret kept warm between her hands.

And in the silence of her chamber, the twilight roses bloomed just a little more—fragrant, unknowable, and impossibly alive.

——

On the far side of the palace, in a tower overlooking the endless gardens of the Dreaming, Morpheus was undergoing a quiet transformation.

He wouldn't have called it that. In fact, he hardly noticed it happening. But his routine—so meticulously crafted, so immutably his—had begun to shift.

The mornings, once devoted exclusively to reports from Lucienne and the tireless stewardship of his realm, now held something else. A detour. A pause.

Visits to the garden by Vivian's tower.

Sometimes under the pretext of inspecting the grounds.

Other times for no reason at all—except, perhaps, the simple desire to be near.

The previous evening, when he had chosen to take Lucienne's place at dinner, he had told himself it was out of duty. A necessary gesture to repair the damage done by their prior clashes. A peace offering, forged in quiet understanding.

But as he dressed in silence before the mirror, adjusting the collar of his coat with more care than usual, a part of him had known the truth.

It wasn't just duty.

It was curiosity.

It was the need—growing stronger with each passing day—to see her in a different light. To discover who she was when not defending herself, when not bristling with suspicion or pain.

It was the simple, maddening desire to know the woman he had married—beyond the confines of prophecy, beyond the politics of power.

And dinner had been... enlightening.

Vivian possessed a keen mind, sharp beneath that quiet warmth he had once mistaken for naiveté.

She asked questions that forced him to confront his responsibilities from unfamiliar angles, offered insights he hadn't considered in centuries.

When she had spoken of loss—of the life she had left behind—her voice had carried a depth of emotion that unsettled him.

She hadn't asked for pity.

Hadn't begged for answers.

She had simply told the truth.

And he had listened.

That morning, Morpheus made his way toward the library.

Officially, he had come to review certain manuscripts requiring his personal attention.

Unofficially... he knew Vivian will be there in few hours, studying with Lucienne. And something—something quiet and persistent—had urged him to be nearby.

He was standing in one of the upper aisles, fingers lightly resting on the spines of ancient dream-bound volumes, when a familiar voice chirped behind him.

"Well, well. Developing new habits, are we?"

Morpheus turned, expression unchanging, to find Matthew perched on a nearby shelf, his head tilted in that particular way that could signal either innocent curiosity—or complete, merciless mischief.

"I am reviewing the manuscripts in the Oniric Etymology section," Morpheus said evenly, with all his usual dignity.

"Uh-huh," said Matthew, drawing out the syllables with theatrical doubt "And the fact that this section just happens to have a perfect view of Vivian's lesson is... what? A happy accident?"

"Matthew," Morpheus warned, his tone darkening just a fraction.

"Hey, hey—no judgment here, boss," the raven replied quickly, raising a wing in mock surrender "Just calling it like I see it."

"I do not know what you are insinuating."

"Of course you don't," said Matthew, voice as patient as if he were speaking to a particularly stubborn child"Still, I've noticed something. Vivian's been pacing the same path for weeks now—garden to library, back and forth like clockwork. That's it. She hasn't seen a single corner of the Dreaming outside this wing."

Morpheus didn't respond at first. His gaze drifted.

"Why not take her out, you know?" Matthew continued, hopping to a lower shelf "Bit of fresh air, a proper tour. Show her some of the real magic. Not just these dusty towers and echoing halls."

Still nothing.

Then, quietly—colder than intended—Morpheus said

"That... may not be a terrible idea."

Matthew blinked. Then gave a sharp, low whistle.

"Well now," he said with a grin in his voice"Are we planning a day trip? A little field adventure for Miss Vivian?"

Morpheus arched a brow, unimpressed.

Matthew cawed softly and fluffed his feathers "Just saying, you might enjoy it. She might too. You do remember how to enjoy things, right?"

"Careful," Morpheus murmured, but the edge had softened. Slightly.

Matthew gave a little shrug, clearly pleased with himself"You know where to find me if you want a wingman."

With that, he launched into the air and disappeared among the rafters, leaving behind only the faintest rustle of feathers—and a smile that, somehow, Morpheus felt echoing in the corners of his mind long after the raven was gone.

He stood in silence for a moment longer, his hand resting now on an unopened volume.

And then, almost imperceptibly, his eyes drifted toward the window.

Toward the gardens.

Toward her.

Chapter Text

Morpheus stepped out of the library and made his way toward the palace's grand atrium, his pace unhurried but deliberate. He arrived just in time—reaching the marble colonnade of the main entrance at the very moment Vivian was ascending the wide stone steps that led to the door, returning from her morning walk and headed to the library.

She appeared bathed in the soft light of early day, her silhouette drawn in delicate contrast against the faint haze of the Dreaming's dawn.
She wore a cream-colored dress that brushed her ankles with every step, and in her hand—much to his surprise—she held a twilight rose.

Morpheus paused at the topmost step, watching as she approached. A breeze stirred the air, and a strand of hair escaped the braid she had pinned back, drifting across her cheek in a gentle caress.

Vivian glanced up—and froze for a breathless second as she spotted him.

"Dream" she exclaimed softly, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. Her pace quickened as she climbed the last few steps.

He took a single step toward her, the sharp lines of his form softened by the morning glow that wrapped around his coat like mist. She had to squint slightly to meet his eyes.
He looked briefly at the rose she carried, then lifted his gaze to hers.

"Vivian," he greeted, his voice low and even.

"If you are not otherwise engaged today, aside from your lesson with Lucienne," he continued "I would like to show you something."

Vivian blinked, caught off guard.
She hadn't expected a proposition like that—not from him, not so suddenly.

"Y-yes, of course," she replied quickly, nodding with a curious smile. "What is it?"

He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he simply inclined his head slightly, gesturing for her to follow.
But before turning, his eyes lingered once more on the rose in her hand.

Noticing the glance, Vivian flushed—just slightly—and lowered her hand, as if embarrassed to have taken the flower from its vase.
Morpheus made no comment, but a subtle glint of satisfaction passed through his expression.

They walked side by side through the palace's vaulted corridors, then passed beneath the high arch of the main gate, emerging into the paved courtyard beyond.
Vivian matched his pace, her pulse quickening with each step. Whatever he had meant by "something to show you" remained cloaked in ambiguity—and in the Dreaming, that could mean anything.

With Morpheus, nothing was predictable.

And yet, the uncertainty didn't unnerve her. It thrilled her.
There was something about his presence—still and inscrutable—that made the unknown feel... strange.

And just like that, the morning had shifted.
She clutched the rose a little tighter, her thoughts racing ahead of her feet, and followed the King of Dreams into the heart of his realm.

They emerged into the soft light of early morning, where the great doors of the palace opened not onto another corridor, but onto a suspended terrace of pale stone, carved with spiraling constellations. There, resting in wait like an echo from some forgotten myth, stood the three ancient Guardians of the Gate.

Vivian stopped in her tracks.

The griffin, with bronze feathers and leonine poise, turned its golden eyes toward them, unblinking. Beside it, the hippogriff shifted its weight impatiently, silver wings rustling like parchment. And furthest to the left, coiled with sinuous calm, the wyvern lay still — not asleep, but listening.

Vivian's breath caught in her chest. These weren't mere creatures; they were the embodiment of dream-forms that had haunted and comforted humankind for millennia. They pulsed with meaning, with myth, with the memory of all things whispered in bedtime stories or sketched in margins during long-forgotten childhoods.

She stepped forward slowly, her eyes drawn to the wyvern.

It was massive — larger than she'd imagined any dragon could be — with scales the color of dusk and a hide that shimmered violet-blue where the light kissed it. Its long, curved wings were folded neatly along its sides, and it regarded her with slitted amber eyes. Not cold, not menacing — curious.

Morpheus stood beside her in silence, letting the moment stretch.

"These are the Gatekeepers," he said at last, his voice like velvet pressed against stone. "They are older than names. They have guarded my borders since before the first language was dreamed."

Vivian glanced at him. There was reverence in his voice — not pride. As if even he, for all his timelessness, held a certain awe toward these beings.

"You may choose," he added, turning toward her. "Whichever speaks to you."

She hesitated, heart pounding. Was this real? Was she truly being offered this?

Her gaze drifted back to the wyvern, and something inside her stirred. A whisper of a memory — a scribbled drawing of a dragon with her name below it, aged nine. A dream she'd once had, long before any of this, in which she'd flown across violet skies and felt free.

"The dragon," she said, softly. "I choose her."

Morpheus inclined his head once, then approached the creature. He murmured something in a language older than stars — a cadence like falling leaves, or ocean over glass. The wyvern uncoiled with regal grace, folding her front limbs in a gentle crouch.

Vivian felt his gaze before she saw his outstretched hand.

"Come."

Her fingers slid into his, and a shiver went down her spine — not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the moment.

With his help, she mounted the wyvern's back. The texture of the scales was unexpected — warm, almost alive, like breath beneath her palms. Morpheus settled behind her, conjuring reins of shadow and light. One of his hands brushed her waist, steadying her — a quiet touch, careful but assured.

Then the wyvern moved.

Her wings opened with a sound like thunder restrained, and in the next heartbeat, they were aloft — the world falling away in a rush of wind and light.

Vivian gasped. The air tore at her clothes and hair, but it wasn't frightening — it was exhilarating. Her heart beat wildly. The ground below turned to mosaic — the palace shrinking, the gardens a blur of black and gold.

And for a moment, she forgot every fear, every shadow that had followed her since she'd arrived.

She laughed. Really laughed — loud, bright, surprised by her own joy.

Behind her, Morpheus tilted his head, just slightly. A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Not amusement. Not pride. Something softer. Something rare.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, voice low and close to her ear.

She shook her head, her breath caught in her throat. "No. I think I needed this more than I realized."

The wyvern climbed higher, soaring through ribbons of cloud. The sky above was not quite blue — more like the hue of memory, shifting with every breath. Below them, the Dreaming unfurled — an impossible cartography of emotion and imagination.

"There," Morpheus said quietly, nodding toward a shimmering vale far below. "That is the Glen of Forgotten Songs. No one remembers who first composed them — but the melodies still echo. Some souls are drawn there when they dream of music they never learned."

Vivian turned slightly, awe widening her eyes. "And that... that spiral of floating gardens?"

"The Hanging Isles. Built from the dreams of architects who died before finishing their masterpieces. Every night, the designs change."

As they passed over a sea of glass that reflected stars not found in any sky, Vivian whispered, "It's so much more than I imagined."

"This realm is shaped by longing," he replied. "By what mortals fear to say aloud... and what they dare to hope when no one is watching."

Below, strange creatures wandered through crystalline forests. An aurora-like wind bent silver trees. Far ahead, a tower rose from a lake shaped like an open eye.

"And that?" she asked, pointing.

"The Mirror Keep," he said. "Where some go to face themselves. Others to avoid it."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "And you? Do you come here often?"

Morpheus did not answer right away. Then, gently: "I avoid the places that reflect too much of me."

Vivian turned her gaze forward again, heart still hammering — but slower now. Steadier. She felt his presence behind her, unchanging, eternal...

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both knew: something had shifted.

Not just in the wind, or the height.

But in the space between them.

After a span of time that Vivian found impossible to measure—perhaps minutes, perhaps hours—Morpheus gently guided the wyvern into a slow descent. They were entering a bleaker part of the Dreaming, where even the sky seemed to dull into a paler shade, and the world below took on a starker, more skeletal beauty. The hills, once lush and undulating, were now bare and stony, scattered with jagged boulders and the skeletal remains of trees long devoid of leaves. Even the wind, so lively elsewhere in the realm, seemed to hesitate here, as though uncertain it was welcome.

Vivian stirred from her quiet reverie, blinking against the change in light. Peering over the edge of the saddle, she saw that they were descending toward a shallow vale nestled at the edge of this desolate land. Two small houses stood there, side by side like sisters who no longer spoke but refused to part.

The first was a cottage of dark, weathered stone, its crooked garden fence enclosing a small yard overrun by stubborn, tangled herbs. The second was made of blackened wood, its slanted roof heavy with age. A single rocking chair sat on the porch, gently swaying back and forth, though no wind stirred.

The wyvern touched down with a surprising elegance, disturbing only a thin veil of dust. Its leathery wings folded in with feline grace, and it lowered its massive body until the riders could dismount with ease.

Morpheus dismounted in one fluid motion, his black garments cascading around him like spilled ink. He turned and extended a hand to Vivian. She accepted it, sliding lightly from the saddle. The moment her boots met the soft, dark earth, a faint dizziness washed over her—a mingling of exhilaration, nerves, and the lingering sensation of flight. For the briefest moment, she leaned against Morpheus to steady herself.

He caught her effortlessly, his arm firm around her. There was no surprise in his gesture, no urgency—only an eternal calm, as though he had known she would need him and was simply there to provide it.

"I'm fine," she murmured, smiling faintly. "It's just... everything was so incredible. I've never flown on a dragon before."

Morpheus inclined his head ever so slightly, the barest shadow of a smile ghosting across his lips—gone in a blink. When she regained her balance, he released her with a subtle gesture of his hand, then turned his gaze toward the cottages.

The wyvern, now settled like a great cat, coiled its tail around its haunches and blinked slowly, content to wait.

"Where are we?" Vivian asked softly, stepping beside him.

"This is the place where Cain and Abel dwell," he replied, his voice low and even, as if uttering a line from an ancient script.

Vivian's eyes widened.

Of course. She had read about them—guardians of the House of Mystery and the House of Secrets. Brothers cursed to play out the first murder in endless repetition, inhabitants of the Dreaming's edge, where stories grew darker, stranger, and older. Lucienne had spoken of them with a mix of fondness and caution.

There was something tragic about their tale, Vivian had always thought. Something ancient and mythic. They weren't merely characters—they were relics of a story too old to forget and too painful to forgive.

She felt a flicker of excitement ripple down her spine. To meet them was to touch the raw bone of the Dreaming itself.

"But... why bring me here?" she asked, lowering her voice instinctively, as though the trees might be listening.

Morpheus turned his head just enough to glance at her. His eyes, infinite and depthless, betrayed no hint of amusement, only the quiet gravity that always lingered there.

"Let us say," he murmured, "that it is an intermediate stop on the path to where we are truly going."

He didn't elaborate—and she knew better than to press.

As they approached the stone house, the door swung open with a creak that was oddly theatrical, as if the building itself had been waiting for them. A bell above the threshold jangled madly, and a tall figure emerged, silhouetted against the dim interior.

The man was thin, sharp in every sense—nose, elbows, grin. His hair stuck out in wild tufts, like he had been struck by lightning or bad luck or both. His eyes were gleaming with mirth that didn't quite reach the realm of kindness.

"Lord Morpheus!" Cain declared with a bow so deep it almost seemed like mockery. "How... unexpected. What a glorious, bone-rattling surprise!"

He clutched a book to his chest with one hand—a leather-bound volume that might have been a ledger, or a spellbook, or a list of grievances.

Behind him, another figure peered nervously through the doorframe. Shorter, softer, with rounded shoulders and a bald head that gleamed in the pale light, Abel stepped forward holding a small gargoyle the size of a kitten. The creature blinked its amber eyes and let out a curious chirp.

"W-welcome, Lord Morpheus," Abel stammered, bowing twice in quick succession. Then, with a hesitant glance at Vivian, he added, "And welcome to you, my Lady. I—I mean, Your Grace. Or should I Highness?"

Vivian smiled gently "Vivian is just fine."

Cain clapped his hands together with dramatic flair "A Lady who rejects formality! Delightful. Dangerous. Probably doomed. I like her."

"Cain..." Abel murmured, clearly hoping to avert one of his brother's monologues.

"Come in, come in!" Cain gestured toward the house with a sweeping motion"What a thrilling visit! Let me guess: a royal inspection? An impromptu inquisition? Perhaps you've come to finally punish me for my crimes, hmm?"

"You punish yourself well enough," Morpheus said, stepping forward without breaking stride. His tone was dry as stone, but there was no cruelty in it—only inevitability.

Cain gave a laugh that could have curdled milk"Indeed. And yet I remain—charmingly alive."

Vivian followed in silence, absorbing everything—the creak of the wooden floorboards underfoot, the peculiar warmth of the air, the scent of dust, ink, and burnt sugar. Inside, the House of Mystery was crowded and strange: shelves overflowing with books whose titles shifted when glanced at too long; glass jars filled with teeth, feathers, keys, and other unnameable things; portraits with eyes that followed the living.

In the corner, a raven sat on a perch, not Matthew but another—older, perhaps, or simply less vocal. The gargoyle in Abel's arms wriggled slightly, then sneezed a tiny puff of smoke.

Vivian felt as though she'd stepped into one of the oldest dreams of all: the dream of fear, of riddles, of secrets whispered beneath floorboards.

She glanced at Morpheus. He stood unmoving, as though he belonged to this place more than the walls themselves. His presence, dark and immutable, anchored the room in something far deeper than time.

Cain leaned on the back of an armchair, studying them with theatrical suspicion. "So... shall we offer tea? Or is this the kind of visit where someone ends up bleeding?"

Abel let out a strangled laugh that may have been agreement or alarm. "We—we have cinnamon tea," he offered quickly, "and shortbread cookies. I just made them."

"That will do," Morpheus said softly.

Cain sighed dramatically. "Tea, then. How dreadfully domestic."

It was Vivian who broke the silence, not wanting to leave the brothers awkwardly trapped in their own unease.
"Your home is truly fascinating," she began gently, casting a curious glance around the room. "So many curious objects..."
Her gaze drifted to a high shelf where two crystal skulls gleamed beside a delicate music box seemingly crafted from bird bones.
"I imagine each one has a story behind it."

At her words, Cain immediately brightened, his entire frame practically vibrating with pride.
"Oh, they most certainly do, my Lady!" he exclaimed, setting his teacup aside with theatrical flair. "This house is steeped in stories—legends, mysteries, whispers from forgotten dreams..."
And without further prompting, he launched into the tale of a carved trunk that now served as their coffee table—according to him, it had once belonged to a ghost ship lost to an oceanic nightmare. He went on to describe a cracked mirror hanging on the wall, claiming it held a minor demon of doubt who whispered falsehoods to those who stared into it too long.

While Cain waxed poetic, Abel nodded emphatically by his side, his small, round face bright with agreement.
"Yes, yes, that's exactly how it happened," he mumbled now and again, as though afraid the tale might lose validity without his confirmation.

Vivian listened, utterly captivated, sipping her cinnamon tea—which tasted sweet and aromatic, like the distilled essence of autumn. She felt oddly at ease among such surreal company, lulled by the rich cadence of Cain's storytelling and the soft crackling of the hearth.

Just then, a flutter of wings signaled a new arrival: Matthew, who had followed them during the flight but remained outside, swooped in through an open window. He landed with casual ease on the backrest of the couch beside Vivian. She smiled and offered him a biscuit from the plate on the table, which he snatched with practiced grace and began pecking at with evident satisfaction.

"Oh, hello Matthew," Vivian said warmly. "I see you've found your way to tea after all."

The raven paused mid-peck and puffed out his chest.
"I never miss tea. Especially if there's dessert involved."

Moroheus, meanwhile, remained mostly silent. He sipped his tea out of courtesy more than desire, his tall frame composed, spine perfectly straight, his gaze distant yet unmistakably attentive. Vivian knew he was listening to every word. Occasionally, his eyes would flick toward Cain—particularly when the host grew overly enthusiastic in his recounting—and a single glance was all it took to calm Cain's tone. It was obvious that the brothers, for all their eccentricities, held the Lord of Dreams in the highest reverence.

Not that it stopped Cain from speaking. On the contrary, he seemed elated to have an eager listener in Vivian, someone new who drank in his words with interest rather than irritation.

After spinning yet another tale—this one involving a spiteful ghost neighbor who played violin at night just to torment them—Cain paused, clearly expecting a reaction of shock or delight. But before Vivian could respond, Abel timidly cleared his throat and ventured a thought.

"U-um, brother... perhaps our guest might enjoy a cheerier story? I could tell the one about the kitten who dreamed of being a tiger..."

The silence that followed was knife-sharp.

Vivian saw Cain's expression shift, the theatrical smile vanishing, his eyes narrowing into slits.
"Abel," he said, voice suddenly low and menacing, "Are you implying my stories aren't cheerful enough?"

Abel paled instantly, realizing his error. He raised his hands in apology, still clutching a biscuit.
"Oh, n-no! I didn't mean that at all, truly!" he stammered, inching back instinctively. "Your stories are wonderful, brother, truly! I just... I only thought..."

"You thought you'd steal the spotlight, didn't you?" Cain hissed, rising slowly to his feet.

The candlelight threw flickering shadows across his face, now twisted into something cruel. Vivian froze, setting her teacup down. Cain's gaze had turned dangerous, and from a holster at his hip—one she hadn't noticed before—he drew a long, curved dagger.

Abel took another step back, nearly flattening himself against the wall. Goldie leapt from his arms and scurried beneath a cupboard with a frightened squeak.

"B-brother, please..." Abel whimpered, visibly trembling. "We have guests..."

"Don't worry," Cain muttered darkly. "This will only take a moment."

He raised the dagger.

Vivian's heart skipped a beat. Surely he wouldn't—surely not now, not in front of them.

But Cain lunged forward with a grin, and Abel closed his eyes in terror.

"No, please—!" Vivian gasped, raising a hand to her mouth.

But it was too late. The blade plunged into Abel's chest with sickening ease. Dark blood stained his shirt at the heart, and the poor man gave a soft, surprised gurgle. His legs folded, his eyes widened—once—and he collapsed, lifeless, on the floor.

Vivian staggered to her feet, horrified.
"Oh my God..." she whispered, voice trembling. She could hardly believe what she had just seen.

Cain casually withdrew the bloodied blade, muttering something under his breath. He seemed more annoyed than remorseful. Vivian's instinct was to rush to Abel's side, but Morpheus extended an arm across her path.

"Wait," he said softly. He wasn't disturbed—merely mildly irritated.

Even Matthew, preening on the couch, seemed unfazed.
"Great," the raven muttered dryly. "He's gone and done it again."

Vivian looked from Cain to Morpheus, confused. The Lord of Dreams remained stoic, though his eyes had sharpened.

Cain, now suddenly aware of his transgression, caught Morpheus's gaze and faltered. With a sheepish half-smile, he wiped the dagger clean with a pristine handkerchief.
"My apologies, Lord," he said, bowing his head. "I may have... overreacted."

Morpheus's voice cut through the room like cold air.
"Try to restrain your impulses in front of my... in front of Vivian."

Cain bowed lower, holding the stained cloth in both hands.
"Yes, of course. Quite right. Please forgive me. A touch of temper... nothing more."
He chuckled weakly, though the sound fell flat in the tense room.

Vivian stood frozen, hand still pressed to her mouth, eyes glossy with shock. She wanted to speak—to ask how they could all act so calmly—but a sudden knock from the back door made her jump. It wasn't so much a knock as a faint thudding, as though someone were rapping weakly on the outside.

Cain frowned and shuffled to the rear entrance, muttering. As soon as he opened the door, the body of Abel vanished into a curl of silvery mist—like pigment dissolving in water—and a moment later, the same Abel stood on the threshold, very much alive.

He looked pale and disoriented, clutching Goldie tightly in his arms.

"H-here I am... sorry..." he whispered hoarsely, eyes downcast.

He looked as though he had clawed his way back from beneath the earth—his jacket was streaked with damp soil, and his glasses sat askew on his nose.

Vivian's breath left her in a rush. She had known, intellectually, that Cain always killed Abel, and Abel always came back... but seeing it was another matter entirely. She pressed a hand to her chest, her pulse still hammering. Matthew hopped closer and gave her arm a reassuring nudge with his wing.

"You're alright, Viv," he murmured. "He always comes back. Good as new."

Vivian nodded faintly, trying to collect herself. But her hands still trembled.

Abel, meanwhile, crept back into the room through the rear door, murmuring apologies with every step.
"So sorry... please forgive the scene..." he whispered, eyes on the floor.

Goldie nestled back in his arms, licking his chin affectionately, as though trying to soothe her trembling keeper.

Dream, with the weight and calm of inevitability, stood from his chair, his presence casting a sudden hush upon the room like a falling velvet curtain.

"Cain. Abel," he said, voice low yet cutting through the air like a knife through silk. At once, the brothers froze, drawn to his words as if pulled by unseen strings. "This is not the purpose of our visit."

Abel, still trying to straighten his crumpled coat and wipe the last traces of soil from his sleeve, bowed with genuine humility. "O-of course, my Lord. What may we do for you?"

Dream's eyes shifted toward Cain with slow deliberation. "Cain, as Keeper of Mysteries, you were entrusted by me with a certain scroll, long ago. I have come to retrieve it."

Cain's jaw tensed—just briefly—but his lips curled into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He glanced sharply at his younger brother, who had just reentered the room, then gave a quick, deferential nod.

"But of course, Your Majesty!" he replied, tone slightly too bright. "One moment, I shall fetch it right away."

With another theatrical bow, his bony hand pressed to the opposite arm in a display of exaggerated devotion, Cain vanished through a shadowed archway. The door creaked closed behind him with a shiver of age.

Vivian, still somewhat pale from what had just transpired, stood slowly. Her fingers brushed the edges of her sleeves as if seeking something solid to hold on to. Moments later, Cain returned, his boots whispering against the stone floor. He held in his hand a rolled parchment, yellowed with age and mottled at the edges, as though it had weathered not time alone but memory itself.

He presented it with a slight bow.

"Here it is, Your Majesty—the Enigma of Conversus," he announced with grave formality, holding the scroll out reverently in both hands.

But Dream did not take it. He shook his head slowly, turning his gaze to Vivian. "Not to me," he murmured. "It is meant for Vivian."

The sound of her name broke through her haze of thought. "What? For me?" she asked, blinking as if roused from a trance.

Cain, already approaching, redirected the offering toward her. Up close, she could see the texture of the scroll—thick vellum, brittle and uneven, the ink faded and cracked in places like the surface of ancient glass. The aura it gave off wasn't just one of age—it felt... sealed, closed to comprehension by choice.

"My Lady, royal consort," Cain said, his tone syrupy and ceremonious, "the Scroll of Conversus."

At the word consort, Vivian felt the blood rise hot to her face. She didn't look at Cain, nor at Dream. Her eyes locked on the parchment alone, as if the object could shield her from the weight of the title.

She took it slowly, gingerly, as though it might unravel into smoke at her touch. And then—perhaps without thinking—she opened it.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The symbols within were not of one language, nor even one world. It was a collision of forms—curved sigils, harsh cuneiform scratches, spiraling glyphs arranged in strange geometrical constellations. Some resembled words she almost recognized but never quite grasped. Others were pure chaos. There was no clear direction, no beginning or end.

"What is this?" she murmured.

Dream stepped closer. "It was written by the visionary Conversus many centuries ago. No one has ever succeeded in deciphering it. It may, in fact, mean nothing at all. But mystery, even without meaning, remains."

A flutter of wings announced Matthew, who settled neatly on Vivian's shoulder and peered down at the parchment.

"Well," the raven remarked, cocking his head, "looks like nonsense to me. Fancy, ancient nonsense, but nonsense all the same."

Vivian raised a brow. "Why would you want me to have this?"

Before Dream could answer, Matthew piped up again, cheerfully unhelpful. "Well, you love digging through old scrolls. Always up to your elbows in dusty books at the library. Plus, you've got, y'know... eternity. You'll need a hobby."

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the rustling of parchment and the distant crackle of the fireplace. Dream's gaze lingered on Vivian for a moment longer, unreadable as ever.

Then he spoke. "Enough. We have lingered long enough."

Vivian exhaled, still holding the scroll, cheeks slightly flushed from the lingering heat of embarrassment—or something else. She rolled the parchment carefully and held it to her chest.

"Thank you for the tea... and the stories," she said with a smile, soft but sincere. "I enjoyed them, despite the rather grim ending."

Abel visibly brightened at her words and waved one hand shyly, Goldie in his arms now purring again like a contented kettle. Cain puffed out his chest with exaggerated pride.

"It was an honor, milady. You must return sometime—perhaps we'll even show you Abel's Secret House..."

"Oh, yes, please do!" Abel chimed in quickly, hopeful and already reaching for the door as if to usher them back in. But Cain shot him a dark look.

"That is... if he doesn't fall asleep again during one of my tales," he sneered, pretending to grin. Abel blanched, using Goldie like a shield. "N-no! I swear I won't! Not even a blink!"

Before the ritual of fratricide could threaten to begin anew, Dream raised one hand and turned toward the door. "Take care of yourselves. Both of you."

His words held a finality that quieted even Cain's tongue. He was already striding toward the exit as he spoke. Vivian cast one last look back, offering a warm smile to Abel and a polite nod to Cain.

Matthew glided ahead of them through the door, wings wide and effortless.

Outside, the air was thick and still. The dream-sun was now veiled by wisps of storm-gray cloud, and the house behind them exhaled a sigh from its many crooked windows.

Vivian stepped into the dimming light, the scroll tucked safely under her arm, her thoughts still caught somewhere between horror, wonder, and a growing, gnawing curiosity.

Before they could reach the wyvern, something caught Vivian's eye.

"What is that?" she asked, pointing toward an undefined height in the air.

It shimmered faintly—something like a rip in the world, thin as a crack on glass, pulsing with faint light. It wasn't large, nor particularly dramatic. And yet... something about it unsettled her, in a way she couldn't quite name.

Dream followed her gaze. His expression shifted subtly but unmistakably. He looked displeased—deeply so.

"Wait here," he said, with a tone that allowed no argument. He stepped toward the anomaly with measured purpose. Raising one hand slowly, his fingers traced the air, weaving a gesture both graceful and severe. The fracture disappeared in silence, dissolved into the dream as if it had never existed.

Vivian's brow furrowed. She followed him as he returned to the wyvern, her curiosity now fully awakened.

"What was that?" she asked.

"A fracture in the Dreaming," he replied without turning his head.

She opened her mouth to ask more, but he continued before she could.

"It happens. Nothing to concern yourself with."

Vivian gave a faint nod, though her mind was far from reassured.

Dream helped her back onto the wyvern's back. This time, she climbed up without hesitation. The nervousness she had felt earlier was gone—replaced, perhaps, by something bolder. There was even a flicker of exhilaration beneath her skin, like a rider who had tasted the sky and found it addictive.

Yet something within her had shifted.

That vision—however brief—had left a strange residue in her thoughts. The image of the fracture lingered, replaying behind her eyes like a warning. As the wyvern spread its wings and launched into the air once more, Vivian sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the changing dreamscape below. Valleys and rivers slipped by beneath them, surreal and shimmering, but her thoughts hovered elsewhere.

The wind rushed past them, cool and dry. She could hear only the wingbeats, her own breath, and the distant pulse of her heartbeat. Time seemed to slow.

Then, unable to contain herself any longer, she turned her head slightly toward the man behind her.

"Dream..." she called softly, her voice nearly lost in the high-altitude wind. "Where exactly are we going?"

He heard her perfectly.

His gaze lowered to meet hers. Their faces were close now—closer than before, brought together by the contours of the wyvern's spine and the need to speak above the wind.

"Lucienne told me you had shown interest in the Primeval Forest," he replied, voice deep and precise. "That is where we are headed."

She blinked, surprised.

The Primeval Forest.

The name stirred something in her. She recalled the cryptic words of the Fates, the prophecy spoken in half-truths and riddles. A forest had been mentioned—a place of beginnings, of hidden truths. Could this be where she was meant to go?

Could answers be waiting among the roots?

She turned more fully, craning her neck to see his expression.

Dream's eyes met hers for a breath. "Only if it pleases you," he said simply, this time raising his voice to be heard above the gusts.

Vivian turned back toward the horizon. The wyvern glided smoothly now, above gentler hills that signaled their approach to the palace's wider domain. Sunlight filtered through scattered clouds, painting gold onto the trees below.

She was silent for a moment, then smiled faintly "Of course," she answered.

But her heart remained conflicted.

Dream knew about the prophecy—didn't he? Should she speak to him about it? Was that why he was suddenly so attentive? So... present?

She watched the horizon as it stretched before them like a question not yet asked.

Perhaps the forest would hold the answers.

Chapter Text

The wyvern descended through the ever-shifting skies of the Dreaming, gliding with serpentine grace between clouds the color of dusk and molten gold. Morpheus sat tall and still, his gaze fixed on the horizon. In front of him, Vivian held on tightly, his arm wrapped around her waist, steady and unyielding, while the warm wind played through her hair.

Below them, the world flowed in surreal brilliance—rivers of stars winding through rolling dreamscapes, cities with spired towers that shimmered into view for a heartbeat only to vanish again, meadows blooming with flowers of impossible hues. And yet, even amid all this wonder, the shadow of something older loomed ahead: the vast green silhouette of a forest that stretched beyond sight, vast and ancient as memory.

It was the Primeval Forest.

It soon revealed itself in its full majesty—its trees were titans, their trunks so wide it would take a multitude of arms to encircle just one. Their limbs intertwined high above, lost in the sky, forming a canopy so dense it allowed only fragments of light to seep through. And yet, the forest seemed to glow from within, a faint emerald shimmer pulsing like breath in the dark.

Vivian watched, her breath caught in her throat, as that glow flickered between the branches—soft, alive, almost whispering. She felt it before she even stepped foot inside: something ancient, watchful... calling.

The wyvern let out a deep, rumbling cry—like distant thunder—as it began to descend. With one last mighty beat of its wings, it stirred eddies of golden dust and dry leaves, settling gently at the mouth of an overgrown path cloaked in moss.

Morpheus dismounted with his usual silent grace and extended a hand to Vivian. She accepted it without hesitation, the thrill of the flight still buzzing in her legs as she leapt lightly to the ground.

Around them, the air was warm, laced with the scent of damp earth and wild blossoms. Every breath Vivian took was rich with the sweetness of grass. The chill beneath the trees was gentle, refreshing, accompanied by the faint, melodic cries of unseen creatures somewhere in the foliage.

Above, Matthew circled lazily, then gave two caws of approval. The landing had gone smoothly.

"We have arrived," Morpheus said, his voice low and measured. His dark eyes scanned the shadows between the colossal trunks.
"This is the Primeval Forest."

Vivian turned slowly on the spot, trying to take in the vastness of the place with a single glance.
The path ahead wove into the forest, veiled in wisps of milky mist that lent the surroundings an unreal quality. At times, she could have sworn she glimpsed shapes moving just beyond the edge of her vision—ghostly figures, perhaps spirits of the woods or the lingering echoes of ancient dreams drifting between the trunks.

"It's... incredible," she whispered, as if afraid a louder voice might shatter the enchantment. "I've never seen anything like this."

Morpheus allowed himself a faint smile, quietly pleased by her awe. With a gesture, he soothed the wyvern, which had crouched low, awaiting further command.
"You may rest here until we return," he said to the creature. The wyvern dipped its long, scaled neck in what resembled a bow, then folded its broad wings close to its sides and stood motionless at the edge of the path, like a statue carved from some ancient stone.

Once certain the wyvern would keep watch, Morpheus turned to Vivian and beckoned her forward.
"Come. We'll go on foot from here," he explained "The forest does not like noisy creatures flying above her canopy."

Vivian nodded, casting one last look at the mighty wyvern that had carried them this far, and then followed Morpheus into the heart of the Primeval Forest.
Matthew, ever faithful, swooped low to glide beside them, perching on a low branch before hopping from limb to limb, following their path.

The moment they crossed the threshold formed by two twisted twin oaks, Vivian felt a shift in the air.
The rustling of the leaves above had a tone that was almost musical, like a distant, murmured chorus. Even the light had changed: outside, it had been broad daylight—or whatever passed for day in Morpheus's realm—but within the forest, everything was bathed in a dusky glow of green and gold. Small flickers, like fireflies, floated at varying heights in the air, blinking in and out in a slow, rhythmic breath of light.

Every step on the soft earth was muffled by moss and a carpet of pine needles. Vivian could feel it clearly: this place was alive in a way no other was. It was as if the entire forest were aware of their presence.
She noticed that, as they moved forward, the low-hanging branches slowly lifted, bowing almost in reverence to Morpheus's passage. The exposed roots curled back into the ground to clear their way. Even the pale mist along the path parted before them, only to close silently behind.

"It's as though the forest obeys you..." Vivian murmured, her gaze following a flowering vine that withdrew gently from her path, like a docile serpent. She looked up at Morpheus walking a few paces ahead with the graceful, deliberate stride of a king in his own domain.
His long black cloak trailed behind him, gliding over knee-high ferns without ever catching.

"Not exactly," Morpheus replied, tilting his head just enough for her to glimpse the regal, solemn line of his pale profile
"This forest is an intrinsic part of the Dreaming. It is as old as Dream itself. It acknowledges me as its sovereign, but it possesses a will of its own. No one sets foot in this place unless the forest permits it."

His voice was low, but it echoed gently between the trunks, each word resonating in the reverent hush of the trees. Vivian listened closely, trying to absorb every detail.
Whenever Morpheus shared some fragment of his world with her, she felt she understood both him and the vast realm he ruled a little more.

"So the forest... recognizes you," Vivian said softly, as if speaking more to herself. "That's why it lets us pass."

Morpheus gave a slight nod. A lock of his dark hair fell across his forehead as he inclined his head
"Yes. But tread carefully nonetheless."

She looked at him, surprised. "Carefully?" she asked, folding her arms around herself as if to guard against the sudden weight of his words.

He stopped and turned fully to face her. His black garments swayed a moment behind him before settling again.
Matthew, sensing the need for space, landed silently on the shoulder of a half-swallowed stone statue at the edge of the path.

"You've lived in my realm for some time now," Morpheus said, his gaze fixed and unblinking "You are no longer a stranger. The Dreaming recognizes you. But this forest moves of its own accord—it is not entirely under my command."

"I... I understand," she murmured.

He studied her in silence for a long moment. His eyes—black as the night sky—seemed to look through her, deep into her, as though searching for a truth even she did not yet know.
At last, he turned back toward the path.
"It is not a hostile place," he said "But for your own safety, walk beside me. We're heading toward the forest's heart—and it seems she is granting us passage."

Vivian wanted to ask more. The questions were rising to her lips—but something in Morpheus's tone told her he would say no more. Not now.
So she swallowed her curiosity and followed him once again, trying to absorb as much as she could of the world unfolding around her.

They walked in silence for what might have been minutes, or hours, or the stretch of a single breath.
Time, in the Realm of Dream, rarely moved as one expected.
It could unfold like a story slowly turning its pages—or vanish like a sigh in the dark.

Vivian no longer tried to count it.
Instead, she observed.

The forest around them unfurled in soft shadows and pale lights.
Ancient trunks, their bark dark with age, rose like pillars on either side of the path, blanketed in glowing fungi that shimmered with a delicate, bluish pulse.
Occasionally, the undergrowth would part without warning to reveal wide glades carpeted with massive ferns, their leaves trembling as if touched by invisible winds—only to vanish again as the trail curved forward.

Strange and delicate creatures watched them pass.
A cluster of white deer, their antlers branched like silver frost, gazed at them from behind a fallen tree before disappearing in perfect silence.
A swirl of butterflies with wings like translucent glass encircled them in a spinning dance, each flutter leaving behind a trail of color like petals drifting through sunbeams.
Their laughter, high and bright, echoed briefly above the treetops before melting into the canopy.

Vivian's breath caught more than once, her eyes wide with wonder.
And what surprised her most was not the enchantment of it all—but the calm.
The deep, strange peace settling into her chest.
Here, for the first time since entering this world, she did not feel afraid.

A few steps ahead, Morpheus moved like a shadow shaped from midnight and grace.
Matthew was perched on his shoulder now, wings neatly folded, his bright eyes scanning every leaf and branch with the trained vigilance of a watchman.
But the forest—though alive with its own mysteries—offered no threat.
If anything, it felt protective.
As though every stone underfoot, every blade of dream-forged grass, watched their passage with quiet approval.

Then, as though guided by something unseen, the narrow trail widened.
Four paths stretched out from a natural crossroads, marked by smooth white stones that rose from the soil like ancient teeth.
Morpheus came to a halt.

Vivian slowed behind him, catching the subtle tension in his shoulders.

"This crossing... should not be here," he murmured, barely loud enough to hear.

A shadow of doubt passed across his face—gone in an instant, but there.

Matthew let out a low, nervous caw.
"Boss... is it me, or is the forest playing tricks on us?"

Morpheus didn't answer right away.
Instead, he turned his face slightly, as if listening to something far beyond mortal hearing.

Then, calmly: "The forest can change its form. But it should not change in my presence."

He turned to Vivian.

The look in his eyes was not fear—never fear—but there was something else. A warning.

"Stay close."

Vivian nodded.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up, her feet drawing closer to him with quiet obedience.
But the unease had begun to return, creeping like ivy along her spine.
The air, once serene, now felt... alert.
The leaves above them rustled without wind.

Without further comment, Morpheus chose the path he sensed led toward the forest's heart.
He moved swiftly, his coat catching in the still air like a banner of twilight.
Vivian followed, her steps quiet and deliberate, Matthew still riding his shoulder in silence.

For a while, things settled.
The forest sighed and breathed around them, shadows stretching and folding with the rhythm of their steps.
Vivian tried to match her breath to that rhythm.
She told herself that this was just another path in another dream.
That Morpheus was here.
That nothing could truly harm her.

But something within her stirred—an instinct she could not name.

And then—just like that—he was gone.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, a thick wall of mist surged up from the forest floor, falling between them like a curtain pulled shut by invisible hands.

Vivian stopped short.
The air had turned cold.

"Dream?" she called out, her voice catching in her throat.
But the fog swallowed the sound as soon as it left her lips.
She took a step back—then another—and realized the trail had vanished completely.
The trees around her had closed in, tall and silent, forming a perfect ring that had not been there before.

She spun around.

"Dream? Matthew?" she called again, louder this time, and afraid.

No response.

Only the faint sound of something moving—just beyond the mist.
The wind?
Or something else?

She took in a slow, shuddering breath.

Do not panic.
This is his realm. He is near. Nothing here can hurt you.

She took a step forward, then another, hands reaching out through the white veil.
Her fingers brushed against nothing but cold.
"Calm," she whispered. "Stay calm."

Even her own voice was a comfort now, something real in this ghostlike hush.
She moved cautiously, testing each step as if the ground might vanish beneath her.

Then, with no warning at all, the mist broke.

She emerged into a clearing, wide and perfectly round—surrounded by towering trees so ancient, they seemed like the bones of the world.
There were no ferns here, no underbrush—only grass, soft and radiant, sparkling like green stardust beneath her steps.

And at the center stood a tree.

Vivian stopped, breath caught in her chest.

It was enormous.
No—more than enormous.
It was colossal.
The trunk was broad enough to rival a tower's base, gnarled and silvered with moss.
Its branches rose high above, branching like cathedral arches, vanishing into a canopy so dense it swallowed the sky.
And from that canopy fell leaves glowing blue-green, like fragments of a forgotten cosmos.

She stepped forward, drawn in without understanding why.
There was no fear now.
Only stillness.

A voice came—deep and ancient.

"Greetings, my Queen."

Vivian froze.

The voice had no source.
It echoed in the air around her.
And yet—somehow—she knew it came from the tree.

Her eyes scanned the bark, now convinced it was more than bark.
She saw knots that looked like brows, grooves shaped like a long-forgotten smile.
A face, ancient and vast, half-sleeping, half-awake.

"Who... who's there?" she asked, her voice thin, her throat dry.

Still, she did not back away.
She moved closer, now only a few paces from the massive trunk.
She had to tilt her head to see the crown above.

"I am."

The voice was no longer sound, but presence—resonating directly within her.

"You were expected, Queen of Dreams."

Vivian's breath hitched.

The voice did not disturb the leaves.
The branches did not move.
And yet she felt seen—utterly and completely.

"No..." she breathed, her voice shaking. "No, you're wrong."
The words spilled out before she could even think.
"I'm not... I can't be what you say. There's no such thing as a queen of the Dreaming."

She forced herself to stand tall, though her legs felt like water beneath her. Her hands trembled at her sides; she clenched them into fists, drawing strength from the pressure of her own fingers. Why was it calling her that? Why did that title make something in her soul ache?

A groaning ripple coursed through the tree's vast trunk—an exhalation of time itself, like stone warmed by the sun after centuries of cold.
"You wear no crown," the voice intoned, each word unfolding like the slow blooming of a night flower"But fate has already written your name."

Vivian felt the world tilt beneath her for a heartbeat. The voice was not loud, but it echoed with the finality of prophecy.
The Fates. The deal. The prophecy she hadn't asked for.
She shook her head, harder this time, as if trying to dislodge the truth from her thoughts. She staggered back a few steps, barely noticing her own movement.

"No..." she whispered again, her voice thin and wavering. "I'm Vivian. Just Vivian."

"You deny your inheritance," the tree observed gently, its voice filled with something like sorrow"But you will not be able to do so forever. The seed of a tree does not cease to be a tree merely because it believes itself a blade of grass."

A shiver ran down her spine.

She swallowed, and when she spoke again, her voice was steadier, though still quiet.
"What does the prophecy mean?" she asked. "I was told the forest would give me answers. Were they speaking of you?"

At the mention of prophecy, something shifted in the canopy above. The leaves shivered with a sound like whispering silk, though there was no breeze. The tree itself had reacted—as though the word had touched a root buried deep within its core.

"The time is not yet ripe," the voice said, lower now, more intimate, as if the forest had drawn close to listen"The answers will come, in their time, when you are ready to bear them. Until you accept your blood, no truth will be fully yours."

Though there was no cruelty in the tone, the words fell like quiet judgment. Vivian dropped her gaze, pressing her lips together. She could feel the question rising, a question she had never wanted to ask—one that now demanded to be spoken.

"You mean... I have to accept this supposed legacy in order to understand anything?"
Her voice cracked slightly.
"But what legacy? What blood?" She took a breath. "How am I supposed to accept it, when half of my blood comes from Hell?"

There was a silence that seemed to stretch across the centuries. Then, without reproach, the tree replied—its voice like the hush of snowfall in a graveyard.

"You are still young. Still unfinished. When the moment comes... you will know."

A coldness slipped beneath her skin. Vivian wrapped her arms around herself as if to hold the pieces of her together. Around her, the glade had gone utterly still. Even the forest seemed to have paused, suspended, as though it too were listening. Only her heartbeat broke the silence, loud and lonely in her ears.

And then—

A distant, low sound, like a sigh torn from the earth itself, reached her ears. The ground beneath her trembled—subtle but real. Vivian's eyes widened. Instinct made her step back. She searched the clearing, lips parted, breath caught.

The sound came again, like something ancient rousing from sleep.

She turned toward the great tree, suspecting it might be the cause—but the tree, too, had stilled. Its vast form was held in attention, listening.

Then, just beside its colossal roots, the ground split.

A thin black line cut through the soft green of the earth, stretching in a jagged path like silent lightning crawling across the soil. Vivian stared, frozen. The sight was unmistakable. A rift—identical to the one she had seen outside the house of Cain and Abel. Back then, she had not understood what it meant. But she remembered the expression on Morpheus's face—the shadow that passed through his eyes—as he knelt and sealed the rupture with a single motion, like a weaver repairing a rent in his tapestry.

Now, here, an identical wound bled darkness before her. And Morpheus was not here.

A chill surged through her body.

The crack pulsed with a sickening, breathless energy. It wasn't simply darkness—it was void, an absence that seemed to unmake everything it touched. The grass near its edges withered on contact, blackened as if scorched by frost or fire, time itself retreating from the wound.

Vivian stood there, staring into the abyss.
She wanted to run.

Every instinct in her screamed to flee, to get away from the chasm growing before her like a hungry mouth. But something held her back—something stronger than fear. A single, quiet thought rose through the noise:

What would Morpheus do, if he were here?

She knew the answer. She had seen him do it.
He would not run.
He would face it.

Vivian exhaled slowly, her breath visible for a moment, like mist in winter.

She stepped forward.

Closer.

She could feel the cold radiating off the crack in the earth. It was not natural. It was not of this place. It was the cold of silence, of unraveling, of nothingness where once there had been story. Her skin prickled. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end. But still, she stepped closer.

"Stop it..." she whispered to herself. Not in fear, but in command. Her voice became steadier.
"I have to stop it."

She raised her hand.

The gesture was uncertain at first. But then she remembered—his hand, held steady before the rift. The quiet command in his gaze. The stillness in his bones.
She mirrored the motion, fingers spread, palm open to the wound.

"Close," she said—not a plea, but a decree.

And something within her answered.

She felt it immediately—a flicker beneath her skin, like starlight awakening in her veins. A hum passed through her bones, through the tendons in her outstretched arm, and the skin of her hand began to glow faintly with gold.

The rift trembled.

Its edges pulsed, dark and raw, like torn flesh startled by healing. Vivian curled her hand into a fist, as though grasping invisible threads. Then, with a motion that felt impossibly natural, she pulled inward.

As if drawing a curtain across a broken sky.

The crevice began to close.

The dark tendrils that had spread through the soil quivered—then began to recede. From the center outward, the rift stitched itself shut, a shimmer of golden light trailing from Vivian's palm as if sealing the wound. The earth beneath her feet sighed with relief.

And then—silence.

The clearing stilled. The grass around the fracture began to green once more, the rot undone. In moments, it was as though the tear had never been there—save for a faint, dark line across the ground. A scar. A memory.

Vivian stood frozen, her hand still raised, trembling slightly in the empty air.

Her eyes were wide, her breath short.
Had she truly done that?

Had she closed it—alone?

For a moment, she felt the fierce surge of something wild and unknown: awe and terror, joy and dread, all tangled into one roaring silence within her chest. Slowly, she lowered her hand, her fingers still tingling.

She stared at the place where the rift had vanished.

And then—

"Queen of the Dreaming," intoned the tree once more, now with reverence"The blood you deny grants you power beyond compare. Accept it—and see what the future holds."

But Vivian barely heard.

Blood rushed in her ears. Her thoughts churned like a storm. She turned toward the great tree, meaning to speak, to protest—but her voice was gone.
What could she possibly say?

A thousand questions spiraled inside her like birds scattering in the sky.
What is happening to me? Who am I becoming?

For a moment, it felt like a veil had been lifted—and behind it, a truth too bright to look upon.

A truth that waited.

A truth she was not yet ready to name.

In that moment, another sound pierced the hush of the woods—so sudden that it made Vivian flinch.

A voice.
His voice.
Morpheus, calling her name.

It reached her through the trees like a thread of silk pulled taut, muffled by the forest but unmistakably his—low, resonant, and lined with urgency.

Vivian gasped and spun around.
"I'm here!" she cried out, her voice raw with emotion, cracking under the weight of all she hadn't said.

She turned toward what she thought was the path—where she had come from, or where she might find him again—and in an instant, it was there. The clearing, the ancient tree, the wound in the earth: gone, as if swallowed by the forest's breath.

Without thinking, she darted between the trees, the bark grazing her arm in her haste.

In her mind, the voice of the tree followed her one last time, vast and solemn like the rustling of time itself:
"You will return to us, Queen of the Dreaming. Your fate awaits."
The words echoed behind her like a shadow stretching with each step—cold, inescapable.

But she did not look back.

Moments later, she emerged onto a wide, familiar path—perhaps the main trail, or one of its many branches woven through this ancient place. Ahead, half-obscured by the veils of mist, she glimpsed a tall, dark figure cutting swiftly through the trees. Matthew circled overhead like a restless sentinel.

When they saw her, Morpheus quickened his pace, the long strides of a creature not accustomed to running—but running now. In a breath, he was beside her.

His face, usually an impassive mask of eternal calm, was etched with unmistakable relief.

"Vivian," he said, and her name in his voice sounded like a breath released after too long held"Are you unharmed? We've searched everywhere. What happened?"

Before she could answer, she saw his eyes lift over her shoulder, scanning the forest behind her with sharp, silent suspicion. Matthew landed by her feet, his feathers ruffled.

Vivian nodded quickly, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. Only then did she become aware of the hammering in her ribs, the fire in her lungs.

"Y-yes," she stammered, almost inaudibly.
"I'm alright. I just... got lost."

Morpheus's expression darkened. His gaze lingered on her flushed face, then drifted toward the trees behind her, where the clearing had been.

"I felt the forest shift," he said at last, his voice low and cold like a blade drawn in warning"It forced me away from you."

"Yeah, and it wasn't exactly a walk in the park," muttered Matthew, trying to ease the tension. He flapped back onto Morpheus's shoulder with a disgruntled flutter.
"One second you're right there—and poof. Gone into the fog like a ghost. Scared us both half to death."

Vivian lowered her gaze, unsure how to begin. Her throat tightened, her eyes prickled—emotion threatening to rise—but she swallowed it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered"I was following you, and then... the mist came."

Morpheus made a small gesture, silencing her apology before it could form.
"This was no accident," he said, quieter now, but with iron in his tone"The forest chose to separate us."

Vivian gave a small nod, though her thoughts were elsewhere. She couldn't bring herself to explain what had happened—what she had seen, or what she had done. The ancient tree had called her Queen. And the crack in the earth—its dark breath—still lingered beneath her skin.

She hid her hands behind her back, as if afraid that he might see the remnants of something unspeakable in them.

"When the fog lifted, I found myself in a clearing," she offered cautiously, choosing her words like one might step across ice"I looked around, tried to find you... but there was no sound, no sign of you. Then I heard you calling, and I ran back as fast as I could."

It wasn't a lie.
But it was not the whole truth, either.

She said nothing of the voice in the tree, of the prophecy, of the fracture in the earth and the strange power that had welled up within her, unbidden. The memory of it sent a ripple down her spine. She clenched her fingers tighter behind her.

Morpheus studied her for a long, quiet moment. Under that gaze, ancient and unreadable, she felt exposed—like a page in a book he was reading without her consent. She wondered if he could sense it, the omission.

Perhaps he did.
But if so, he said nothing.

The sharp edges of his expression softened. The storm in his eyes retreated slightly, though not completely.

"What matters," he said slowly, "is that you are safe. This place has turned against its own, and I will not tempt its will further."

He turned to Matthew.
"We return to the palace."

"With pleasure, Boss," muttered the raven.
"I've seen enough trees to last a decade."

Vivian allowed a faint smile to flicker at the corner of her lips, though her heart was still tangled in the clearing—among roots and whispers and shadows.

Morpheus raised a hand, and the forest responded at once. From between the branches, threads of light shimmered into existence, guiding a path out like strands of silver webbing.

He turned to her again, and in an uncharacteristically human gesture, offered his arm "Come," he said softly.
"I would rather not lose you again. Next time, the woods may not return what they take."

There was something in his voice—calm, yes, but lined with something else. Not fear. Not anger. Something older, quieter. Like sorrow.

She took his arm.

Together, they walked in silence along the flickering path, the mist parting ahead of them. With each step, the trees grew less dense, the air lighter. Ahead, the forest thinned, and Vivian saw the glint of sunlight on stone—the palace, waiting at the edge of the dream.

And just beyond that, the wyvern, still coiled in patient vigil, raised its head at their approach. It gave a low, sonorous rumble, its eyes gleaming gold.

Morpheus laid a hand on the creature's snout, murmured something too low for her to catch, then climbed onto its back with familiar ease. Matthew fluttered after him.

He extended a hand toward her, and though a thousand questions still twisted behind her lips, she took it without hesitation.

As the wyvern leapt skyward, its wings slicing through the mist, Vivian looked down one last time at the vast sea of forest beneath them.

She could no longer see the clearing.
But she knew it had not vanished.
It waited—like prophecy—patient, ancient, and inevitable.

The return flight to Morpheus's palace unfolded in a silence so dense it felt almost sacred.

The wind wound around them in soft spirals, whispering through the folds of their cloaks like distant voices half-remembered from dreams.
Pressed lightly against Morpheus's, Vivian sat motionless, her hands resting, her mind adrift.
She was no longer thinking about getting lost. That fear—sharp and immediate—had long since faded, replaced by a deeper, quieter unease. The kind that curled in the pit of the stomach and whispered of choices already made.

Should she have told him?

About the tree. About the crack. About the strange, impossible act that her hands had carried out almost without her volition. About the feeling—terrifying and exhilarating—that something ancient within her had answered the forest's call.

Would he have understood?

Vivian imagined the scene too vividly: Morpheus standing before her in his dark finery, face carved from shadow, asking why she had kept this from him. Or worse—his expression shuttered, unreadable, as he silently stepped back from her. As if some line had been crossed. As if she, unknowingly, had become something to be watched. To be measured. To be feared.

She had run away before. She could do it again if she had to. But something inside her resisted the idea, something fragile and burning. It was not just fear that held her tongue—it was the quiet, growing awareness that she no longer wanted to break the balance that was beginning to form between them.

So she would wait.
Not forever.
Just until she understood what had happened. Until she could name it. Until she could bear the weight of his gaze and not tremble under it.

Until she was more.

"Were you frightened?"
His voice, when it came, was soft and sudden.
She startled slightly, then answered without turning her head. "A little," she said, her voice low"At first. But I didn't feel... threatened."

There was a pause before he spoke again, and when he did, it felt like the air itself bowed to listen.

"The Primeval Forest does not welcome all who enter. It offers no illusions, no comforts. Only what is."
Another pause.
"Perhaps... it was not yet your time to walk beneath its branches."

Vivian nodded slowly, her brow furrowed.
"I think you're right," she murmured, the tree's words echoing faintly in her chest.

But what did it mean to be ready?

Beneath them, the dreamscape shifted—clouds parting to reveal familiar contours, soft hills giving way to the vast silhouette of the Dreaming's heart. The palace stood like a cathedral of shadow against the dying light, its towers spiraling high into the dusky heavens, its gates yawning like the edge of a memory long forgotten.

Once, its sight had filled her with wonder. A place of impossible grace. Of stories unspoken and yet intimately known. It had felt, somehow, like home.

But now, as the wyvern began its descent, all Vivian felt was a quiet ache in her ribs.

The weight of what she had chosen not to say.

The knowledge that something inside her was changing.

And the fear—subtle, persistent—that Morpheus, in all his silence, already knew.

When they landed in the vast stone courtyard, the wyvern's talons clinked softly against the ancient paving. Morpheus dismounted first, then reached up to help Vivian down with a graceful, almost absent gesture. She took his hand, cool and steady, and let herself be guided to the ground.

Matthew stretched his wings wide with a sharp rustle and soared to a nearby balustrade, where he perched and began to preen lazily, beating his wings once or twice to shake off the tension.
Meanwhile, with a silent nod from Morpheus, the wyvern dissolved into the dusk—vanishing without sound, no doubt returning to its sentinel duties.

"Are you sure you're all right?"
The question came unexpectedly from the King of Dreams. His voice was low but direct, and his gaze, dark as the void between stars, studied her face with unnerving precision.
Clearly, he had not missed the turmoil wrapped in her silence during the flight.

Vivian blinked, shaken from the spiral of her thoughts. She tried to summon a smile—fragile, but sincere "Yes... just a bit tired. It's been... an intense day."

"It has," Morpheus agreed softly. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression—an emotion too fleeting to name. But he didn't press further.
"If you need rest, take it. We will seek to understand the forest's intentions another time."

She nodded, grateful.
"I think I will. Thank you."

He turned then, as if to leave, but paused after only a step.
"Vivian," he said, her name quiet on his tongue. He didn't look at her. "I am sorry for placing you in danger today. That was never my intention."

The words startled her more than she expected.
An apology—from him—was not something she had anticipated.

"It wasn't your fault, Dream," she replied at once, shaking her head. Her voice was softer now, sincere. "And I... I'm fine. Truly."

Morpheus inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her words. But he lingered still, as if caught in the threshold of saying more. For a breathless moment, she thought he might.
Then, just as swiftly, the familiar veil of distance settled back over his features, pale and unreadable as moonlight on still water.

"Then rest," he said simply.

She watched him walk away, his black robe brushing lightly against the stones with each step, quiet as a shadow.
And as he moved further across the courtyard, the ache in her chest deepened. She wanted to call out to him—to speak the truth, finally. To unburden herself, to bridge the space between them with confession.

But the words faltered. Died in her throat.
Not yet.

Not like this.

She remained still until his figure disappeared through the high arched doorway of the palace, swallowed by stone and silence. Then, closing her eyes for a moment, she tried to still the storm within her.

With her heart burdened yet unwavering, Vivian stepped quietly through the hushed corridors of the Dreaming, the twilight shadows rising to greet her like old companions. They folded around her in velvet silence, draping her thoughts in soft darkness, muffling even the echo of her footsteps on the stone.

Her chambers awaited her with the same patience they always had—unchanged, undemanding, and steeped in a serenity that now felt almost foreign. She hadn't even crossed the threshold when two familiar figures came fluttering toward her like excited birds at the edge of a storm.

"Miss Vivian!" breathed Breeze, eyes wide with anticipation, her silver ribbons dancing as she moved"You've been gone for hours! Did you see the Primeval Forest? What was it like?"

"We were dying of curiosity!" added Petal, wringing her hands with a sort of theatrical panic"Was it dangerous? Did Morpheus take you flying? I had the strongest feeling something was going to happen..."

Vivian halted in front of them, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips despite the ache in her bones.

"Girls... please," she murmured, her voice low and raw with weariness"You'll unravel the whole dream if you keep pulling at it like that."

The two maids froze for a beat, then looked at one another guiltily.

Petal cleared her throat. "Forgive us. We didn't mean to overwhelm you..."

Breeze stepped forward, concern softening her features. "You look...tired. Come, we've drawn your bath. Warm and quiet, just the way you like it."

"Thank you," Vivian whispered, her gratitude genuine. "I'm just... tired. Too tired for stories."

With twin nods and a curtsy apiece, they retreated with the grace of dancers exiting the stage, vanishing into the folds of the room's twilight.

Vivian entered the bathroom, shedding her dress like a second skin. The room pulsed with gentle light—hundreds of floating candles hovered midair, flickering without smoke, their flames the color of amber and old lullabies. Beyond the tall windows, the Dreaming night stretched infinite and starless, like ink spilt across forgotten parchment.

Steam rose in graceful curls from the shell-shaped tub at the center of the room. It waited for her like an ancient sea creature, opalescent and silent, cradling waters that shimmered faintly with dreamlight.

She stepped in slowly, letting the heat close around her limbs like a sigh. The world exhaled. The ache in her muscles loosened its grip. For a moment, she allowed herself the illusion that everything was still, that her thoughts would be quiet.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to forget—to slip away from the weight of the day—but the images returned with the vividness of a film unspooling behind her eyelids.

The wyvern's leathery wings slicing through clouded skies.

Cain and Abel's anxious faces.

The cracks in the world—rifts, impossible and dark.

And then the eyes of Dream.

His face, all shadowed angles and silences. His gaze, austere and fathomless. His hand around her waist as they rose into the sky, as if he had done it countless times before and yet never like that.

Her eyes flew open, as if she could push the memories away simply by refusing to see them. But what appeared before her was something wholly unexpected.

A single, glimmering bubble floated above the surface of the water, rising slowly as if defying gravity. Its skin shimmered with shifting colors—violet, silver, and pale gold—and within its translucent heart, something pulsed with light.

She stared, captivated. Slowly, instinctively, she reached out.

The bubble burst at the barest touch, vanishing in a whisper of dream-mist. Left behind in her open palm was a single object—small, weightless, and glowing like a captive star.

It took her a moment to recognize it. At first, it was only light and warmth. But as she lifted it closer, the truth came into focus.

A golden needle. Thin as breath.
Sharp as truth.

Chapter Text

Vivian lifted the golden needle toward the flickering lantern light, her lips pressed into a line of concentrated frustration.
For days now, she had been trying to understand it—this strange, slender object that had appeared before her as if summoned by some ancient will. Yet its purpose, its origin, and its true nature remained shrouded in mystery. The delicate tool glinted between her fingers, casting faint glimmers of golden light in shifting patterns across her palm—but only to her eyes.

To everyone else, it was utterly ordinary.

Petal and Breeze, seated nearby with the patient calm of dreams, seemed to notice nothing unusual. They had not asked questions, not even when Vivian had spent entire afternoons frowning at the thing, trying to thread it with every kind of material the Dreaming could provide. To them, it was simply a sewing needle, plain and unremarkable, resting amidst the books and parchment that cluttered her desk like fallen leaves.

She had tried everything. Fine silk from the Eastern Winds, translucent thread spun from the whispers of moths, coarse string gathered from the looms of forgotten weavers—but none of it would pass through the eye of the needle. It was as though the object itself rejected any connection to the mundane, as though the very idea of being used in such a way was beneath it.

Vivian exhaled softly, her breath stirring the edge of an open scroll. A ripple of frustration trembled through her fingers as she turned the needle once more in her hands. Its weight was slight, almost negligible, but the sense of purpose that emanated from it was undeniable. It wanted something. She just didn't know what.

"Maybe the eye is simply too small," Petal had offered gently, her voice as soft as wind through reeds. She tilted her head, and a wisp of lavender hair slipped over her cheek. Her green eyes shimmered with quiet encouragement, always ready to soothe, to ease.

"Or maybe the thread is too thick," Breeze chimed in pragmatically, reaching across the table with her usual breezy confidence. She plucked a gossamer-thin strand from a nearby spool—a thread so fine it caught the light like a spider's silk—and handed it to Vivian with a smirk „Try this one."

Vivian accepted it with a small nod, grateful for their support even in something as baffling and minute as this. Holding the needle in one hand and the ghost-thread in the other, she attempted once again to coax the filament through the eye. Her movements were careful, precise—but no matter how steady her hand, the result was always the same.

The thread bent. Refused. Curled back like a river avoiding its source.
The needle would not yield.

After several tries, Vivian let out a quiet sigh and laid the needle down with reverence, placing it gently on the table among the open books, scattered scrolls, and ink-stained notes that now made up the chaotic ecosystem of her research.

"It refuses to be used," she murmured, almost to herself, her eyes still fixed on the gleaming metal.

Petal leaned over and laid a delicate hand on her forearm, her touch barely more than a whisper "Be careful not to lose it," she said quietly, though her voice carried a hesitant uncertainty, as though part of her suspected there was more to this needle than met the eye.

Vivian gave a tired smile and nudged the needle with her fingertip. It rolled a little on the tabletop, catching the light in that peculiar way only she seemed able to see.

It glowed.
Not brightly, not in any way that disturbed the shadows—but with a soft, steady luminescence, like the breath of something living. The light was warm, golden, and unmistakably there—yet Petal and Breeze never seemed to notice it. To them, the needle remained dull and silent.

Only she could see its light.

That singular truth had become her one constant. In a world where so many things defied reason and shape, where magic and memory twisted reality into impossible forms, this glowing needle remained visible to her alone. And that meant something. It had to.

"I can't lose it," she whispered under her breath, more to herself than to the others.
And it was true. Even if it vanished under a mountain of books or slipped between the stones of the floor, she would always find it.
Because it called to her.

That thought was both comforting and deeply unsettling.

Not far from her, nestled between half-burnt candles and open tomes heavy with dust, lay the mysterious parchment that Morpheus had gave her through Cain.

Vivian reached for it slowly, as though afraid it might vanish at her touch. Her fingertips brushed the surface with reverence—its texture was coarse, uneven, like the bark of an ancient tree that had survived uncounted winters. The scroll exhaled the scent of time: old ink, brittle leaves, and something faintly metallic, like the memory of gold.

The glyphs inscribed upon it were unlike anything she had ever seen. They sprawled across the surface in interlocking patterns, curling and spiraling like tangled vines climbing the façade of a ruined temple. Some seemed to shimmer in the corner of her vision, others retreated into shadow the moment she tried to focus. If she stared at them too long, they appeared to shift—subtly, imperceptibly—altering their form just before understanding could take root.

Vivian bit her lower lip, the gesture half-thoughtful, half-frustrated.
She had spent days poring over the scroll. And despite all her effort—despite the countless hours she'd devoted to cross-referencing symbols, chasing phantom meanings through dusty lexicons and forgotten alphabets—she had barely managed to isolate a handful of glyphs she thought she might understand. But even those were riddled with uncertainty.

Her mind drifted, unbidden, to a face she hadn't seen in years.

If only her mother were here.

The thought pierced her like a needle. Sharp. Swift. Inevitable.

Josephine Decour—esteemed linguist, formidable scholar, and loving, if enigmatic, mother—would have made quick work of this scroll. She would have run her fingers along its surface, humming softly as she deciphered the grammar of dreams as though it were a child's riddle. Her notebooks had been filled with languages dead and unborn, with signs and systems that defied logic but not her intuition.

But Josephine was gone. And all the knowledge Vivian had inherited from her—nurtured like a sacred flame—felt pale and inadequate before the vast strangeness of this dream-forged document.

Across the room, Petal and Breeze exchanged a glance, their expressions tinged with quiet concern. Neither of them was particularly skilled in ancient texts—their realm was the ever-changing wilds of the Dreaming: winds, gardens, cloud songs, and drifting petals. But they listened with respectful silence whenever Vivian spoke of her studies, offering companionship if not comprehension.

"If anyone can help you," Breeze said, her voice like wind brushing across silk, "it's Lucienne. She knows this library better than anyone."

Vivian nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips "She already has. Earlier today."

She recalled her morning vividly.

The sun—if one could call it that, for the Dreaming's light was a thing of shifting moods and secret hues—had been low in the sky when she arrived at the palace library. Lucienne, ever composed, had greeted her with that knowing look she always wore, as though she were already three steps ahead in whatever game was being played.

Without needing explanation, the librarian had led her deep into the maze of shelves and spiral staircases, her cloak trailing behind her like a second shadow. Together they had combed through grimoires and glossaries, piecing together fragments of meaning, only to be thwarted time and again by the scroll's fluid logic. After hours of work, they had deciphered a mere handful of runes—and even those were little more than guesses.

At their parting, Lucienne had placed a hand gently on Vivian's shoulder and said, "Sometimes the Dreaming does not yield its truths to force. Only to patience. To persistence. And to those who are willing to listen."

It was nearing midnight now, and Vivian was still at the same long table, hunched over the parchment, the golden needle forgotten for the moment. She had resolved not to leave the library until she had made sense of at least one symbol.

Petal and Breeze, loyal as ever, had followed her into the grand reading chamber. But as the hours slipped by, the quiet and the rhythm of the flickering torches had lulled them both to sleep. Now they lay curled together on a cushioned bench beneath a stained-glass window, the multicolored light painting gentle halos across their dreamborn faces.

Vivian worked in silence.

The only sound in the vast room was the soft crackle of a torch mounted high on a marble pillar, and the occasional whisper of parchment whenever she adjusted the scroll. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax, old leather, and midnight thoughts.

And then, without a sound, he was there.

At first, there was no sound. No footsteps to herald his arrival, no breath to disturb the hush of ancient air. Only the shadows between two towering shelves seemed to grow denser—as if the night itself had stirred and taken form.

Vivian, immersed in the maze of symbols spread before her, looked up just in time to see the Lord of Dreams emerging from the gloom. He moved like silence incarnate, his presence felt before it was seen, like the pressure of deep water or the hush before a storm. Her heart gave a subtle lurch—an involuntary reaction to the sheer gravity of his presence. There was something in him that defied the ordinary rules of space and time, something that made reality tilt and bend around him like wind around a flame.

He wore darkness as one wears silk—long folds of shadow that swayed softly with his every step. His skin, pale as moonlight, framed by a cascade of hair blacker than the void between stars, caught the flicker of torchlight without ever being truly touched by it. And his eyes—those endless, obsidian wells—settled upon her with quiet interest, like stars mirrored in a lake that remembers dreams long since forgotten.

"Dream," she greeted him softly, rising only slightly and bowing her head in respect. Her voice, hoarse from long hours of study, barely carried across the table.

Morpheus inclined his head in a subtle gesture, as though bidding her remain at ease.
"You should not burden yourself so heavily," he said, his voice low and resonant, the kind of sound that seemed to echo from some distant, secret place. He came to a halt across the table from her, letting his gaze sweep across the scattered volumes, the ancient parchment, and then return to her face"You look... weary."

Vivian swallowed, composing herself with a deep breath "I'm doing my best to decipher it," she said quietly. Her eyes, blue and luminous, met his for a fleeting moment before drifting back down to the parchment. "I think I may have grasped the meaning of a few basic glyphs, but most of it remains impenetrable. It's far more difficult than I anticipated."

A stillness settled between them—not awkward, but dense, like the pause before a story begins.

Morpheus lowered his gaze to the unfurled scroll, his expression unreadable. His hands, long and elegant, remained clasped behind his back. He did not move, but the space around him seemed to bend with his presence.

"I expected no less," he murmured at length"This parchment was not forged in the Waking World. It was dreamt by a philosopher named Conversus—a visionary who died before he could transcribe his revelations to ink and paper. Yet the dream of it endured, and I have kept it safe in my realm."

Vivian listened in silence. His voice poured over her like a secret song, cool and steady, stirring something in the hollow of her chest. She felt as though she were standing at the edge of a great chasm, gazing into a knowledge so vast it could undo her.

"I wish I were faster," she admitted in a hush."If my mother were here... she would know how to read this, I am sure"

A wistful smile touched her lips, as fragile and fleeting as a memory half-remembered.

Morpheus lifted his eyes to hers, something flickering in their depths"Your mother?" he asked, his tone neither pressing nor idle—only attentive, like a reader pausing on a word of interest.

Vivian nodded. Her voice grew softer, almost reverent.

"She was... remarkable," she began "Her name was Josephine. In the Waking World, she was a renowned linguist—respected, published, brilliant. She could read texts no one else dared touch. Languages that hadn't been smoken for centuries, systems so obscure that even scholars gave up on them—she treated them like puzzles waiting to be solved."

There was a glimmer in her eyes now, something warm rising beneath the fatigue.

"She used to take me with her on research trips," Vivian continued"I remember the scent of old parchment, the feel of dusty archives under my fingers while I watched her work. She never translated line by line. She watched and „listened". As if the words were trying to tell her something."

She paused, letting a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

"She used to say that every language written is an unspoken dialogue, shared between writer and reader. And that written languages only come alive when someone dares to listen before understanding."

Morpheus remained still, the silence stretching like the space between stars. Yet his eyes, black as the abyss, seemed to hold the weight of that story within them.

"She must have been extraordinary," he said at last, his voice quieter than before—like the whisper of a turning page. There was something in his tone—a flicker of sincerity, of genuine regard. The Lord of Dreams, who had known countless souls, who held in his realm the very essence of stories and scholars and seekers, spoke those words with the reverence of one who understood their meaning.

"She was," Vivian whispered. Her throat tightened as she remembered the gentle sternness of her mother's voice, the way her hands moved over a page like a pianist caressing keys, the look in her eyes when she found meaning where others saw only gibberish "She was my first teacher. My first guide. And I've missed her every day since she left."

A silence fell again—gentler now. Deeper.

Morpheus made no effort to dispel it. Instead, he allowed it to linger, dignified and whole, as though honoring the memory that had been spoken aloud. Then, with the grace of a drifting shadow, he stepped around the table until he stood at her side.

Vivian sensed him before she saw him. His presence was not loud or intrusive—it was simply there, unmistakable as a sudden hush in the forest.

She straightened instinctively, brushing at the corner of her eye where tears threatened to rise. She hoped he hadn't noticed—but of course he had. Still, he said nothing of it. His gaze remained fixed on the scroll.

He leaned forward slightly, studying the glyphs beneath the flickering lanternlight. The angles of his face—elegant, severe, timeless—cast long shadows across the table. His hair fell like a curtain of ink across his shoulders, and for a moment, Vivian forgot to breathe.

When he spoke again, it was with that solemn cadence that made even simple words feel like prophecy.

"Continue your efforts," he said "They are listening to you."

Vivian blinked "They?"

"These signs," he clarified, his voice the soft rustle of falling ash"it is as you mother said. They are not inert. They are echoes of thought, memory, intention. They do not speak as mortals do—but they remember being shaped."

Vivian exhaled slowly. Something in his words stirred a different way of thinking—less forceful, more intuitive. She no longer felt as though she were battling the glyphs into submission, but waiting for them to reveal themselves.

"I'll keep listening," she promised softly "I won't give up."

Morpheus looked at her a moment longer, his expression unreadable, then inclined his head in a slow, silent gesture of approval.

"Good," he murmured.

And just like that, he was gone.

The torch flame nearest her flickered—not as if blown by wind, but as if momentarily startled. Shadows shifted. The weight of the air changed. Vivian looked up, and the spot where he had stood was empty once more.

She remained seated for a long while after, the quiet breathing of Petal and Breeze behind her, the scroll still unfurled beneath her fingers.

———-

In the highest tower of the Palace of Dreams, Morpheus sat cloaked in shadow, deep in thought. A narrow, arched window allowed the ethereal blue light of the dream-sky's stars to spill faintly into the room, casting shifting patterns across the obsidian stone walls. Silence reigned, thick and undisturbed, broken only by the occasional sigh of the wind that did not truly blow.

The Lord of Dreams sat with his long fingers steepled before him, his gaze distant, fixed on the infinite beyond the glass. His expression, as inscrutable as the void itself, betrayed nothing of the thoughts that moved behind those eyes—eyes in which entire constellations might rise and fall unseen. Yet within him, something stirred.

He was thinking of her.

Vivian.

He recalled their first encounter—the cautious calculation behind his gaze, the wariness that had taken root the instant she had stepped into his realm. A daughter of Lucifer, appearing without warning from the waking world, her presence had been as unexpected as it was disconcerting. And for one such as him—whose kingdom rested upon the fragile balance of stories and sleep—such an anomaly could not be taken lightly.

He had observed her from a distance, had her movements discreetly shadowed, wary of the ripple she might send through his realm. And yet... despite her initial imprisonment, despite the pain etched into her features when she spoke with Desire, she had returned. Returned not out of obligation, but out of something more dangerous. Conviction. Duty. Perhaps even... care.

Morpheus shifted slightly, the long folds of his black robes whispering over the stone bench as he let that memory pass through him. Over time, suspicion had faded into a watchful fascination. Vivian, far from a threat, had revealed herself to be sincere, inquisitive, and fiercely intelligent. She spent hours within the library, poring over forgotten texts with a reverence that did not go unnoticed. Her conversations with Lucienne brimmed with a scholar's passion, and her thirst for knowledge—particularly ancient languages and their hidden lore—was unmistakably genuine.

He had watched her, sometimes silently, unseen within the very fabric of his kingdom. He remembered how the candlelight touched her copper-red hair as she bent over a scroll, her fingers tracing the symbols as if they held secrets only she could divine. And her eyes—those unsettlingly pale eyes, a gift from her infernal lineage—how they softened when she smiled, or lit up at the discovery of a lost phrase. There was a quiet beauty in her, unassuming but undeniable.

A smile, rare and almost imperceptible, ghosted across the pale lips of the Dream King.

But even as the corners of his mouth curved, he caught himself. This was dangerous. He was not meant to feel such things. He had loved before—each time with a heart ancient and vast—and each time had been met with sorrow, rupture, abandonment. He knew better. He must know better.

Discipline returned like a steel blade to his spine, and he turned his mind away from the image of her smiling among the books.

Then came the knock.

Soft, respectful. Barely audible over the hush of the stars beyond the tower. Morpheus opened his eyes and turned toward the carved door of dark wood, veined like petrified smoke.

"Enter," he said, his voice distant still, wrapped in the lingering veil of his introspection.

The door swung open without a sound, revealing the familiar silhouette of Lucienne. She stepped forward with her customary grace, her spectacles catching the light in a glint of silver as she dipped her head in greeting.

"My lord," she began with quiet formality. "Forgive the late hour. I thought it best to bring this to your attention without delay."

In her hands, she held a slender scroll, bound with dark sealing wax embossed with an unmistakable sigil.

Morpheus extended his hand, and Lucienne crossed the chamber with the ease of long habit, placing the scroll into his waiting palm. The wax seal, upon contact with his fingers, melted soundlessly into smoke. The parchment unfurled of its own accord, revealing elegant lines of script traced in shimmering silver ink.

"The Grand Convergence of the Millennium..." Morpheus murmured, his gaze gliding over the words. There was a subtle note of wonder in his voice, like the memory of something long buried now unearthed by time. "It has been a thousand years already..."

Lucienne gave a measured nod. "Indeed, my lord. As you may recall, the Convergence is the rare convocation that unites all the Endless, along with the most ancient gods and cosmic sovereigns of the multiverse. It is... not an event one declines."

The Dream King's eyes skimmed the indicated time and place—both veiled in metaphor and dream-logic, intelligible only to those accustomed to traversing the realms beyond Time.

He said nothing for a long while. The stillness returned, the kind that could stretch into eternity when unbroken. Then, softly:

"Thank you, Lucienne," he said, rolling the parchment with deliberate care.

The librarian gave a slight bow, hesitating just a moment longer.

"Shall I begin making the necessary preparations, my lord? Wardrobe, envoys, ceremonial arrangements... and we must prepare Vivian."

Morpheus lifted one hand, palm out—not a harsh command, but a gentle interruption.

"Not yet," he said. "We will speak of it tomorrow."

Lucienne inclined her head in acceptance. "As you wish. Good night, my lord."

With that, she turned and departed, the door closing behind her without a whisper.

The tower returned to its hush.

Morpheus remained still, his gaze lingering on the scroll now resting beside a cluster of ancient relics atop his blackened stone desk. The invitation's presence was tangible—a promise of inevitable encounters, of politics masked as celebration, of secrets whispered in echoing halls.

For a fleeting moment, his mind wandered once more to Vivian.

He imagined the look in her eyes—the blend of wonder and wariness—as she beheld such a gathering. The flare of curiosity that would ignite at the sight of so many powers assembled in one place. He could almost see her standing at his side, robed in light and shadow.

He banished the thought at once.

With slow grace, he laid the scroll to rest and turned once more to the window. The stars burned cold and ancient beyond the glass, and the night stretched vast before him—unchanging, endless.

——

As on every morning since her arrival in the Palace of Dreams, Vivian heard a gentle knock at her door. She rose with a quiet sigh, already dressed after her customary walk through the palace gardens, where the flowers whispered secrets older than time and the dew shimmered with half-formed dreams.

She had returned feeling a curious sort of calm, the hush of the dream-realm still clinging to her skin like a fine veil. Her stomach, however, reminded her of more earthly matters, and she was eager for breakfast. But as she reached the door, something in the air shifted—like the moment before a page is turned, or before a spell reveals its final word.

Petal and Breeze were standing just outside her chamber, but there was an unusual tension in their posture, a barely-contained brightness in their eyes. Both of them were nearly trembling with excitement. In Petal's delicate hands, a cream-colored envelope lay nestled like a precious artifact. It was embossed with swirling gold filigree, sealed with dark wax that bore a symbol Vivian could not yet see.

"Good morning!" Petal greeted her in a breathless whisper the moment Vivian appeared in the doorway. Her voice was trembling with suppressed thrill, as though she were holding back the secret of a lifetime. At her side, Breeze nodded with exuberance, unable to stay still—his arms cradling a tray of tea and pastries, his entire form quivering like a leaf caught in a sudden breeze.

Vivian blinked, surprised by their strange behavior. "What's going on?" she asked, her brow furrowing with mild concern.

Petal took a step forward, holding out the envelope with a ceremonial air, as though presenting a relic unearthed from some mythic age.

"This arrived for you, Miss Vivian," she said, her voice laced with awe. "You'll never guess what it is."

Vivian reached out instinctively, taking the envelope. It was far too ornate to be an ordinary letter—this was clearly an invitation. The paper was thick and finely textured, almost warm to the touch. Her fingertips grazed the wax seal, noting the sigil imprinted there—complex, ancient, dreamlike.

"What does this mean...?" she murmured, carefully beginning to break the seal.

"It's an official invitation," Breeze interjected, barely able to keep still. "To the Grand Convergence of the Millennium."

Vivian froze, her fingers halfway through breaking the seal. "The... Grand Convergence of the Millennium?" she echoed softly, as if unsure she had heard correctly.

Petal nodded, her face alight with wonder. "Exactly," she confirmed, just as Breeze burst out, unable to contain himself:

"It's an event that only happens once every thousand years. Everyone attends—absolutely everyone. The Endless, the gods of every pantheon, the ancient powers from the outer planes. It's a cosmic gathering and celebration all at once—a solemn assembly and a dazzling, otherworldly ball."

Vivian stood in stunned silence, her breath caught in her throat. With trembling hands, she drew the invitation from its envelope. The thick cardstock gleamed faintly under the morning light, as though woven with moon-silver. Her name shimmered across the front in luminous ink: Vivian Decour, Consort of the Realm of Dreams. Below it were ceremonial phrases written in elegant script, inviting her to attend the Grand Convergence on the eve of the thousandth year, specifying a location that did not exist in any earthly map, a place that shimmered just beyond mortal comprehension.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She read the words once, then again, disbelieving. Her name—written alongside those of immortal beings, ancient entities older than stars.

"I'm supposed to... go to this?" she stammered, voice barely above a whisper. "Me? Among... them?"

She looked up at her two companions, as if expecting one of them to reveal it was all a joke or some mistake. But their expressions were earnest, even reverent.

"You're not obligated, of course," Petal said gently, sensing her awe. "But the invitation means you're welcome. It's... a tremendous honor, Miss Vivian."

Vivian flushed at the words, lowering her gaze. "I don't even know what to say," she murmured. Her thoughts spun in every direction—faces she might see, voices she might hear. Legendary beings she had only read about in dusty books, the deities of forgotten worlds, the Endless themselves... Morpheus, too, but in a setting far from the solemn stillness of his throne room.

And her—just Vivian—cast among living myths.

Petal reached out and clasped her hand gently, her touch warm and grounding. "You'll be fine," she said, her voice rich with affection. "We'll help you prepare. You won't be alone. I'm sure Lucienne—and even His Majesty himself—will make sure of that."

Vivian inhaled slowly, letting the words settle inside her. She nodded, tentative at first"Yes... I think I will go," she said, almost to herself. Somewhere beneath the fear, a spark of excitement had taken hold "I suppose Lucienne's lessons in cosmic etiquette won't go to waste after all."

"Splendid!" cried Breeze, clapping his hands together with delight "It's going to be an extraordinary adventure!"

Vivian gave a shy smile and nodded again, still gripping the envelope as if it were a precious artifact. Her eyes flickered with light—uncertain, but no longer hesitant.

"We'd best begin soon! So much to prepare, and so little time!" chirped Petal, leaning in to plant a kiss on Vivian's cheek, feather-light and sweet as rose mist.

"Exactly! No time to lose!" Breeze added with a wink, already bustling toward her chambers with the tray in hand.

Vivian remained for a moment in the doorway, watching them disappear inside. She clutched the ornate envelope to her chest, her fingers pressed against the golden script. A smile played across her lips—soft, awed, a little incredulous.

Beyond the shifting veil of the Dreaming, a gathering unlike any other awaited. An assembly of gods and legends, secrets and splendor. And she—Vivian Decour—was invited.

She took one last breath, full of garden air and something more ancient still.

Yes. She would go.

Chapter Text

The Crystal Palace rose within the Temporal Nexus like an impossible vision made manifest—an edifice that defied every known law of earthly or celestial architecture. It had not been built in any traditional sense; rather, it had grown—crystallized into being by the collective will and power of immortal entities over the course of millennia.

Its spires soared endlessly skyward, tapering into the ether, their surfaces formed of translucent crystal that shimmered not only with reflected light, but with the very passage of time itself. Past, present, and possible futures flickered across the gleaming walls in shifting hues, as though the structure remembered every being that had ever crossed its threshold. The architecture itself was in constant flux, responding to the presence of each visitor. With every step taken closer, new angles appeared, new symmetries unfolded—subtle reflections of the immortal grandeur of those who approached.

Bridges of solidified light arched from one tower to another—luminous arcs that shimmered in rainbow hues, sturdy enough to bear the weight of gods and demons alike without so much as a tremor. Suspended platforms hovered in the void between towers, from which fountains of pure energy burst upward, defying gravity. These radiant jets unraveled into cascades of stardust, which dissolved into temporary constellations that danced through the Nexus sky before vanishing into memory.

The guests arrived through portals that opened like wounds in the very air—each one entering with the sort of theatrical magnificence expected of beings whose power could mold reality itself. Zeus descended in a blinding cascade of golden lightning, his Olympian retinue trailing scents of ambrosia and the ethereal hum of celestial lyres. Odin emerged from a vortex of ravens, his cloak flaring behind him like war-borne wings, while Geri and Freki flanked his stride with silent menace.

The gods of Egypt coalesced from shafts of living sunlight. Ra shone so brightly that the crystal walls turned opalescent in his presence, and Thoth spiraled into view amidst a flurry of animated hieroglyphs—symbols that danced mid-air with ancient wisdom before dissolving into the ether. The Fae courts arrived in a rush of perfumed air and petals, their alien beauty both exquisite and disquieting. And then came the Primordial Dragons, unfurling from spirals of fire and frost, their very breath making the foundation-stones of time tremble.

Yet for all its wonders, it was the Grand Ballroom that stole the breath from every soul who crossed its threshold. It defied the constraints of space, stretching vast and boundless, its ceiling a living cosmos that mirrored no sky known to mortals—a universe unto itself where stars danced in slow, impossible arcs.

The walls were composed of countless crystalline shards—each a living memory, each reflecting a different moment of cosmic joy: divine weddings beneath supernovae, the births of galaxies, the first laughter of every child yet to be born. These fragments glittered with truth and myth alike, their glow like the pulse of eternity itself.

The floor was a masterpiece beyond the reach of mortal imagination—formed of living crystal, attuned to the emotions of those who trod upon it. It shifted beneath their steps in kaleidoscopic patterns of color and light. Beneath joyous beings, golden mandalas bloomed like celestial flowers. Beneath the melancholy, deep-blue spirals spread like the longing sea. And when harmony reigned between two figures, radiant arcs rose from their footprints, rainbow-like ribbons that soared into the air before melting into luminous mist above their heads.

The orchestra was no assembly of musicians, but the music of existence itself made manifest. Stars sang in haunting celestial chords; planets resonated with the slow, thunderous bass of rotation; comets contributed crystalline trills as they pierced the infinite. It was a symphony not merely heard, but felt—vibrating through every atom of every guest, a sound that bypassed the mind and went straight to the soul, awakening ancient memories of creation and love, of endings and beginnings.

At the heart of the ballroom, fountains of liquid light erupted into the air, arching overhead in luminous cascades before falling like star-rain upon the dancers below. Tables of crystalline matter shimmered into being and vanished as needed, bearing offerings of food and drink that existed only in the highest realms. There were fruits that tasted like the sweetness of the first spring, wines imbued with the joy of every festival ever celebrated, and confections that melted on the tongue like whispers of fulfilled promises.

And so the Crystal Palace stood, eternal and ever-shifting, a monument to the majesty of those who transcended mortality. And in its heart, under constellations newly born, the grandest celebration of the age was about to begin.

In that realm of impossible magnificence, Dream of the Endless stood near one of the towering crystal columns that upheld the stellar ceiling, his posture composed, his expression unreadable—a sculpture of poise carved from centuries of restraint. The crystalline palace shimmered around him like a vision pulled from the borderlands of thought and dream, but he stood apart from it, solitary amid splendor, as though untouched by the awe it inspired.

He wore a suit that seemed not sewn but conjured—woven from the deepest folds of night itself. The fabric whispered of distant galaxies, scattered constellations glinting faintly across its surface as he moved. At his throat hung the single ornament he allowed himself on such occasions: a pendant forged from a captured falling star, its faint luminescence pulsing in quiet harmony with the ancient rhythm of his timeless heart.

His stance was characteristically rigid—shoulders drawn back, spine straight, hands clasped behind him with the grace of endless centuries—but there was something unusual in his eyes that evening. A tension. A quiet current beneath the stillness. Every so often, his gaze drifted toward the grand entranceway, and those who knew him well—who were few indeed—might have caught the almost imperceptible movement of his fingers tapping once, then stilling against the side of his leg. A tic born not of habit, but of anticipation.

"Little brother," came a familiar voice behind him, warm and amused "You look like someone waiting for something... or someone."

Dream turned his head, and his gaze softened—just a fraction—as he beheld his sister, Death. Her arrival, as always, brought a subtle easing of the lines at the corners of his mouth, a gentling of the air around him. She approached with the quiet confidence of stars in orbit, radiant in the form she favored for such occasions: a luminous young woman with dark, glowing skin and eyes full of life. She wore a gown spun from the blackest velvet, scattered with what might have been actual stars, their twinkling mirroring the shifting lights of the crystal palace.

Her hair was bound in an intricate crown of braids woven with blossoms that sparkled like jeweled dew, and around her neck hung her signature ankh—now rendered in platinum, its surface set with diamonds that refracted the hall's ambient starlight into prismatic halos.

"Death," Dream greeted, inclining his head with quiet reverence "You are... elegant tonight."

"And you are still the brooding embodiment of avoidance," she replied lightly, moving to stand beside him beneath the towering column. "But I'll give you this—you're making an effort. Usually you haunt these gatherings like a shade, drifting from one dark corner to the next, hoping no one notices you."

He let the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of his lips, but it never quite reached his eyes "Tonight is... different."

"Mm," she murmured knowingly, following his gaze toward the entrance "You're not just brooding. You're waiting."

A pause. Then, very softly: "Tonight, Vivian will make her debut."

"Death's voice warmed with both understanding and curiosity. "The mysterious 'Consort' of Dreams. The one no one has seen... yet."

"She has prepared diligently," he said, his tone composed but carrying an undertone of something else—pride, perhaps, though he would not admit it aloud "Lucienne says she has mastered the protocols with... surprising swiftness. She has chosen her manner of presentation carefully. With... taste."

"'Taste'?" Death echoed, eyebrows rising in mock astonishment "That's the highest praise I've ever heard you give someone's sense of style. You sure you're not catching feelings, Dream?"

He shot her a sidelong glance "You are relentless."

"It's what sisters are for."

He exhaled through his nose—something that might have passed for a sigh in anyone else "You know as well as I do that tonight is not merely ceremony. It is a declaration. She stands before gods, demons, monsters, and Eternity itself."

"Sure," Death replied, turning to watch the arriving guests with a quiet smile "but she also stands with you. And that makes all the difference."

He said nothing, but the silence was full of meaning. His gaze flicked once more to the entrance, and Death, who had known him longer than time had language, saw the tension there—deep, coiled, controlled only by force of will.

"Do you think she's ready?" she asked gently.

"She must be."

"That's not what I asked."

A flicker. A pause. Then he said, "She is..."

Death's smile returned, softer this time"They're calling her 'the reclusive queen,' you know. Some think she doesn't exist. That she is a made up story."

Dream did not answer at once. His fingers twitched again.

Then—

The atmosphere in the Crystal Ballroom shifted like the inhalation of a god. Conversations faded to whispers and then to silence. The celestial orchestra softened to a hush, as if even the stars themselves paused mid-song. The very air thickened with expectancy.

Eyes turned—hundreds of immortal gazes drawn irresistibly toward the entrance.

Even the firmament above them—the vault of moving constellations—seemed to shimmer with heightened brilliance, as though the cosmos itself were holding its breath.

And Dream of the Endless, for the first time that evening, allowed himself to truly feel the pull in his chest—subtle, profound, inexorable—as the moment arrived.

"She comes," he whispered.

A voice rang out through the vastness of the hall, disembodied yet ancient, as though spoken by the very breath of the cosmos itself:

"Vivian, Consort of the Dreaming."

And then—she appeared.

Vivian stepped into the Grand Ballroom, and even the oldest beings in existence—those who had seen stars born and civilizations fall—had to admit that what they beheld was a vision.

She was luminous.

Her gown was white—not merely in color, but in essence—so pure it seemed to absorb the ambient light of the crystalline chamber and return it tenfold, casting a faint halo around her figure like the memory of dawn. It clung to her waist with delicate precision before cascading into a voluminous skirt that whispered across the marble in waves of ethereal grace. Along the hem shimmered fine golden embroidery, subtle as a breath, depicting dreamlike symbols that flickered and changed if one stared too long.

From her ears hung earrings in the shape of butterflies—delicate things that shimmered and shifted with each turn of her head, as though alive, flitting ever so slightly on invisible currents of magic. Her hair, rich and copper-red, had been partially braided, while the rest spilled freely down her back like a fall of autumn fire.

The silence that followed her entrance stretched into what felt like an eternity. Time itself seemed to hesitate. Even the Eternal ones, accustomed to wonder, held their breath. Not a single sound echoed through the crystalline vastness—only the quiet thrum of stars overhead, pulsing in shared anticipation.

Then, softly, like the first ripple on still water, the murmurs began.

A name spoken. A title questioned. A thousand whispered speculations bloomed across the room like twilight flowers.

And Morpheus moved.

He stepped forward from his place by the column, the folds of his night-born coat trailing behind him like the remnants of a fading dream. Each motion was controlled, precise—yet within that solemn pace there was a flicker of something deeper, something ancient and aching. Duty. Awe.

And she stood, radiant and still beneath the gaze of the cosmos, waiting.

But someone else was faster.

As if conjured into existence by the very longing to capture beauty itself, Desire materialized at Vivian's side before Dream could take more than three steps. They were clad in a suit that shimmered like liquid starlight, its fabric rippling with iridescent hues of silver and gold, shifting subtly with every movement like water kissed by moonlight. The cut was both classical and subversive, a silhouette that hinted at antiquity and yet defied every expectation. Around Desire's neck, a delicate chain of fractured glass and bone glimmered with sinister allure, catching the ambient light like a promise best left unspoken.

And then there was the smile.

That infamous smile, perfected over countless millennia—irresistible, dangerous, laced with secrets and seduction. It was the kind of smile that could undo kings, unravel oaths, and make angels fall willingly.

"Consort Vivian," Desire purred, their voice as smooth as velvet and as sharp as a razor's edge. It filled the vast crystal ballroom without ever seeming raised, as though the walls themselves had leaned in to listen"Would you grant your brother-in-law the exquisite honor of the first dance?"

The question—posed with flawless protocol—left no room for refusal. To deny it would have been a breach of diplomatic grace, a spark that could ignite tensions between realms too ancient to name. And Vivian, who had spent countless sleepless nights memorizing such contingencies with Lucienne's help, knew this dance well—both the literal and the metaphorical.

She offered Desire a graceful smile, calm as a rising moon, and placed her gloved hand in his outstretched one.

"I would be honored," she replied, her voice carrying through the crystalline air like the toll of a silver bell—clear, serene, and impossible to ignore.

At Desire's faintest nod, the orchestra stirred to life.

What followed was no ordinary composition. It was a haunting arrangement, rhythmically pulsing like a heartbeat suspended in eternity. There was something of a tango in it—seductive, forceful, inevitable.

Desire led Vivian into the heart of the grand ballroom, and the crystal floor beneath their feet responded immediately, shimmering with threads of crimson and gold like veins of molten fire trapped beneath ice.

Together, they were the picture of impossible harmony.

Desire moved with inhuman grace, each step a study in elegance and control, the dance an extension of their very essence. Vivian followed effortlessly, her training in court dances—honed under Lucienne's sharp and patient guidance—emerging even though not yet completely perfected. Her poise was regal, but her presence carried something more: the wild grace of a star unchained from its orbit.

And her gown—finally, revealed her secret.

The moment Desire's hand rested lightly at her waist, a bloom of deep crimson unfurled from beneath his fingertips, spreading like wine over snow. The white silk darkened with every movement, the color seeping upward and outward in intricate, organic patterns. Soon, the once-pure gown was awash in hues of blood and fire, as if the dress itself had fallen in love with the dance.

Around them, the guests stilled.

"A shifting dress...," Desire murmured with a chuckle, their golden eyes glinting as they spun together "And here I thought you had surrendered entirely to my brother's dismal monochromes. I was starting to worry, you know. Locked away in that bleak palace of stone and silence. Has he at least let you redecorate the dungeon?"

Vivian gave a soft laugh, the sound light and crystalline.
"See?" Desire whispered, pulling her just slightly closer "I still know how to make you smile. Tell me—how long has it been since someone danced with you simply to enjoy the sound of your laughter?"

Vivian hesitated, eyes flickering across the crowd—past glittering divinities and ancient powers.

"It's been a while" she admitted.

Desire tsked theatrically, twirling her once more."Criminal. Tragic. Truly. To think my radiant little sister-in-law, hidden away like a secret the world wasn't allowed to enjoy." A pause "But then, my brother always was selfish."

Vivian arched a brow "And you're not?"

"Oh, I'm insufferable," Desire said cheerfully"But I've never pretended otherwise."

"I've missed you, Desire," Vivian said softly, allowing herself a smile that was not diplomatic, but genuine "I've thought of you often. I wasn't sure we'd have the chance to speak again—given everything."

"Everything," Desire echoed, their smile deepening with something almost fond "You mean the part where Morpheus locked you away in that glass bottle, like some damsel from an old myth? I told you, didn't I? If anything went wrong—anything at all again—you were to come to me."

"It's not like that anymore... Not really. Things have changed. We're on better terms now."

"Better terms?" Desire repeated, raising a perfectly sculpted brow "Darling, I don't want to overdramatize—but I must caution you. My brother... he is not safe. Not truly. Even when he pretends to be gentle, to be kind... especially then. Keep your guard up. I'd hate for anything to happen to that beautiful face."

Vivian's eyes lingered on Desire's for a beat too long, thoughtful "I think he's trying," she said finally, almost to herself. "And maybe... maybe I'm trying too."

"Trying what, my dear?" Desire asked with mock innocence "To understand the Endless behind the crown?"

"I don't know" Vivian admitted "Perhaps."

"My darling, it's a waste of your precious time"

From the edge of the dance floor, one of the water nymphs whispered to her companion, eyes wide and shimmering. "Look how they shine together."

"So the mysterious consort truly exists," Loki muttered to Odin, his voice like wind whispering through hollow bones "I had begun to suspect it was merely legend."

But not everyone was so enchanted by the scene unfolding before them.

Dream stood unmoving near one of the crystalline columns, cloaked in shadow and silence, his obsidian eyes fixed on the dancers. Within him, something ancient and unnameable stirred. It was not disapproval—that, he could have rationalized. It was something else, something raw and unwelcome.

The sight of Desire's hand at Vivian's waist. The way she smiled at his whispered jests. The ease with which they moved together, as though they'd rehearsed this moment in countless lifetimes...

It ignited a heat in Dream's chest that he did not recognize, something unformed and visceral. An urge. An impulse. A hunger.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, and the air around him thickened, the temperature dropping slightly as that telltale tension of dreams—fragile, feverish, about to snap—began to settle around him.

"Dream?" Death said gently "You're looking... odd. Are you alright?"

"I do not know what you mean," he said between clenched teeth, his gaze never leaving the floor.

She tilted her head, watching him watch them "Of course you don't," she said, her voice laced with amusement.

"It is a matter of protocol," he said stiffly, as though stating a legal fact "Nothing more."

"Oh, I'm sure it is," Death replied, a wicked gleam in her eye.

Down on the crystal dance floor, the music swelled into its crescendo.

Desire twirled Vivian in a flurry of elegant spirals, her gown fanning out around them like a blooming red rose. Her laughter rang out—clear, radiant, free. It soared through the great hall like birdsong at dawn, drawing light to every corner of the vaulted ceilings, making the suspended stars above them pulse in sympathy.

Dream felt the sound like a blow to the chest.

He had never heard her laugh like that—so open, so joyful, so entirely unguarded. And the fact that Desire was the one to pull that sound from her lips, that it was his brother's arms in which she found that kind of delight... it awakened something deep and dangerous within him.

Something territorial.

Something ancient.

"If you keep staring at them like that," Death muttered beside him "you're going to melt the floor."

Before Dream could respond, the music reached its triumphant conclusion—a final, glorious crescendo that sent a resonant shimmer through every pane of crystal in the great hall. The chandeliers trembled delicately, scattering prisms of light across the marble walls and the sea of immortal faces. It was as if the very air had paused to hold its breath.

Desire and Vivian came to a gentle stop at the center of the floor, both slightly breathless, their cheeks flushed not just from the movement, but from something more ephemeral—delight, perhaps, or the shared intoxication of a moment perfectly choreographed by fate. They stood framed by the lingering echo of the orchestra, their silhouettes gleaming under the dome of starlight. They looked like the centerpiece of a forgotten myth: beauty and desire, harmony and defiance.

The applause that erupted from the gathered immortals was thunderous and unrestrained. It surged like a tidal wave, alive with genuine awe—a sound that had not been heard in such purity for centuries, maybe longer. It was not mere politeness, nor the forced admiration of ancient etiquette; it was a raw response to something truly, indisputably beautiful.

Vivian's cheeks flushed a soft rose under the admiring gaze of countless gods, muses, and cosmic sovereigns, but her smile remained radiant, serene. For that single suspended moment, she seemed to belong—utterly and completely—to that realm of impossible splendor.

Desire bowed low with theatrical elegance, then lifted her hand and placed the softest kiss upon her fingers, their lips brushing against her knuckles with the familiarity of one who had kissed countless hands, but meant it only this time.

They whispered something to her—just a breath, just a thread of silver sound—and whatever it was, it drew another laugh from Vivian's lips. Not polite, not measured, but pure and joyful.

"There it is," murmured Death, nudging her brother lightly in the ribs with her elbow "Now's your chance, brother mine. Go claim her—before someone else does. And trust me, there's not a single soul in this room who isn't dying to know who she is. You wait much longer, and you'll have an entire pantheon of suitors at your heels."

Dream did not answer immediately. His gaze flicked to her—Vivian—surrounded now by a growing constellation of admirers. Tall figures cloaked in silks and shadows were beginning to approach, offering praises and veiled propositions. Vivian, ever gracious, accepted them all with a smile, while Desire remained at her side like a host proud of their masterpiece. Arm-in-arm, they moved through the gathering crowd as if Desire had brought her there themselves, a creature sculpted from their own essence.

For a heartbeat longer, Dream did not move.

Something deep within him warred against itself. Pride clashed with jealousy, desire with restraint. And beneath it all, something else stirred—older, quieter, infinitely more dangerous. Something he had not named in eons. Something that tasted like fear, and hope, and want.

His jaw tightened.

But his eyes—they never left her.