When morning returned, it came not with light but with song.
Soft and wordless at first — a vibration in the wind, a harmony born from the soil itself.
Lysander woke beneath a sky that shimmered faintly with drifting veils of silver mist, and for a moment, he thought he was still dreaming.
Then he realized the song came from the world.
Villages that had lain quiet for generations stirred awake.
Children spoke of glowing petals floating above their beds.
Old men found tears in their eyes without knowing why.
The rivers ran clearer, and in the reflection of every stream, the faint image of a woman crowned in moonlight flickered for an instant before fading again.
The Eternal Queen was returning — not as one being, but through every heart that could still dream.
Lysander walked south toward the valley of Mirathen, where the old kingdom had first begun.
As he passed through the forests, animals followed him — foxes, birds, even the shy stags of the highwood.
Everywhere he stepped, a faint glow lingered in the grass.
They're waking, Arenne whispered within him.
Each soul carries a shard of what we once were.
He smiled faintly. "Then the world is dreaming again."
Yes, she said softly. But dreams are fragile things. They can be twisted.
Her voice dimmed. For the first time, he sensed fear in her tone.
There are still those who loved the silence — who thrived in the absence of the divine. They will not let this rebirth go unchallenged.
By dusk, he reached Mirathen.
The valley was vast, ringed by mountains, its fields overgrown with pale white lilies that glowed faintly under the rising moon.
At its heart stood a cracked obelisk — one of the oldest relics of Arenne's first reign.
He approached it slowly, feeling the pull in his chest.
The heartbeat — their shared pulse — grew stronger until it echoed in the stone.
He placed his hand against it, and light burst from the seams.
The air around him rippled.
For a heartbeat, he stood not in ruins but in memory.
The valley filled with people — thousands of them, clothed in white and silver.
At the center, the Queen stood among her subjects, radiant yet solemn, her eyes watching the horizon as though seeing something no one else could.
Lysander felt her emotion — the weight of eternity, the ache of endless partings.
And then he heard her speak through the echo of the past:
"If I could begin again, I would not build thrones.
I would build hearts."
The memory dissolved, leaving only silence and starlight.
He sank to his knees, trembling.
Arenne's voice was close now — not distant, but within his heartbeat, within the rhythm of his breath.
That was the last thing I said before I became the sea, she murmured.
And now you've given me the chance to fulfill it.
"Then we'll build hearts," he said softly. "Not empires."
Yes.
But first, we must teach the world to remember love again.
As he spoke, the lilies began to sway though no wind stirred them.
From their centers rose small, glowing motes of silver light — floating upward, drifting like fireflies into the night sky.
Each one carried a fragment of her essence — a dream, a memory, a forgotten kindness.
They spread across the land, reaching villages, forests, deserts.
And wherever they landed, people began to dream again — of lost loves, of peace, of things that once made them weep and hope.
The rebirth of the Dreaming Kingdom had begun.
But in the shadows of the far mountains, not all rejoiced.
A council gathered in darkness — cloaked figures whose eyes burned with cold blue fire.
"The Eternal Queen's light has returned," one hissed. "The silence is breaking."
Another replied, "Then we will become her silence. If the world dares to dream again, we will teach it fear."
A third leaned forward, lips curling.
"Let her walk in the bodies of mortals. We will find her vessel — and end the dream before it spreads."
Outside their hall, the stars flickered — dimming one by one, as though something vast had stirred behind them.
Far away, Lysander lifted his eyes toward those same stars.
He felt the chill ripple through him — a warning that even love's rebirth carried its price.
Arenne's voice whispered, faint and resolute:
The gods may sleep, but their shadows never do.
He stood, silver light pooling beneath his feet, the moon high above like a silent vow.
Then let them come, he said.
For I no longer carry your crown — only your heart.
And the moon shone brighter, as if in answer.