A dream returns A voice you know. A voice that has answered your anger, your oaths, your whispered pleas for retribution.

She does not appear. She never appears. But her presence coils around the edges of the dream like smoke lit by embers.

A whisper, sharp as a razor drawn slowly from its sheath:

“A force has risen.”

Your goddess speaks the words not as warning, but as truth carved into the underside of destiny.

You fall again — through memory, through someone else’s fate — and the echoes unfold as before:

It comes in fragments — flickers — as if someone has torn a tapestry into drifting scraps and let them brush against your mind. You feel it rather than see it, and you hear it more as memory than sound.

At first there is falling. Not through air — through someone else’s life. A life older than language.

A flash of radiant stone. A cold shock through your palms. Chains — you hear them before you understand what they bind. Voices — not loud, but heavy, as if spoken by the structure of reality itself.

Two shapes kneeling. A man whose defiance tastes like iron. A king. A woman with starlight in her eyes and blood on her lips. A Queen. Their names slip into your mind like a forgotten sentence

Then the vision slides away — replaced by a single divine echo: “You wielded what no mortal may touch.”

Another ripple. Laughter — bitter. A clash of defiance against decree.

A shadow of a goddess steps forward — tall, still. Her words strike like falling pillars with a verdict:

“Death by Oblivion.”

You don’t see the blade strike, but you feel the moment the universe exhales — a gasp, a warmth extinguished, the soft shatter of something irreplaceable.

Then heat. Rage.

A man becoming something else. Something too bright and too dark at once. A collision of forces never meant to coexist. A god’s silhouette tearing apart into ash. Another God folding in on itself like paper.

Time misbehaves. Light warps. The world in the vision becomes thin.

Lost, now in a prison… not a place, but a rule. A knot tied in the threads of destiny itself.

And inside it — a figure, bound.

His face is blurred, shifting, but his eyes… they land on you as if across a great distance — or none at all.

A murmur reaches someone else, soft as thunder from beyond mountains while you eavesdrop:

“Your thread is tangled with mine.”

A pause heavy enough to slow your breath.

“On your second death, we will meet.”

Another heartbeat.

“…and you will serve me. Or betray me. As he did.”

You feel Her voice again

“The veil won't part further.”

Not won’t. Cannot.

The dream shudders, splits. You see the sky — not yours, not any sky — ripple with gathering storms of light and shadow.

“A great war stirs,” she murmurs. “The heavens themselves prepare to bleed.”

The images dissolve — gods raising their weapons, daemons answer, realms folding like parchment, a figure of chained radiance staring out from beyond time — and then, piercing through it all:

“Vengeance”

The words feel heavier than the dream, heavier than your own heartbeat.

Then everything unravels — sound, light, memory — leaving only a cold echo fading behind your ribs.

And you wake, unsure if you dreamed someone else’s doom… or someone else's beginning.