In the hall of the Sanctuary of Torvas, a hundred lanterns were lit by their flames captured in glass shaped like open palms. The walls were carved with scenes of ancient judgment, Torvas the prophet`s striking down tyrants, guiding heroes, weighing souls. Every inch of stone carried devotion older than kingdoms.
Dream wearing mortal form of Varos stood silently beside Erias as the High Priest ascended to his ceremonial chair. Though his true power pulsed beneath the disguise, it lay hidden, like a sun behind painted clouds.
The boy's breath was shallow. He had never walked halls such as these. He had never stood in front of so many symbols of authority, power, and faith.
He certainly had never carried a sword forged by sacred flame.
Kaelar, the Blade of Torvas, stepped forward and bowed his head.
"High Priest," Kaelar said, standing tall despite exhaustion, "with your permission, I request to take the boy under my training. His will is strong. His resolve is steady. And I believe he can become something worth shaping."
The High Priest's eyes slid to Erias thin, young, still bruised from the journey, still bearing the tremble of a boy who had seen too much too quickly.
"And do you desire such training?" he asked gently.
Erias hesitated. His gaze shifted to Varos Dream seeking something unspoken. Dream gave the faintest nod, nothing more than the dip of a shoulder, but it was enough.
"Yes," Erias whispered. "I want to learn."
Kaelar's expression did not change, but I saw the slight easing of his shoulders.
The High Priest motioned to one of his attendants. "Bring it."
The knight jogged to the far wall, unlocked a small chest bound in engraved steel, and returned with an object wrapped in silken cloth. Reverently, he placed it into the High Priest's hands.
"Hold out your palms, boy," the High Priest said.
Erias obeyed.
The cloth unfurled like fallen snow.
Beneath lay a sword of exquisite craftsmanship. Its blade was short, suited for someone still growing, but its quality was unmistakable. The steel shimmered faintly with an inner glow, as though the flame used to forge it still whispered within the metal. The crossguard bore Torvas's scales in delicate relief; the grip was wrapped in thick, dark leather.
"This weapon," said the High Pries t, "was made by Master-Smith Aredon Firebound, the last of the Flamewrights. It was tempered in sacred ember and blessed by four generations of High Priests."
He placed it in Erias's hands.
"It has waited for someone worthy."
Erias's breath hitched.His fingers curled around the hilt.His eyes widened with a mixture of disbelief and quiet, overwhelming gratitude.
"For… me?" he murmured.
"Yes," the High Priest said. "But remember: a blade is a promise, not a prize. You will live up to it, or you will fall beneath it."
Kaelar stepped forward, placing a hand on Erias's shoulder.
"Come. We begin now."
Erias looked once toward Varos.
Dream nodded again gentle, encouraging, proud in ways the boy did not understand.
Then Kaelar guided him toward the training grounds, the heavy doors closing behind them with a resonant thud.
Leaving Dream alone with the High Priest.
The High Priest sat back in his chair as though it carried the weight of his world which, in truth, it did.
"Varos," he said, rubbing his temples, "I must ask what has plagued my thoughts since the moment Aramoor first screamed."
Dream folded his hands behind his back, eyes patient, expression unreadable.
"What did you see in the city?" the High Priest asked. "Those beings with glowing eyes. Not demons. Not mortals. Not anything I have ever known. They fought with the demons. They were faster. Stronger. Like nightmares wearing flesh."
Dream's gaze lowered, his voice softening.
"They are not of this world."
The High Priest leaned forward.
"Then what are they?"
Dream's eyes glimmered faintly just for a moment with the glow of the realm he ruled.
"They are Dream-born," he said quietly. "Creatures shaped from the Dream Realm. Once guardians. Once protectors. Created to watch over the borders of reality."
The High Priest stiffened in his chair. "Dream… realm?"
"Yes," Dream said. "A place between creation and nothingness. Where thoughts become shape. Where futures echo. Where beings of purpose and memory roam."
His voice held no lie.
But not the whole truth.
"And you know this how?" the High Priest pressed.
Dream's disguise rippled slightly not outwardly, but in the space between what he was and what he allowed himself to appear.
"I come from distant lands," he said, choosing each word with precision. "Lands where the Dream-born walk openly. Where their corruption is known. Where their stories are taught to children."
The High Priest frowned. "You mean to tell me such creatures are… commonplace, where you hail from?"
"Common enough," Dream said.
A pause.
"And can they be killed?" the High Priest whispered.
Dream's silence was heavy.
"Tell me, Varos."
"They can be struck down," Dream said. "Their forms can be destroyed in this realm. But their essence"
He met the High Priest's gaze.
"is tied to the Dream Realm. They return there when their bodies fall. Unless severed from the realm entirely, they cannot truly die."
The High Priest closed his eyes.
"So they are eternal."
"No," Dream said. "They are persistent."
A difference mortals seldom understood.
The High Priest exhaled deeply. "Then we fight an enemy that rises again."
"You fight an enemy that can be delayed," Dream corrected. "Stopped. Contained. Forced to retreat. And that is enough."
The High Priest shook his head, overwhelmed.
"You speak of things no mortal was meant to face. How can we hope to stand against creatures made of dream and corruption?"
"Not alone," Dream murmured.
The High Priest looked up sharply.
"What do you mean?"
Dream did not answer.
Because I the First knew the truth Dre am held back:
The boy.The traitor.And Dream himself were pieces of the same war.
But mortal minds canno,t withstand every truth at once.
So Dream let silence settle.
Outside, the Sanctuary of Torvas roared with the sounds of training.
Swords clashed.Shields hammered.Boots struck the ground in rhythmic unison.
Kaelar led Erias into the ta raining grounds a vast stone courtyard beneath an open sky, ringed with weapon racks and lined with sparring pits. The High Knights-in-training turned briefly to look at the newcomer, curiosity sharpening t heir gazes.
Erias felt their judgment like weight upon his shoulders.
"Stand tall," Kaelar whispered. "Their eyes do not matter. Only your resolve."
He guided Erias to the center of the yard.
"Draw your weapon ."
Erias pulled the sacred blade from i,ts cloth-wrapped sheath. The steel glinted in the sunlight. He held it awkwardly, unfamiliar with its balance.
"Show me what you have learned," Kael ar said.
Erias inhaled, trying to steady his trembling hands.He took the stance Kaelar had taught him feet planted, knees bent, weight centered.He focused on his breathing.
Then he moved.
Step.Guard.Slash.Turn.Parry.Thrust.
His form was not perfect.But it was there improved from their lesson the night before, stronger, clearer.
Kaelar's brows rose.
"You learned quickly."
Erias blinked, surprised by the praise.
Kaelar turned to the nearest group of trainees.
"You. Ralen."
A tall, broad-shouldered knight-in-training stepped forward, sword atwith his side.
"Blade?" he said, saluting.
"Spar with him," Kaelar ordered. "Do not break him."
Ralen smirked faintly. "As you command."
They faced each other.
Ralen raised his blade.
Erias mirrored him.
Kaelar stepped back.
"Begin."
Ralen struck first a probing swing. Erias blocked, wincing at the shock up his arm.
Ralen nodded once, acknowledging the block.
Then he pressed harder.
Steel clanged. Boots scraped stone. Erias dodged a feint, parried another. He lost his footing once but caught himself. The trainees murmured impressed despite themselves.
But Ralen was older.Stronger.Trained since childhood.
He shifted his stance, pivoted, and swept Erias's legs from under him.
Erias crashed to the stone.
Ralen placed the dull edge of his blade at Erias's throat.
"Yield."
Erias stared up, chest burning, pride stinging.
"I… yield."
Ralen withdrew his sword and extended a hand. Erias hesitated, then took it and rose.
Kaelar approached, expression unreadable.
"You lost," he said.
Erias nodded, ashamed.
Kaelar knelt slightly, meeting his eyes.
"And you will lose again," he said softly. "Again and again. Until you stop losing."
He adjusted Erias's stance.
"Your weight shifts too far forward. You telegraph your strikes. You fear the blade instead of flowing with it."
He tapped Erias's elbow.
"Lower."
Adju sted his feet.
"Wider."
Corr ected his grip.
"T ighter."
Erias listen,ed, absorbing every word.
"You have courage," Kaelar said. "Courage is rare. is But courage without discipline is a candle in a storm."
He stepped back.
"Again."
Erias raised his sword.Sweat dripped from his brow.His arms trembled.His legs ached.
Still he moved.
And this time, the stance was truer.
The swing cleaner.
The guard more stable.
Kaelar nodded once, silent approval.
Around them, the high knights-in-training had stopped to watch. Some whispered. Some nodded. Some scoffed but even they saw something beginning to shape in the boy's movements.
Potential.
Not yet a warrior.But a spark that could become one.
When Erias fina lly faltered, muscles exhausted, Kaelar stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"That is enough for now," he said. "You've done well."
Erias lifted his eyes.
"Do you… really think I can do this?"
Kaelar l,ooked toward the horizon, w,here Aramoor's smoke still stained the sky.
"I think," he said slowly, "that if you continue like this, boy… then when the time comes , theyou will not run."
Erias swallowed hard.
And nodded.
In the High Priest's chamber, Dream still wearing Varos's face watched flames dance in the lantern glass.
He sensed something stir in the distance:
the traitor's growing the demons searching for the High Priestthe trembling border between realmsthe boy's spark beginning to wake.
The war had begun.
But now
For the first time
Dream was no longer alone in it.
And I watched, knowing what Dream could not yet see:
The boy he protected would shape the fate of realms far beyond this sanctuary.
A blade was being forged.
And soon
It would be needed.