There was no sky here.
No ground.
Only thought.
Only intention.
Only war.
The Dreaming trembled — not like a land wounded by quake or flame, but like a soul gasping in the moment before it forgets how to pray.
Above the formless expanse, clouds of illusion twisted and bled in impossible geometries. The colors bled upward, reversed like wounds opened in the laws of space. In the distance, a nursery rhyme screamed in reverse, each line sung by a voice that had never known a child's innocence.
Atlas floated.
But it was not Atlas anymore.
His body glowed with starlight entropy, veins etched in silver code, skin humming with old prayers and forgotten math. The Guide wore the flesh of a man who once loved too deeply and rebelled too quietly. Now, he was a rift in human form — a prophet draped in prophecy and ash.
Across the shifting abyss stood Dracula.
No throne. No grandeur. No illusions.
Only a storm made flesh.
