Sleep took Kael against his will, not gently, and not naturally. It dragged him under like a hook through the spine.
He dreamed of fire first. Not the wild, hungry infernos of war but clean fire, white fire, and fire that did not burn flesh but erased meaning. Cities reduced not to ash, but to absence. Names peeled from memory. Faces smoothed from history.
Kael stood at the center of it. Been whole, unburned, and unforgiven.
“This again,” he muttered.
The ground beneath his feet was glass—mirrored and endless. Above him, the sky was a cathedral of light, arches formed from stars, pillars carved from judgment. No sun, no moon, only eyes millions of them. Watching.
“You sealed yourself so tightly,” a voice said, layered and calm. “We wondered if you could still dream.”
Kael turned. The
