The Dream Beyond Morgoth

That night, the world weighed heavy.

The ancient temple had fallen silent again, the vines curling softly over its broken stones as twilight deepened into a cold, moonless black. A small fire crackled in the center of their makeshift camp, its light barely touching the surrounding ruins.

Kaelred and Thae'Zirak dozed lightly nearby. Malakar, ever watchful, sat cross-legged in the shadows, violet flames dimming within his hollow sockets, his mind lost somewhere deep within lich-ritual meditations.

Argolaith lay back on the smooth slab of an overturned pillar, his arms behind his head, staring up into a sky streaked with fading stars.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep took him swiftly, like a falling blade.

At first, there was nothing.

No light. No warmth.

Only the slow, heavy beat of his own heart echoing through an endless void.

Then—a whisper.