I've come to dread sleep.
Not because it is dark.
But because it remembers me.
The dream came again.
The same throne of cold stone.
The same golden beam falling from a sky that never ends.
And me—cloaked in obsidian, seated, unmoved.
But this time… something had changed.
I was not alone.
I stood in a cathedral of shadow and time. A cathedral without walls, its spires stretching into the void like the ribs of a long-dead god. The air shimmered—not with heat, but with presence. Heavy. Sacred. Wrong.
I took a step forward.
And the stars blinked—not from distance, but as if reacting to me. Like eyes retreating behind celestial lids.
You've returned too soon.
The voice echoed from nowhere. Or perhaps from inside the throne.
I turned.
It was there—the throne, as always. Monolithic. Ancient. Laced with carvings too intricate for mortal memory.
But this time, it was not empty.
And it was not me sitting upon it.
A figure sat where I had always seen myself.
Wreathed in a shroud of black flame, its form was made of void and memory—its face shifting endlessly through thousands of versions of me.
Young. Old. Dying. Divine.
All me.
All wrong.
Its eyes were burning stars.
And they were locked onto mine.
You are the echo. I am the origin, it said. And the origin does not kneel to itself.
"Who are you?" I asked.
Who you were… before the forgetting.
"Aetherion?"
The throne creaked as it leaned forward.
No. Aetherion was the name you chose after the first fire. Before that…
The dream shook. The stars screamed in silence.
You had no name. Only purpose.
I couldn't breathe. The very idea of this figure felt too heavy. My mind frayed around its edges. My knees buckled.
I collapsed to the obsidian floor.
You were born in the breath of the first dragon. You fed on gods before there were stars to burn. You sat on this throne before Time dared to write its first sentence.
My vision blurred.
"Then what am I now?" I choked out.
It stood.
The stars recoiled.
You are the fracture. The exile. The returned.
It walked down the black steps of the dais, each step echoing like a verdict.
You dream of the throne because you are not ready to reclaim it.
But it is waiting.
They are waiting.
Suddenly, a second presence filled the dream.
Dark.
Ancient.
Hungry.
Not the throne-being. Not me.
Something else.
Watching.
Breathing.
Behind me.
I turned—slowly.
In the sky above the cathedral, a pair of eyes opened.
Not starry.
Not divine.
Reptilian.
A slitted gaze, black and gold, staring down like a promise of ruin.
"You are not forgotten," the throne-being whispered.
And then—
I was burning.
I woke screaming.
My hand had scorched the stone beneath me. Lyra scrambled to her feet, dagger drawn, breathing hard.
"Another dream?" she asked, her voice trembling.
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because the burn on my palm was real.
A mark. A brand. A circle split by jagged lines—the ancient symbol of dominion.
And then—
The forest rustled.
But not with wind.
Something was coming.
No—not something.
Someone.
Branches parted. Shadows shifted.
And stepping from the brush—
A creature, no taller than my knee.
It was covered in black scales that shimmered like obsidian in moonlight. Two wings, too large for its small body, twitched as it sniffed the air. Its eyes—vast, intelligent, and glowing with the same gold as the throne's fire—locked onto mine.
And then—
It spoke.
Not with a child's voice. Not with a beast's growl.
But with reverence.
"Sire," it said.
"The Rift remembers you."
And before I could move, the dragon bowed—and the stars above us all blinked in fear.