4. Somehow, I must get into Nyxion’s fortress and free this girl from my brother’s grip.

Chapter 4

Somehow, I must get into Nyxion's fortress and free this girl from my brother's grip.

MORPHEUS

"Broken" by Seether ft Amy Lee

"Alkaline" by Sleep Token

C old darkness envelops me as the first wraith breaches the border of my realm.

The shadows follow my command, glinting like black diamond dust as I prepare them for battle.

The boundary between my world and Nyxion's nightmare realm shimmers with maleficent energy, an ever-shifting void threatening to spill its horrors into the dreams I swear to protect every night.

My strength has fractured. My power is broken. What was infinite is now finite.

The ground beneath my feet remains firm, the shadows under my control pulsating with a steady, protective rhythm.

Every step I take holds a purpose, my senses attuned to the slightest vibrations and shifts in the air. The wraiths are near.

A whisper like the rustling of dead leaves brushes past my ear.

A low growl rises in my chest. I turn sharply, my muscles rigid, ready to spring into action.

The first wraith lunges at me, a formless shadow with eyes that burn like cold fire. I sense the chill of its gaze, a numbness that crawls along my skin, burrowing through me, threatening to claw into my very soul.

Movements swift and fluid, my roar silent as a ghost, I draw a great broadsword of pure shadows. The shadows sing as the blade cuts through the air, high-pitched notes both ethereal and eerie that resonate in the oppressive silence.

My blade meets with its resistance, the shadow steel slicing through the nightmarish wraith's substance, striking the killing blow. Its blood splatters me, blood that would eat through human skin like acid. But as a god, I grit my teeth and suffer through the sting.

The wraith shrieks, its shrill wail reverberating through the void before it dissolves into nothingness.

I stand still, my breath steady but my heart pounding with the knowledge of more battle. I will protect my realm from these abominations.

Ever since Purgatory cracked under the unfortunate plight Eros suffered before he restored his realm, horrors have invaded Demos Oneiroi, the World of Dreams. Most have come slithering into my realm, and Phobetor/Icelos/Epiales…Son of Nyx—whatever he calls himself these days—has taken advantage of my misfortunes.

My oldest brother has grown more powerful than ever.

My chest tightens with the cutting sensation of icicles growing around my heart. Seizing the opportunity in any misfortunes is his specialty.

And the Oneiroi are known for our competition.

The thought of failing, of letting these horrors terrorize my dreamers, fuels my resolve.

Another wraith strikes from behind, its icy fingers tunneling into my neck, sharpening frost into my flesh. The sinister energy disturbing the air, the subtle shift in the wind, warns me of more approaching.

Ducking low, I spin and swing my blade in a fierce arc, feeling the satisfying smite as it pierces the wraith's form. It shatters with a wail, its essence dispersing like icy, black smithereens in the wind.

The battle rages on for hours. Crystals cover my skin like icy needles. But gods do not tire. We do not grow old, though the energy of the God of Nightmares has grown stronger. I focus on the rhythm of my heart and the pulsing, dark energy around me.

A third wraith descends from above, its presence marked by a sudden drop in temperature. I reach out with my sixth sense, an intangible awareness that allows me to perceive its malevolent intent, its primal hunger.

Pivoting on my heel, I drive my blade in a sharp upward thrust. The wraith's screech is cut short as I banish it back to the nightmare world from where it manifested.

Each wraith I dispatch seems to pierce me more with the oppressive energy of Icelos' realm, the eternity of nightmares. Those walls close in on me, pressing down on my chest as is his reputation. But I push back, drawing strength from the knowledge that I must protect my dreams from his black hell. Failure is not an option. The shadowy barrier, this miles-long void holding him back like a dam is cracking, giving his agents a chink through which to attack.

The final wraith is the strongest, a towering shadow that seems to absorb all light—but not hope. It bears down on me, its presence a black hole of despair.

I close my eyes, surrendering to all my other senses. The wraith approaches, rancid breath curling in the air as it gnashes its teeth.

In a heartbeat, I move, sidestepping its crushing blow and driving my blade deep into its core. At first, the wraith resists, its form solid and unyielding.

With a final, wailing cry, it disintegrates, fragments of darkness scattering like ash and embers.

Silence falls. The last wraith is gone. I stand here, my breath ragged and heavy, the taste of victory mingling with the lingering bitterness of fear.

More will come with an unquenchable hunger—unless I find what was stolen from me.

I will never stop hunting for my Eye. Or…

…all will be lost.

I sheath my blade at my back, my heart still thundering from the battle.

Drawing on my shadow power, I weave the darkness around me like a protective shroud. The shadows glitter with the glint of black diamond dust, an eerie yet beautiful contrast to the evil I faced.

I have protected my world, for now. But this war between dreams and nightmares is far from over.

If the God of Nightmares takes control of reality, fear will spread into every corner of the world. More war, more prejudice, more death. A new Dark Age. And the energy of the waking world will worship Icelos.

As I step back into my World of Dreams, I remain vigilant, my senses ever alert to the encroaching darkness. I vow not to despair, to seek the hope that was there at the creation of the universe when Love first held the Scepter. I embody hope.

This is only the beginning.

Returning to my castle of light and shadow, I step through the grand archway into my sanctuary with its shimmering mosaic of dreams—each fragment a window into the slumbering minds I protect.

The shadows move with a will of their own, obedient to my command, glittering with my black diamond dust.

As I walk through the dimly lit corridors, the flicker of a candle's flame sends a ripple through the air, imparting the familiar scent of incense. I pause, sensing the playful yet unsettling presence within the light.

I sigh heavily, knead my brow, and resist the urge to groan from the familiar presence. Pausing, I drop my hand and mutter, "Come out, Phantasos. I know you're here."

The candle's flame flares brightly before it extinguishes itself. A wisp of smoke twists into a presence beside me, radiating a mischievous energy.

"Morpheus, always so perceptive, even in your present, tragic state," Phantasos's voice carries a sly smile. "Perhaps I may help. I bring you a warning, brother."

"Save your tricks. Speak plainly."

"So pointed, brother. I even got dressed up for this special visit." I hear the smile in his voice and realize where he's going with this.

"Do share, Phantasos. You know I'm always eager to know…."

"Countess Fangtastic," she says in the familiar, performative Queen persona. She goes back and forth for me, the differences between her Queen alter egos and Phantasos himself are subtle, but I have the pronoun-patterns memorized. "You only wish you had a gold tunic as fine as this, and my cape with its turned- out collar is quite the crowd-pleaser. It makes me feel like a vampire."

I shake my head, chuffing a laugh. It's no secret Phantasos gets along with both Nyxion and myself. He's the fun middle brother dressing up as a new Queen every day and bringing his entertaining presence. He's also quite exceptional at taking advantage of the chronic competition between myself and Icelos. And enjoys performing for mortals as a street dancer, musician, and even an artist while Icelos and I are busy with one another.

Countess Fangtastic chuckles, her form shifting again. I sense the new presence on the wall—one that manifests into a form I can make out as an ornate gilded mirror. My brother's form is not so dim.

The air around the mirror crackles with images of chaotic dreams and nightmarish landscapes, including the unmistakable dark essence of Icelos. Visions manifest in my mind of Icelos passing through the great barrier.

"He calls himself Nyxion now. And he has grown bold," the Countess's voice echoes with a hint of malice. "He traveled to the waking world. Paid a visit to a very… interesting place."

"What are you playing at, Countess? Why tell me this?"

The mirror shimmers and Phantasos steps out. My vision is muted, but I can faintly make out my brother holding an ornate chessboard with pieces moving on their own—soft taps against the wood, symbolizing our intricate game.

"Consider it a friendly gesture in these tumultuous times. We are all trying to outdo one another, are we not? Here is my knight…" Phantasos places the piece on the board, the sound sharp in the stillness. "Nyxion left a trail, brother. If you wish to follow it, you'll find it leads to the waking world."

I remain cautious, aware of Phantasos's penchant for trickery, but the urgency of Nyxion's actions cannot be ignored. "Where does the trail lead?"

My brother's form transforms into a veil hanging in the hallway. "To a hospital bed. A place where the boundary between dreams and reality is thinnest. A girl named Zenya. Be careful, Morpheus. I cannot share what Nyxion did because it is not for polite society."

With a final, teasing note in his voice, Phantasos disappears, leaving behind an eerie silence.

I contemplate the trickster's warning. Nyxion's energy from my visions is a dark stain on the fabric of the dreamscape, its malevolence intense even in his absence.

Determined, I follow the faint trail Phantasos has given me like breadcrumbs of crushed bones, each step bringing me closer to the waking world. The shadows at my command swirl protectively around me, their glittery, black diamond dust a constant reminder of my power and duty.

As I cross the threshold, the familiar sensations of my castle fade, replaced by the sterile, cold environment of the hospital. The hum of machinery and the faint scent of antiseptic fill the air.

Here is where the trail lingers, the dark essence of my oldest brother engulfing the bed of this young woman, Zenya.

Even a blind man could see she is beautiful. She lays here, her face peaceful yet pale, her dreams now a battleground between light and shadow.

A puzzling clarity washes over me as my senses absorb my surroundings. The shadows around me seem to pulse in sync with the rhythm of this significant girl's heartbeat.

She is not fully shrouded in total darkness—more like a silhouette with light trimming the edges of her form. How is it possible?

I pause by Zenya's bedside where the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window illuminates her form. I tilt my head, concentrating on discerning her dreams. They are a delicate tapestry interwoven with threads of purest light and deepest shadows.

An unsettling familiarity tugs at my consciousness, a sense of my oldest brother's presence saturating the very air. His visceral one.

Confusion gnaws on my thoughts, my spine prickling. What was it about Zenya that draws my sightless gaze? The enigma deepens.

I reach out, my fingers tracing the right side of her body, where happy tattoos of gold stars and hearts decorate her skin. The contact sends a jolt through me, a sting like static electricity. Arching a brow, I recoil momentarily. But I reach for her again. Driven by a desperate need to understand.

I know what I must do.

Leaning closer, I rub my lips against her soft skin, tasting her eclipse essence, feeling her body heat within these cold environs.

I claim her mouth, kissing her full lips, then sinking my teeth into her lower lip—just enough to draw a single drop of blood. The rich honeyed taste with undertones of bittersweet darkness hits my tongue, and a torrent of knowledge crashes into me. A vision of her bound and blindfolded slams into me. My heart synchronizes its beat to hers. My soul is hell-bent on seeking hers.

"Damn, brother. What have you done?" I whisper, studying the tapestry along her skin, the tattoos seeming to swirl and pulse with a life of their own. Evidence of Nyxion's actions.

This is why he is more powerful. He holds her mind. He's shackled her to himself, feeding off her energy and emotions like a symbiotic parasite. His mind, her prison. Like a malevolent fog.

He's turned her into a dream walker. No, a dream weaver . The chilling clarity strikes me deep to my core—there is only one way Nyxion could have achieved this.

A cold dread seeps into my bones. Desperation claws at me. Somehow, I must get into Nyxion's fortress and free this girl from my brother's grip. I steel myself for another battle, perhaps our most extreme battle. Nyxion has resorted to drastic measures. I won't hesitate to do the same.

Resolve hardening, I clench my hands into fists. I only hope this Zenya will not become a casualty of our war.