The forest was old—older than kingdoms, older than myths, older even than the first songs mortals had ever lifted to the sky. Dawn broke over its canopy in slow, gentle ribbons, the light pooling in the spaces between ancient oaks like spilled gold.
Dream walked through it with quiet steps, leaves whispering under his bare feet. He had no reason to be here today. No cosmic shift pulsed through the Dreaming. No Elder God called for him. No mortal cried out in their sleep.
He was here because something felt wrong.
Not cosmic-wrong.
Human-wrong.
And those were the ones he cared about most.
He paused at the crest of a hill and listened—not with ears, but with the subtle, instinctive sense that ran through him like a second heartbeat. Somewhere nearby, someone's story was about to be stolen from them. Bent. Distorted. Locked into a tragedy.
He knew this sensation.
He'd felt it once with Medusa.
He wasn't going to let it happen again.
A sharp whistle of air broke through the silence—quick, precise, almost musical. Dream turned toward it just as a young woman sprinted between the trees, moving with a speed that seemed impossible for mortal flesh.
Atalanta.
Her name rose in his memory like a spark—one of the myths he remembered from his old universe. The girl left to die. The girl raised by a bear. The girl whose freedom was a threat to every insecure man who crossed her path. The girl whose story was written by gods who thought choices were ornamental.
She darted across the forest floor barefoot, bow at her side, muscles moving like water and lightning.
She looked free.
And Dream knew—if he did nothing—she wouldn't stay that way.
He stepped forward just as she skidded to a stop, arrow nocked and aimed directly at his heart.
"Most people don't stand in the path of a hunter," she said.
Dream lifted his hands in a calm, human gesture. "Most people don't move like the wind."
Atalanta narrowed her eyes, studying him. "You don't look like a villager. You don't carry a blade. And you walked into my forest without fear."
"Everyone walks into forests," Dream replied. "Not everyone feels welcome in them."
She hesitated—just slightly—at the softness of his voice.
"What are you?" she asked, lowering her bow only a fraction.
"A traveler," he said simply. "One who saw someone running like she owned the entire world and got… curious."
Atalanta blinked. "Owned the world? I don't even own a home."
"You own your freedom," Dream said. "That's worth more."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Leaves rustled overhead. A boar grunted somewhere deeper in the woods. Atalanta studied him with the instincts of someone who had survived too much to trust easily.
"You speak strangely," she said. "Not like anyone I've met."
"I've lived many places," Dream replied. "And some of them weren't here."
Her brow furrowed, but before she could question him further, a distant horn echoed across the valley.
Atalanta flinched.
Dream didn't miss it.
"What is that?" he asked gently.
"Men," she muttered. "From the king's court. They come with their offers and demands. They want me to return with them. To be put… on display."
"For the suitor races," Dream murmured.
She froze. "How do you know about that?"
He lifted his shoulders mildly. "Stories travel. And some stories are written long before they should be."
"They want me to 'choose' a husband by racing the men who seek me," Atalanta said bitterly. "If they lose, they die. If they win—"
"You lose your freedom," Dream finished.
Atalanta's jaw clenched.
"Is that what you want?" he asked.
"No," she said immediately. "My life is my own. The forest raised me. Not kings. Not gods. I won't be traded like a prize."
"Good," Dream said softly. "Then let's make sure your story stays yours."
She stared at him. "And how exactly do we do that? You talk as if you can just rewrite fate."
He smiled gently. "Maybe I can."
Atalanta's expression shifted—not to disbelief, but to something far rarer.
Hope.
A rustle of leaves announced approaching men—noisy, armored, arrogant footsteps cutting through the forest like they owned the land. Atalanta pulled her bow back, ready to vanish into the trees.
Dream placed a hand on her shoulder.
She stiffened—then slowly relaxed.
"I'll handle them," he said.
"You?" she whispered. "You don't have a weapon."
"Don't need one," Dream said. "I have a voice. And they're not nearly as brave as they pretend to be."
The men burst into the clearing—three soldiers and a herald, panting and sweating.
"Lady Atalanta!" the herald declared, spotting her. "By order of the king, you are summoned to—"
Dream stepped between them before the sentence finished.
"She's not going."
The herald blinked. "Who are you?"
"No one important," Dream said. "But also someone who doesn't enjoy watching bad stories play out."
The soldiers raised spears.
Atalanta hissed under her breath. "Dream—"
He held up a hand and the air shifted—not violently, not visibly, but unmistakably. The forest itself seemed to lean closer, listening.
The soldiers froze mid-step.
"Return to your king," Dream said. His voice was quiet, almost conversational—but under it lay an ancient resonance older than mountains. "Tell him the woman he seeks does not belong to him. Tell him no race will ever take place. Tell him if he tries to force her hand…" He paused, considering. "…he will not enjoy what comes next."
Dream smiled. "And then tell him to have a very nice day."
The forest exhaled.
The men bolted—tripping over roots, scrambling back the way they came, abandoning all pretense of authority.
Atalanta stared. "What… what did you do?"
"Nothing dramatic," Dream said. "Just gave their fear a voice."
She shook her head. "You speak like a man, but you act like… something else."
Dream shrugged. "Long story. Complicated. Involves a turtle—don't ask."
He regretted it instantly.
Atalanta blinked. "A… turtle?"
"Long story," he repeated quickly.
She stepped closer, searching his face. "Why help me? You don't know me."
"I know enough," Dream said softly. "I know you deserve a life that belongs to you. I know you were raised by a bear who showed you more kindness than most kings ever would. And I know the world is better with someone like you running through it."
Her breath caught.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"You don't owe me thanks," Dream replied. "Just promise me one thing."
Atalanta tilted her head.
"Run," he said. "Not because they demand it. Not because they chase you. Not to prove anything. Run because it's yours."
Atalanta looked at him for a long, silent moment, then nodded—once, firmly.
"Will I see you again?" she asked.
Dream smiled. "Stories have a way of looping back."
She grinned—wild and bright—and sprinted into the forest, faster than any mortal had a right to move, hair streaming behind her like a comet's tail.
Dream watched her fade between the trees.
This time, her story would not end in chains.
This time, she would not be tamed.
This time, no god would decide her fate.
He exhaled, letting the forest settle.
One myth rewritten.
One life freed.
One more thread in the tapestry of a world that didn't have to follow the script.
Dream turned away, hands in his pockets, walking with the quiet ease of a man strolling through a park.
Behind him, the wind carried Atalanta's laughter.
And for once, the world felt a little more like a dream worth keeping.