Chapter Text
The Dreaming was sick.
Morpheus felt it in the marrow of his realm—an ache that spread through its foundations like a slow, deliberate poison. Dreams that should have been constant shifted without his consent; visions of sunlight turned to storms, laughter rotted into sobbing, and even the oldest corridors of his palace buckled as if under an invisible weight.
He stood in the throne room, surrounded by high arches of night-sky glass, and let the hum of the realm run through him. Usually, it was steady—a heartbeat he had known since the first mortal closed their eyes to sleep. Tonight, it pulsed wrong. Uneven. Off-tempo.
Something foreign threaded itself through the Dreaming, pulling at its seams.
His presence was woven into every fold of this place—the slow rise of dawn in a child’s slumber, the soft rustle of night winds carrying unspoken hopes, the subtle weave of sorrow threading through the deepest nightmares. As Morpheus descended from the dais, the long fall of his black coat whispering against the marble. His steps echoed across the empty hall. In the distance, a door flickered in and out of existence—one of his own creations, unspooling without his hand to guide it. That alone was enough to still him.
The Dreaming obeyed him. Always.
Until now.
The Dreaming is a kingdom built from the fragile threads of mortal sleep, a realm spun from whispers and shadows. Here, hopes and fears take shape like mist over dark waters. Palaces rise from thought, forests bloom from forgotten desires, and endless halls hold the laughter and sorrow of dreams yet to come.
Again, however, the Dreaming falters.
Lucien warned him first. In the vast library, ancient tomes splinter and dissolve, their stories unspooling into smoke. The shelves shudder as words flee into the shadows. She'd noticed the fabric of this place is fraying—more than either of them had ever known.
Morpheus moved to the highest tower of his palace, the glass beneath his feet a canvas of stars and shadow. The air was thick with unrest, a tremor beneath the stillness. The familiar rhythm of dreams—the ebb and flow of stories born and fading—had faltered. His eyes closed. His senses reached outward, skimming the vast expanse of the Dreaming. It was a vast and intricate tapestry, but tonight the threads were tangled—knots of chaos where order once ruled.
The forests swayed where no breeze stirred. Rivers that should have sung now lay silent and cracked. In some corners, laughter twisted into screams, and memories unspooled like loose threads.
He moved down from the tower, his footsteps silent against the polished stone, the heavy cloak of night falling behind him. The corridors of the Dreaming stretched wide—familiar yet unfamiliar—as the realm shifted beneath his gaze. Descending, he passed the endless corridors where statues of forgotten gods weep shadows and the walls shift beneath his gaze. Morpheus found Lucien amidst the crumbling pages of her library.
“My lord,” she says noticing his presence.
"You can feel the unsteadiness," Morpheus said without conviction. He could see she did, all who resided here in the Dreaming have for a while.
"I'm always ready for unsteadiness, my lord." Her voice was steady but heavy with worry as she shakes her head behind her cluttered desk, eyes fixed on a book whose pages trembled as if alive. “The Dreaming frays like a worn tapestry," Lucien closes the tome with a soft sigh. “Stories unravel. Dreams fold in on themselves and dissolve. I have searched for a cause, but find only shadows and whispers.”
Morpheus stood near the grand shelves of the library, where the scent of ancient parchment and whispered secrets hung thick in the air. His gaze did not waver. “This is unlike anything I have sensed before. The Dreaming bends in ways that defy its nature. Even the oldest patterns shift without my command.”
Lucien nodded, her fingers tapping the edge of the desk thoughtfully. “There is something foreign threading through the realm—an intrusion. I fear it is not a force I recognize, nor one the Dreaming can easily contain.”
“An intruder,” Morpheus mused. “But what kind? Mortal? Divine? Something else entirely?”
Lucien’s eyes darkened. “That is the question. Mortals rarely possess such reach here. And gods would announce their presence with thunder, not whispers. This is subtler—like a ripple in still water, but growing.”
Morpheus paced slowly, his cloak trailing like a shadow. “I have seen the edges of it—a palace collapsing, and a garden created in its place, dreamscapes twisting beneath an unseen hand. There is a presence. Yet it is clear they know nothing of this realm, and still, they alter it. Fumbling around like a mortal.”
Lucien looked up sharply. “A mortal?”
“Not entirely mortal,” Morpheus said, voice low. “At least, I believe so. Their power is unformed, wild, and dangerous. And they vanishes before I can reach them.”
Lucien’s expression grew grave. “Then they are both puzzle and peril. The Dreaming will not survive such unrest without intervention.”
Morpheus’s eyes gleamed with resolve. “I will find them. And I will tear them away before the Dreaming unravels beyond repair.”
Lucien’s voice softened with concern. “Be wary, my lord. Some mysteries change the dreamer as much as the dream.”
Morpheus’s lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile. “Then I will be the last to change—and the first to understand.”
The caw of a familiar sound echoes through the library, sharp shadow of wings swept through the open doorway. Matthew, lands on the edge of the great oak desk, feathers ruffling with urgency.
“Matthew,” Morpheus greeted, voice low but steady. “What news do you bring?”
The raven’s dark eyes gleamed as he cawed softly, then tilted his head as if gathering words from the very air. “The wanderer,” Matthew said at last. “I saw her walking a path tangled with memories, footsteps silent but certain.”
Morpheus’s gaze sharpened. “They who bend my realm, a woman?”
Matthew nodded, feathers flicking. “Yes, my lord. I followed her as she moved through dreams not her own—she’s been redecorating the Dreaming, again.”
Lucien's eyes narrowing. “If she moves between worlds, it explains the fractures in the Dreaming. Her presence is a current pulling at the edges of all things.”
Matthew gave a croaky laugh. “Yeah, she’s like a toddler with a box of matches in a fireworks factory. Everything’s shiny and pretty until—boom—everything’s on fire. Honestly, I’m half-impressed, half-terrified.”
Morpheus’s gaze darkened. “Where did you last see her?”
Matthew stretched his wings with exaggerated boredom. “Between waking and sleeping, in that blurry no-man’s-land where lost hopes go to sulk. She’s wandering around like she owns the place, leaving little chaos bombs everywhere. Quiet, but deadly.”
Morpheus folded his arms, a ghost of a smile flickering. “Lead me there.”
Matthew hopped to the edge of the desk and flapped his wings. “After you, Your Dreaminess. Try not to trip over any collapsing palaces on the way.”
***
As Morpheus moves towards the gallery of endless doors lined the walls, each a portal to a different dreamscape. Normally, they stood steady and still, awaiting the sleep of some far-off mortal. But tonight, one door shimmered with unstable light, flickering like a flame on the verge of extinguishing.
Morpheus paused, fingers brushing the carved frame. The door pulsed with a strange energy, one that did not belong to him. The Dreaming obeyed his will; this flicker was a ripple caused by something else—something foreign.
"Stay here Matthew," Morpheus didn't wait for his response as he stepped through.
The landscape beyond was a garden frozen in twilight. Flowers, pale and spectral, clung to vines that curled like fingers over broken stone. The moon hung heavy and unnatural in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to writhe and breathe.
Here, the Dreaming resisted him. The air thickened, the edges of the garden blurred and warped. And then, in the midst of it all, she appeared.
She was a figure carved from moonlight and mist—fragile, yet radiant. Barefoot and unbound by the laws of this realm, she moved as though she belonged to another world entirely. She was humming softly, her bare feet tracing patterns in the dust as if the ground itself might remember her touch. Moonlight caught her hair in a way that made the shadows around him bite a little sharper.
Morpheus watched her carefully, the silence stretching between them like a taut string until she turned slowly, her eyes—clear, unguarded—held no recognition. No fear, either. Only a curious, distant wonder, like someone waking from a dream they didn’t wish to end.
As she seemed to full encompass him her eyes grew wider but unguarded, as if she was gazing upon the dreamscape and seeing it for the first time.
He spoke before he even knew the words were his to say.
“You are not meant to be here.”
The air between them thickened and shimmered, folding and unfolding like a living thing. Her presence was a current—warm and wild, disordered, dangerously alive—rippling through the Dreaming like a storm beneath a glass sea. It spilled into every shadow, stretched into every silent corner of his vast domain, unraveling the threads he had so carefully woven.
Her brow furrowed, delicate and real in this place where reality itself bent and sighed. “Then why am I?”
The question hung between them, as weighty as a star’s last breath.
“That is my question,” he admitted, voice quiet but sharp, like the edge of a blade just grazing skin.
She laughed—a soft, bell-like sound—her eyes bright with a careless light. “Well, maybe you aren’t supposed to be here either.”
He paced, slow and deliberate, the shadows shifting with him as though reluctant to lose their hold. “This is my realm. I am exactly where I am meant to be.”
She tilted her head, amusement sparking in her gaze like sunlight catching on glass. “Are you supposed to be my dream? Because if so, you’re not very original,” she said, voice light, teasing.
His lips twitched—almost a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I am no dream, mortal.” Though, she was perhaps right. He was a dream. The Dream.
Beneath their feet, the garden responded, folding and fracturing with the subtlety of a breath held too long. Flowers blossomed and withered in a chaotic rhythm, the earth trembling as if uncertain how to hold her presence.
“Do you always break things when you show up?” His voice dropped, steady and low, but threaded with something teasing—something almost fond.
She blinked, tilting her head again with that curious tilt of innocence and mischief. “I’m not trying to break anything.”
Her laughter came again—clear and ringing, echoing off the shifting walls of the Dreaming like a bell in a forgotten chapel. “Right. Sure. You’re probably just some weird figment I made up to keep myself company.”
He folded his arms, eyes sharp and unreadable as he regarded her. “This is no figment. This place is real. I am real.”
She cocked her head, unfazed. “If this is real,” she said, voice soft and thoughtful, “then why do I feel like I’m still asleep? Like none of this matters? Maybe when I wake, you’ll vanish, and I’ll remember this was all just a bad dream.”
He stepped closer, shadows pooling and curling around him, obeying their master’s will like loyal ghosts. “You are here, in the Dreaming. This place answers to me. I am the King to which this realm of Dreams bends. But you—” He faltered, a rare flicker of something softer in his voice. “You do not belong here.”
She shrugged, unabashed, eyes wide and bright as if daring him to contradict her. “Then tell me, ‘King of Dreams,’ if I’m not supposed to be here… why am I here? Why do I do as I please?”
He breathed out, a sound mingling amusement and exasperation. “You rend my realm with your ignorance.”
She grinned, sunshine in a place of shadows. “And you’re really grumpy for a king of dreams.”
Before he could answer, before he could reach out to steady or seize her, the garden shattered—fractured like fragile glass underfoot. She vanished, swallowed whole by the swirling tides of the Dreaming, leaving only a faint pulse behind—a heartbeat echoing in the shadows.
Morpheus stood alone in the silence that followed, the taste of her still lingering like smoke on the wind.
He could summon any mortal from their sleep with a single thought. Yet he knew, without understanding how or why, that finding her again would not be so simple.
Beneath his feet, the Dreaming trembled, unsettled, stretched thin. But what unsettled Morpheus the most was the stir he felt inside him—a dark, restless thing dangerously close to curiosity.