The Dreaming Saint had not known sleep for seven thousand years.
He lay now beneath a canopy of swirling mist, bones wrapped in robes stitched from the hair of seers and sinners. His eyes—blind yet radiant—fluttered beneath lids marked with divine brands. Around him, the chamber pulsed with symbols etched in grief and starlight.
He screamed.
The vision took him again.
He saw Darius.
But not as the Hollow King.
He saw a child, no older than ten, hands pressed to a dying screen in a forgotten tenement.
A flickering choir sang beyond the static. Maelistra's voice, raw with beauty, filled that boy with wonder. The boy cried as the broadcast ended, whispering, "Why did they stop singing?"
And then—
He became the man.
Not in years, but in despair.
A throne carved of dead gods. Eyes that bled light. A woman shattered in his arms. The world screaming as he rose. The Womb cracking. The Choir silenced forever.
