Descent Into the Dream of the Dead

Elara lay beneath the silver canopy in the ritual chamber, her eyes closed, breath shallow. Moriah chanted the ancient binding rite, and Aldric stood at her side, one hand over her glyph.

"This is the only way," she said softly. "If I don't go into the Herald's dream, it'll pull me in when I'm weakest."

"You've grown too fast," Aldric whispered. "It's changing you."

"I know. Let it."

The final chant echoed. Her glyph flared.

And then—

Darkness.

But not empty.

She stood in a field of glass, where stars lay shattered at her feet and the sky bled memory.

Before her rose a mountain of bone.

And atop it sat the Herald.

It was massive, curled in a shape that defied form—serpentine, avian, angelic. Eyes dotted its body. Its voice came as wind, flame, and truth.

"You come to me willingly, daughter of light."

"I come for answers."

"You come for control. You seek to rewrite what has already been written."

Elara stepped forward. "I come to rewrite myself."

The Herald laughed.

"Then let us dream, Moon-Blood. And may you awaken… as someone new."