Story 1126: Dagger of the Dreaming Gods

In the deepest archives beneath the ruined Cathedral of Saint Thorns, locked behind chains of bone and prayer, lay a blade wrapped in oiled cloth. It bore no name. Only a whisper.

The Dagger of the Dreaming Gods.

Evelyn Blackmoor had traced its myth through half a dozen madmen’s journals and cathedral blueprints inked in dried blood. All led her here—to a vault sealed by sleep. The monks who once guarded it had long since perished, their corpses now dreaming forever in silent, sealed catacombs.

The final inscription at the gate read:

"To take the dagger is to wake what should never dream again."

Still, she entered.

The catacombs pulsed with warmth—wrong warmth, like breath from a beast that should not live. Stone coffins throbbed with distant heartbeats. Evelyn pressed forward, lantern swinging low, pistol drawn but useless in this sacred dead place.