The dream... is burning."
The moment Elea opened her eyes, heaven and earth flipped upside down.
Gone was the scorched earth around her; instead, she stood in an indigo space. The sky, like cracked glass, spilled starlight as red as blood, crimson hues flowing across its surface. There was no wind, yet flames wandered through the air. Beneath her feet lay a bone platform with countless wandering souls, every step echoing with whispers.
Welcome, O Flame of Fallen Dreams.
A voice echoed from the depths of the vault, familiar yet alien, hauntingly similar to Casath's final murmur before death. In the next instant, a pair of icy palms encircled her waist from behind, pressing against her bare back.
"At last you've come, Elea."
She turned, and a familiar face emerged slowly from the dream mist—not quite Lucian, yet not entirely stranger.
His eyes blazed with silver fire; his skin bore the ashen of dreams; his lips curled into a smile that mingled temptation and judgment. He wore a robe stitched with dream fragments, his chest half-bared, taut abs rippling with cursed seals of corruption.
"You're not him," she ground out through gritted teeth.
"I am his deepest desire," the dream-Lucian murmured. "What you crave is not a hero, but a master to devour you, control you, make you moan as you fall into the abyss."
"You're insane—"
"You went insane first, Elea." He suddenly leaned down, pushing her onto a floating platform of dream flames, his knees pinning her struggling legs. "The moment he entered your body, you ceased to be a child of the gods."
He kissed her lips, cold yet searing. His tongue pried open her clenched teeth, kissing her breathless, yet she couldn't help but moan.
The magic of the dream amplified her senses a hundredfold—every touch was both and rebirth.
She struggled, but in the end, could not break free. When he slowly entered her, the entire dream realm seemed to tremble.
"Ah...! It's too... deep..."
She gasped, her nails scratching blood into his back, but in the dream, blood did not drip—it sparks in the air.
His hips crashed into hers with ruthless force, each thrust trying to pierce through her. Her moans echoed across the dream realm, intertwining with the whispers of souls into a hymn of corruption.
"Admit it," he whispered in her ear. "You love it all. Love being humiliated, filled, conquered."
Tears slid down her cheeks, but she no longer denied it.
"Yes... I love you... even if you're a dream... even if you're a nightmare."
The dream-Lucian's smile widened.
"Then further."
He flipped her over, making her kneel on the flame platform, entering her again from behind. She panted and mewled, her body marked with red welts from the impact, her breasts swaying in the dream mist, tears and desire mingling into her prayer of.
Her climax hit like a storm, and the entire dream platform shattered.
At the edge of the dream, a figure watched silently.
Oliphia, Apostle of Cold Flames, last echo of the Shattered Moon King.
She held the key to the dream realm, chanting softly:
The phoenix has fallen; the dream realm shall burn.
She cast the dream fire into the rift, and illusion and reality began to merge.
...
Elea woke with a violent shudder. The bed was no longer on scorched earth but above the capital. The sky was being scorched by blood-red moonlight, the line between dream and reality blurring.
Lucian held her, his body drenched in cold sweat, fear flickering in his eyes.
"I... I dreamt... you were crying."
Elea raised her hand, brushing the hair from his forehead, murmuring:
"It wasn't just a dream. Some power is dragging us all... into the abyss."
She rose, wrapping herself in her cloak, her gaze sharp, as if finally making a decision.
"If the flames of fate can only burn everything to ash, then I will become—Lord of the Cold Flames."