The Dreaming grew restless.
What had begun as wilderness had become a labyrinth of skies and visions. Mortals had not yet fully risen, but the first true minds were stirring across the stars. Their fragile slumbers sent sparks into Dream's realm: hunger given shape, safety imagined, fear given claws.
Dream walked among these sparks, his cloak trailing constellations across the soil of thought. Wherever he stepped, the landscape rearranged itself — forests grew, seas deepened, palaces rose and crumbled, all shaped by the collective murmur of slumbering life.
But though vast, the Dreaming lacked a center. A kingdom requires an anchor.
Dream paused on a hill overlooking a silver sea. The sky shimmered above, painted with auroras of possibility.
Here.
He raised his hand, and the hill trembled. From the soil of thought rose towers of shadow and ivory, curling like the trunks of trees. Windows opened to shifting skies. A bridge stretched outward, connecting the palace to nowhere and everywhere.
The Palace of Dreams stood complete. Not fixed — for nothing in the Dreaming was ever fixed — but stable enough to draw the eye, to gather the weight of purpose.
At its heart, a throne formed. Dark and angular, adorned with shifting shapes that became a crown, a mask, a star, a flame — changing as quickly as thought itself. The symbols of all who would ever dream.
Dream sat, and for the first time since the birth of the cosmos, he felt still.
"You've made yourself quite comfortable, brother."
The voice was soft, teasing.
Dream lifted his gaze. Death stood before him. Pale skin, black attire, eyes that held kindness sharper than cruelty. Her presence was quiet but absolute.
"You visit often," Dream said. His tone was not complaint.
"Because you interest me," she replied. She circled the throne, studying the vast shifting palace around them. "Eternity expands, Infinity unfolds, Oblivion waits. They are simple, inevitable truths. But you… you build."
Dream's expression did not change. "I am Dream. That is enough."
"Is it?" Death tilted her head. "When I look at you, I see something different. As if you carry a memory no one else does. As if you remember a story already told."
A shadow crossed Dream's features. He said nothing.
Death's smile was faint but sharp. "Don't worry. I won't press. Secrets are part of you. Nightmares locked behind doors, stories whispered in the dark. But I wonder…" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you ever dream yourself?"
Dream's eyes flickered, galaxies within them shifting. "Dreams are not for me. They are my dominion, not my gift."
"That sounds lonely."
"Loneliness is part of my nature."
Death regarded him for a long moment. "Perhaps. But I think it's also your choice."
Her words lingered. They struck deeper than he wanted to admit. For though he wore the name Dream, beneath the stars and shadows Azrael stirred — the mortal boy who had once known sleep, who had once dreamed.
He forced the thought down. "You are inevitability, sister. I am story. Our natures are not the same."
"And yet," Death replied, smiling softly, "stories always end with me. Doesn't that make us closer than the rest?"
The Dreaming stilled at her words. Even the endless shifting of the skies seemed to pause. Dream held her gaze, and in that silence, a truth settled between them — unspoken, undeniable.
Perhaps they were closer.
Perhaps they were bound in ways even he could not yet name.
Death stepped back, her smile lightening again. "Dream well, brother. I will come again."
And with that, she was gone.
Dream remained on his throne, gazing across his vast, shifting kingdom. Death's words echoed: Do you ever dream yourself?
He closed his eyes. For an instant, he almost tried. But no vision came. Only silence.
He was Dream. But he was also Azrael. And that meant he was not just a keeper of stories — he was a storyteller.
And though he could not dream, he could shape the dreams of all who would ever live.
This was his burden. This was his gift.
And the story had only begun.