The world stretched endlessly before me, a canvas of incomprehensible scale.
Its dimensions were immeasurable, like all other worlds, yet each one held a depth and potency that set it apart.
They were layered in a hierarchy of influence, each realm exerting more sway over reality than the last.
This was a place beyond comparison, a crucible where the impossible and the possible, the logical and the illogical, collided and intertwined.
Each thread of existence richer, more potent, and more consequential than any I had ever perceived.
Each layer of reality shimmered and pulsed with its own rhythm, a fractured tapestry that only a few could ever perceive.
Above this chaos of worlds floated Heaven and Hell, twin extremes of power and order, yet even they were not the limits.
Beyond them, there were realms that few had ever glimpsed, places that defied understanding, where the very rules of existence bent and broke.
Among these realms was the source of my Regalia's power.
The Dream.
It was not a place bound by logic or time. It was not measured in days, years, or centuries.
The Dream was a realm of pure desire, a place where every wish, fragile or monstrous, noble or corrupt, was made real.
Here, even the faintest longing could take shape, and the impossible was given form.
It reached out subtly to Earth, weaving threads of possibility into our reality.
Dreams could manifest, even if only for a fleeting moment.
But the Dream did not come without cost. Its gifts were entwined with chains invisible to the unwary.
It could create only through the lens of impossibility, shaping fantasies rather than futures.
Within it, I could summon anything, possibilities or impossibilities alike, yet each creation was fleeting, fragile, constrained by the illogical nature of its origin.
Heaven, being beyond all logical affirmation, beyond every natural word or thought, seemed to birth all things from its vessel.
That vessel, one could say, was divinity itself. In that sense, Heaven must exist simultaneously higher than itself and lower, a paradox that encompasses all and nothing.
It is by this understanding that I claim Heaven as the highest place: a realm beyond place, a plane beyond even the Dream.
Yet even so, the Dream persisted. It remembered. It preserved the aspirations of all beings, allowing them to endure, even after they had been broken.
I studied my trembling hand. Mana leaked from my fingertips like liquid starlight, vibrating with a force so unnatural that the air itself seemed to recoil.
Malachi stood before me, his expression taut with worry, his eyes never leaving my hand.
"Kivana… I don't think you're okay," he said, his voice low and steady. "Something's happening to your power."
I exhaled slowly, letting my arm drop to my side. He was right. I had been ignoring the truth for too long.
Preparing for the wedding had been an exercise in futility. I had come seeking the dreams of mankind, but they had slipped from my grasp.
The fragments were gone. I was blind in the one place where my vision had once been absolute.
Nicholas might be lost in this world. Or worse, his future could be erased entirely. The pulse of the world itself had gone silent.
Malachi stepped closer and took my hands, his touch grounding, warm, and unwavering.
"It's okay," he whispered. "You have me. I can still see desire. I can still control it."
Malachi.
Kind. Naïve, perhaps. Slightly delusional, certainly. Yet kind, utterly, fiercely kind. And for that, I loved him.
"It's useless, Malachi," I murmured. "I must prepare in another way."
His brow arched slightly. "You don't mean…"
We stood together in a vast, barren field, encased by a shimmering dome of mana.
This was the place Malachi often used to test spells, to push his own limits. Isolated. Resilient. Safe enough for what I intended.
He stepped back several paces, giving me the space I needed, his posture alert yet deferential.
I opened my chest.
From my soul, from the depths of my mind and body, something emerged. A creature.
Mythical Beasts are born from the deepest truths of the self.
They share mind and soul with their host, but inherit the body only through the lens of spiritual essence.
They are not mere reflections, they are extensions, ancient and incomprehensible.
Mine was a storm made flesh. A dragon of unimaginable power, violet scales gleaming like stars scattered across the void.
Its four legs bore cracks that glowed with spiraling spiritrons.
Its maw, fanged and impossibly white, opened with a growl that reverberated through the dome.
Two spiraling horns etched with runes rose from its forehead, and its titanic wings unfurled, sending a pulse of raw spirit energy through the field.
It lowered its head. I stepped forward and placed my hand on its starlit snout.
"Fly high above," I whispered. "Watch. Hunt. Destroy any who threaten this world."
The dragon obeyed instantly. A single beat of its wings shattered the bounds of space-time, propelling it into the sky in a blaze of violet fire and spiraling runes.
The vortex of spiritrons it left behind surged outward, yet the mana dome contained the worst of it.
Without it, the walls between worlds might have collapsed entirely.
I do not desire collapse. This world is already far too close to the spiritual beyond. And I could feel it, the pressure, the presence, growing stronger with each passing day.
Nicholas.
He would face a future drenched in wrath, despair, and unimaginable suffering.
That was the last vision I saw. Him, wrapped in darkness so complete it swallowed his very soul. That image haunted me, lingering for months.
I must prevent it. Not for myself, not even for Malachi, but for everyone.
Even if it means tearing apart Heaven itself, bending the laws of fate, defying all that is considered immutable.
A curse is coming. A cataclysm that will not simply sunder reality, but strike at the hearts of the people, breaking hope from within.
I prayed that we could endure it.
This world is unkind to the weak and merciful only to the strong. Yet even here, there is a redeeming truth.
Reality is harsh. It is cold. It is unloving.
Which is why one must cling to something. Anything. Even a glimmer of hope, however fleeting.
I laughed softly, breathless, small.
"Malachi… I think I'm becoming a liar."
He did not hesitate. He stepped forward, wrapped me in his arms.
"Do not fear," he whispered. "The future is fine. We will all be fine."
Malachi.
An optimist. Naïve. Foolish. Brazen. Arrogant and unruly, yet gentle, considerate, unshakably kind. Comforting, even as the world burned.
But he has a flaw. A quiet flaw, buried deeper than all his virtues.
He relies on me.
And that reliance may ultimately be our undoing. Devotion binds willingly but consumes relentlessly. It will forever drive him to me, to comfort me, to live for me. Yet I endure it.
It is not his fault. It is mine.
And I like it. I like that he suffers for me. That he lives for me. That he is bound to me. It fuels me beyond reason, beyond all sense, until I almost believe it will not damn him.
That is my sin.
While he bears a mark of love, mine is etched into my very soul, screaming at me ceaselessly.
"You're evil," it says, even when I fight for good.
Malachi held me tighter. "The future," he said softly, "will reveal only light."
I once believed he could never break a promise.
But this one promise… I know he will. I am certain. And my certainty can never be broken when it involves my beloved knight.