Raven in the Snow

A Short Story from the World of Shoes For Men & Beasts

Blurb:

Raven in the Snow is a dark fantasy tale exploring the intertwining of dreams and fate, as mere mortals just watch. It is a deep, dark, magical and imaginative story about the struggle for power and to what extent can a being go to. It expands on the story of some of the telums from the Shoes For Men & Beasts universe.

Check out details about the world of Shoes For Men & Beasts universe right here!

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Year 7,200

The Umbric Scriptorium was a realm situated far from any course of reality. There, on gazing into the sky, one would behold the heavens, as a continuously changing canvas of colours, colours that looked like the work of a painter who was bound to take his own life. The shifting patterns of the sky could not be understood by a mere mortal; the scriptorium existed solely for the weavers of destiny. The deep sky displayed fluctuating shades of haunting purples, coal blacks and tree greens, presenting a world much calmer than the one below.

The sky itself twirled like it had its own mind, reflecting the chaotic placement of floating islands suspended over an endless and beautiful expanse of deep blue water, still as the heart of a corpse. The sea of the Umbric Scriptorium was quiet, whether it be night or day, as the deities that resided there paid no heed to the passage of time.

The floating islands in this realm were colossal, each resembling a distorted dreamscape. The bottoms of these islands consisted of never-ending brown soil that fell into the sea, casting brown dust everywhere. Although the brown mud dripped slowly, it disturbed the upper part of the islands. These landmasses were adorned with leveled green grass, with soft moisture dancing on every blade. Every island in this realm boasted a ruined castle of its own – old deep brown bricks lazily resting upon each other since the beginning of eternity. Perhaps they were grand fortresses when the world was young, but now they stood as ruins of old beauty, occupying most of the space on top of the islands.

The broken bastions were surrounded by lively evergreen trees, short in stature yet lush and jaded. Every leaf of every tree danced in the restless wind that blew through the scriptorium. The wind itself seemed alive with mystical murmurs, as if the very air of the umbra spoke in riddles, carrying sounds of forgotten stories and half-formed prophecies. As the wind caressed the sky, it carried the colour from the heavens, transforming into a different hue of purple. The green sky in the distance of the realm held a secret known only to the clouds and the wind. And the shades of black were of the unknown, nobody understood them, they were just there, as to exist, as an abyss. They were like spikes on the roof of a cavern; to warn the people entering of its dangers.

The floating islands were blessed with rivers that gushed from the ruins of the castles . The fall of the water was endless, unstoppable in its descent into the sea. Despite the continuous motion, the waters remained quiet. The sea was not expected to be gentle with anyone, for it had to be fair to every living being. As every drop of water poured into the ocean, the waves of the sea pulsed, absorbing everything.

The realm was quiet, except for a subtle yet distinct sound—a gentle collection of whispers. Something was weaving a world; the threads let out a soft rustle, like the delicate pages of an ancient book being turned in a quiet library. The rhythm of the weaving process created a unique melody. It was as if the purple hues of the sky talked through the silk.

As the creature stopped spinning its webs, the water swayed softly, resembling a small wooden boat in the distance flowing on the reflection of the cascading sky on the mirror of the realm. A small, black figure wore a hat and a set of robes that could not be seen clearly in the darkness. A mortal could only see the man and the boat’s silhouette flowing slowly through the endless sea. The man held a large oar, pushing it to make the boat move ahead as the merchant of the sea searched for his home through the storms. He needed to return to the shore before it was too late, before the waves washed away his sandcastle.

As the sound of the weaving intensified, the man turned toward the central island that he could see, situated between two smaller islands. Another rock floated in the distance, with just a broad deep yellow, broken staircase on it. The sound came from the shore . A woman sat there on a black rock, through which the river seemed to flow into the sea. The woman wore a long melancholic blue dress that covered the rock and went down on the coarse sand. She wore a pendant on her neck with a sickly sweet blue gemstone. She had miniature deer-like antlers that rose through her shoulder-length black hair. Her eyes were like the sky, pitch black, and her skin held a slight tint of sapphire. Her ears were pointed and long, as were her long-fingered hands, which pet her very own tool.

It would be unfair to call the poor boy a tool. On her lap sat a grotesque arachnid-like creature with endless legs. It had golden glowing eyes that never blinked. With its innumerable legs, it spun threads from silk. The threads had ancient symbols, pulsating with a dim, inner glow. It was her very own spindle. The woman was Elara, the maiden of the fates. She closed her eyes and petted the spider softly on its furry head as it continued Elara’s work.

“Granddaughter… how long shall you compel the weary soul to bear the weight of its labour?” a broken and hoarse voice came from the distance as the lady turned around to see the crone walking towards her.

Grimora was the Crone of the Fates. She had cracked and broken pale white skin with small red glowing eyes. Her long white hair practically covered her face, but it could not be seen completely as she wore a set of black robes with shiny brown accents. She always kept the hood of the robes up on her head, hiding the majority of her face. The part that could be seen showed a million wrinkles on her pale skin; she was as old as the world. Her hands held a long spear with a sharp triangular silver blade on its end. Every step the Crone took towards her grandchild, she struggled to walk, using her spear as a cane to help her walk on the cruel sand.

The spider kept moving its feet in a rhythm that only Elara understood. The maiden was responsible for spinning the thread of life, and the spider was her spindle. She determined the beginning of a person’s existence, the start of their journey. As Grimora approached the maiden from behind, Elara laughed at her statement. She held the spider with both of her hands, and the creature glowed a beautiful blue. She matched her eyes with its eight golden eyes and smiled.

“The tool in the hands of mine, he is a weaver of an new life’s threads. For in the mosaic of being, he mirrors me, and I, in turn, am reflected in him,” fine words released out of the maiden’s mouth. Her voice was soft and calm, but it held a certain darkness that lurked in its echoes through the scriptorium.

The Crone smiled as she walked ahead of the rock that Elara sat on. Grimora felt the river water on her feet and sat on the shore slowly. Her body did not support her anymore as she groaned with pain sitting on the sand. She kept her spear next to her and gazed into the purple horizon.

“Where is your mother?” asked Elara as the spider on her lap continued weaving its threads.

As Elara asked this question, she heard the clunking of a metal chain against a body that she could recognize from miles away. The mother, Selenia, emerged from the river that Grimora sat near. Selenia was a mature woman with slight wrinkles on her fair face. She had beautiful green eyes that evoked the trees around the islands. She wore a pair of long dark blue robes with detailed and intricate golden accents. Her black hair was short, stopping at her chin. In her hand, she held a pocket watch with a beautiful sapphire framing with hints of gold. And in her other hand, she held a golden glowing measuring rod.

The steps that Selenia took out of the serene waters were quiet; none of her feet made any sound when she came in contact with the sand. “How many destinies have we birthed this eve, and how many threads have met their inevitable end?” she asked as she walked beside Elara. She hugged her daughter tightly as they held each other in the embrace for a while. “Across time, I ache for your presence, young one, the void hears my yearning…” said the mother as she closed her eyes and held Elara’s face.

“You vanished for just a bit, Mother—time had a little chuckle…” laughed Elara.

The three fates were finally gathered on the sands of time. Elara weaved the strings for the start of destinies. Selenia measured the portion of the destinies, and Grimora cut the threads when the time was finally over.

“An issue has arisen, demanding our attention,” said Selenia, looking at her measuring rod. The golden element glowed uncontrollably.

“What is wrong?” asked Grimora.

“The God of Dreams seeks a pact with destiny’s hand.”

“Hmm…” hummed Elara. She did not meet either woman’s eyes. She kept them on her spider, and as the words ‘Dreams’ came out of Selenia’s mouth, the spider stopped. The threads had stopped.

The Fates know everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen; the past, the present, and the future. Their power springs from knowing it all, a wisdom restricted to them alone. Dream was a madness, yes, this was true. Few beings possessed it, the willingness to step away from the protection of sanity. To walk into the wild wood of madness… The Fates did not know what they were going to face.

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Somnium was the realm of dreams, a world where reality and fantasy fused in a kaleidoscope. The landscape had beautiful green Dream Orchards-an evershifting variety where valleys of misty thoughts collided with towering peaks of imagination. The trees were slightly short, but they colored the grounds of the realm of dreaming in purple, pink, and green.

Dreamwalkers were otherworldly custodians, taking care of this little world that held people’s whispers of the night and echoes of the heart. They walked on wisps of mist, tending to the trees. Their semi-translucent forms glittered, with luminous eyes reflecting the realm as they moved gracefully in flowing, light teal robes. Each of them carried a lantern of pure dream energy, casting a soft glow.

The sky above was a medium of emotions, coloring itself with the palette of dreamers’ feelings. At the entrance of Somnium, the Enigma Gates led to the insides of little shared dream worlds. The gates were tall and spiky, but they had a certain clarity that felt dreamy in a weird sense. Beautiful blue magical energy glowed out of the spaces in between the spikes. The arch of the gate was adorned with heartfelt architecture of a spiral pattern that resided on the ceiling of the gate.

Time danced to the rhythm of dreams. In a specific land in this world, nightmares were born from fears. That land challenged the dreamers. The Land of Nightmares was a dark and twisted version of the dream world, with creepy shadows and mist everywhere. Nightmare creatures lived there, ghostly figures that represented people’s fears. The land was shaped like a labyrinth, where you would never know what lurked around the corner.

In the grassy lands of Somnium, a pale white deity walked as he felt the tall grass with his long fingers. He felt every blade like a child running through a field. His eyes were galaxies swirling with colors, and his skin was a living canvas of dream-like patterns. He wore a cloak made of interwoven constellations that trailed behind him like a celestial train. Ephormus, the God of dreams, floated slightly above the ground, never truly touching it. The cape of his robes disturbed the serenity of the green glowing grass of his realm, but he did not care; it was his home. He was one of the older Gods of Hollowshire.

He had short black hair, wavy, and a rectangular face. The robes came up to his neck and formed into a widespread collar with slight golden accents. Another set of collars came over the first ones and the outer set was made out of the black night sky. For there was nothing in his eyes but the black night and the cold stars. Ephormus smiled as the grass in his world waved to him softly and kept walking on the path that led to the center of Somnium.

As the God of Dreams reached the central part of his realm, he looked toward the floor and noticed that the grass of the lands had ended, and he stood upon a mosaic that cascaded and merged into a single point. The floor felt like a jigsaw puzzle, with each piece made up of dreams of different people that he had never met before. Or maybe he had. Ephormus had met innumerable people, but they would never remember meeting him. And for those lucky ones who did remember meeting him, he only crossed paths to teach them about the art of oneiromancy. The years of his time in the county of Hollowshire were numbered; barely a century remained until he would fade into oblivion, and another godly deity would replace him. Ephormus did not have a school of his own like the other Gods did. He personally visited his students in their sleep. For sleep was a rose, but it only brought people fear. There was a certain mystery to the act of sleeping. It was a deep slumber into nothingness, into the realm of dreams, and whether reality would be graced by them again, now that would be the unraveling of each act of resting.

He crouched down as he felt the glass-like floor with his slender fingers. He gazed at the jigsaw painting on the floor of people’s surreal imaginations, their subconscious weaving their lives inside their heads. For these mortals did not know that life would pass before they realized what was happening to them. Ephormus was strangely quiet today; he did not utter a word. But who would he say anything to? He was a lonely God stuck in this world for a millennium. The dreamsmith gazed into the glass world where he saw people having their dreams that faded into the night.

He focused on one of the weirdly shaped glass pieces where he saw a woman dreaming about herself, finding herself as chess pieces in a game. Every move that she played on the black and white chessboard created alternate realities. She could see the consequences of her choices across different dimensions. As she navigated this surreal chessboard, the boundaries between reality and possibility blurred. He shifted starry eyes toward another part of this dream-overlooking glass pane. He saw a man who was underwater; he had transformed into a graceful red jellyfish. The ocean was a mesmerizing dance floor, illuminated by the soft glow of corals. Other sea creatures joined the dreamer in a whimsical ballet, their moves aligned with the ebb and flow of the dreamy, aquatic atmosphere.

Ephormus felt another dream with his hands in the center of the Somnium, and he felt a dream where the sky was a giant circus tent, and bizarre, mechanical performers put on an otherworldly show. Trapeze artists swung smoothly from floating gears, clowns juggled planets, and acrobats performed daring feats on tightropes made out of energies from galaxies. Around the tent, weird creatures of all colors with large bulging eyes cheered the performers on; they shouted and yelled, but the voices were hushed inside dreams. No one could hear from the outside, possibly only the dreams would, possibly.

Ephormus gazed at their dreams as if they were his own creations. Every single piece of the atmosphere they lived in, every molecule of the water in the sea, every gust of the wind that moved the leaves on a tree—everything was his. And he did not hesitate to change these things according to his liking. Dream got up on his feet and walked on the glass floor of dreams, searching for the vision that his little beloved critter had disappeared into. But then all of a sudden, he looked at another piece of the puzzle and noticed a man dreaming of a forest.

The Dreamsmith simply observed from above. In this uncanny dream, the man found himself within a forest where the trees were tall, and their trunks were made from intertwining curls of liquid silver. Faces, carved from warped roots, twisted into expressions of sorrow and anguish. These arboreal creatures seemed to breathe out veils of mist that carried grief amongst the trees.

The spectral mist, now manifested as otherworldly will-o’-wisps, guided the dreamer toward a dimly lit clearing at the forest’s center. Here, an immense Weeping Willow, its bark decorated with falls of shimmering, liquid crystals, stood silently.

Ephormus looked around and noticed a small dark green raven hidden among the leaves of the trees. The bird sat peacefully on a branch, a perfect vantage spot for observing a dream. Dream smiled and took a couple of steps back from the piece of glass that carried this dream of a forest of sorrow. He ran slowly as specks of deep blue magic trailed behind his robes. He dived in as if he diving into a sea full of cold water. The glass shattered when his warm fingertips touched the dream; it fragmented like ice frozen on top of a lake.

The Dream King landed softly behind the man in the dark and lush green forest, illuminated by the glowing blue will-o’-wisps. He looked up and gazed at the raven with his swirling eyes. A mere mortal could never recognize the dark green raven hidden among the green leaves of the trees; he was camouflaged.

“Harper!” he ordered in a voice heard after a long while in the dream realm. His voice was both haunting and melodious. The raven recognized his master and fluttered his wings before he took off graciously from the branch and landed softly on Ephormus’ shoulder. The dream king smiled and scratched the raven’s chin with his finger; the bird closed its emerald eyes and enjoyed it. Ephormus now had a serious look on his face; he pointed his finger towards the man in the dream for Harper to pay attention to.

As the man touched the Weeping Willow, he was enveloped in a surreal ballet of shadows and wisps. The tree’s branches morphed into fleeting hands that delicately plucked memories and emotions from the dreamers’ minds, weaving them into a surreal fabric of glowing threads. As the threads intertwined, ghosts emerged from them, each a manifestation of the dreamers’ deepest fears and regrets. These ghostly forms joined in a surreal waltz, twirling through the air in a dance.

Ephormus, Harper, and the man became both, the audience and the participants in this weird masquerade.

“What do you say, Harper?” asked Ephormus in his soft voice. “When the day surrenders to the night, and in the soft hush of sleep, is this what people dream of?”

The raven let out a gurgling croak and said in the tender voice of a young man, “People are idiots; their surreal fantasies would not be understood in the world down below… this is their only let-out.”

The Dream King was quiet. He stood there, watching the man trying to feel the ghosts of his life with his hands, but they always passed through. Always.

“But really, what even are dreams?” said Harper.

“You ask me this every damn day, Harper,” said Dream. “Dreams are like little postcards from the universe, reminding us that even in sleep, we’re explorers of the cosmos within.”

Ephormus walked towards the man and stood right next to him. He turned sideways and peeked into the man’s eyes, and found that they were lost. His eyes had blackened completely, as if the ghosts that the willow had plucked took them away from him. Dream thought of a nightmare that could take away his eyes… maybe he did not stand in the realm of dreams; perhaps it was the land of nightmares.

“Where are we, Harper?”

“Deep down north in the land of nightmares; this is not a dream unfolding, it’s a lonely vision,” croaked the raven.

“Do you deem to make this worse?” asked Ephormus as he looked straight ahead with a smirk that only his beloved Raven knew. It meant trouble.

“Has anything that I’ve said changed your ways?” murmured Harper.

Ephormus, the God of Dreams, with a mischievous grin, decided to alter an element in the dream to turn it into a nightmare. He raised his right hand that held a little pouch of sand. He unlaced the rustic brown pouch and grasped a little bit of sand in his fingertips. The coarse sand held their homes in between his fingers now. Ephormus then backed his hand and sprinkled the sand onto the large willow of sorrow. As the sand flowed slowly, he focused his otherworldly powers on the Weeping Willow, and suddenly, the tree transformed into a colossal, giggling marshmallow monster. Its bark turned into gooey, sticky marshmallow, and it let out an eerie laughter that echoed through the nightmare forest.

The man, at first, was not afraid of this new monstrosity. As he touched the monster, instead of memories and emotions, it started raining confetti and jellybeans. The spectral forms of fears and regrets and ghosts now wore clown costumes, honking horns and performing acrobatic tricks in the surreal waltz. The once sorrowful faces on the twisted roots now sported goofy, exaggerated smiles.

Ephormus, Harper, and the man found themselves caught in a bizarre blend of hilarity and horror. The marshmallow monster chased the man with giant lollipops, and the ghosts of fears and regrets engaged in a comical dance, slipping on banana peels and throwing pies at each other. The man ran for his life as he wept loudly; tears flowed like rivers from his eyes in this exaggerated reality. The marshmallow monster kept laughing.

Harper, the dark green raven, cawed in a mix of confusion and amusement. Ephormus, despite the chaos he created, couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the transformed nightmare.

“This does not make any sense?” asked Harper as he hovered in the air, flapping his wings to look at the crying and running man.

“It wouldn’t to you, but it means everything to that man,” said Ephormus, chuckling from the corner of his mouth.

Harper slowly hovered over Ephormus’ right shoulder and landed softly. He looked towards Dream’s mischievous eyes and begged for answers. He did not say any words, but Ephormus knew immediately.

“It was a night when darkness clung to the air like a sinister cloak,” Ephormus began, his voice burdened with foreboding. “Thorne, a small child with innocence yet unspoiled, stumbled upon a twisted realm beneath the blood moon’s glow. The circus tent was draped in crimson velvet, hiding a ghastly spectacle beyond mortal comprehension…” Ephormus stopped for a moment to think, but then he continued.

“I reckon it must be the work of a student of Fraya, the Goddess of the insane…”

Ephormus gazed at the tired face of the poor child-like soul that was trapped in the body of Thorne. He never really grew up past that night.

“Within this circus, a grisly zoo of spectral creatures danced to the melody of unseen strings. The air was thick with otherworldly fog that clung to the skin like a curse. The student, Zephyr, was a ghoulish figure with eyes as black as the void. He beckoned Thorne toward a grotesque performance. As a captive audience, the boy watched in horror as contorted acrobats, their limbs bent at unnatural angles, twisted and spiraled through the fog. Unearthly laughter echoed, drowning out the cries of tortured souls imprisoned within the twisted carnival.”

Ephormus took a deep breath and continued, “Dear Harper, in the center of this insanity, a spectral carousel spun. Each deformed mount had the anguished faces of lost children, their haunting wails forming an eerie song. Thorne, unable to tear his gaze away, witnessed the carousel’s relentless rotation. It trapped the tormented spirits in an eternal cycle of despair… he was afraid he might be next…”

“And as the night went on, Thorne felt a cold hand on his shoulder. It was the magician, his grin revealing rows of jagged teeth. He handed Thorne a marshmallow,” Ephormus declared, his gaze piercing the darkness. “A seemingly out-of-place gesture, a sweet token amidst the horrors…. he never ate it. He reckoned if he did, he would turn into one of those children trapped in that circus…”

“How did Fraya become a Goddess?” asked Harper. “Isn’t insanity too dark of a notion to be a God of?”

Ephormus smiled, “not every God wears a halo; sometimes, we’re just characters in the story, shades of gray in the grand narrative of the cosmic dance…”

Harper was worried, and he asked, “Did you make this dream, sire?”

“Of course, I am the God of Dreams!”

“Why did you have to traumatize this poor man?” asked Harper.

“I am a storyteller, dear. I want to evoke pure joy and sometimes intense fear or whatever I can,” said Dream. “In dreams, I’ve found strength in connecting with the threads of the past. Now, I shape their dreams with the simplicity of cherished or haunting memories…”

“Isn’t that evil?” asked Harper.

Ephormus’ laugh echoed through the dream forest they rested in. The trees shivered with fear as Dream’s laugh traveled through their branches and leaves. He rubbed his hands together and answered, “what is evil? None of this really matters, Harper. All of this is just a dream. No one shall remember this story that I’m telling.”

“Everything returns to the sender…” argued Harper.

“Everything returns, yes, but what returns is not what was sent…”

“Shouldn’t storytellers just tell stories well?” said Harper. “You are the weaver of dreams…”

“My dear Harper, you’ve been with me for some ages now, have you not learnt?” said Dream looking deeply into the emerald eyes of the raven. “The story is the only truth.”

The Raven croaked loudly. The running man finally saw the two deities talking among themselves in his dream, which had transformed into a horror landscape of a carnival tinted with the carvings of the Goddess of Insanity. The man stopped running, and so did the monster behind him. The man gazed into the swirling dreamy eyes of Ephormus, and the Dream King stared back at him. Ephormus raised his hand straight towards the sky and brought it down as if drawing a straight line in the air. His movement made a crack in the existence of the poor man’s dream, and through the glowing white crack, an army of lime green frogs jumped out. There must be at least a thousand frogs rapidly bouncing around the dream, swallowing the monster and the trees. “It is time for you to wake up, Thorne…”

The man slowly walked towards the Dream King, but the army of frogs covered his legs. They tried to stop him from walking ahead, and he eventually slowed down as a hundred frogs stopped him with their sticky hands and legs. As he stood still, his eyes mustered a beautiful brown before collapsing into red. The frogs slowly gathered around him and jumped on him, swallowing him whole. Each frog stuck out on his body, and the last part of him to go out was his eyes. They were frightened.

Ephormus turned around and walked towards a serene space. The world that Thorne had created in his dreams shattered as it fell apart, much like when a child smashes a jigsaw puzzle on the ground, and each piece went to a place that could not be seen by the eyes.

Harper struggled as Ephormus walked ahead without any forewarning. He hovered in the air for a while and then flew like a bird towards his shoulder. “I have learned this, Harper…” Dream started. “If people have an experience that they saw in their dreams, they get elated and dream more… the humans call it Deja Vu, I believe.”

The world slowly started to change around Morpheus. He was no longer in the forest decorated as if it were a circus. He now walked in someone else’s dream. His pale legs softly caressed the sand underneath, and he could hear the crashing of the waves against the rocks of the sea.

And oh, the sea loved the land, every wave cradling its offerings, only to return them home.

“That feeling, it makes me more powerful. I have started exploring how I can find out what this leads to and how I can let out bits of people’s past and future into their dreams and utilize that…” Dream finished.

“But is that not against the laws of destiny?” Harper was concerned.

“It is, but I am going to strike a deal with the destinies themselves…” Dream said as he carried a smirk that only Harper knew. With a wicked grin, he painted mischief in silent strokes. Only the raven knew what kind of monsters he would create and what type of carnival he would jest.

“Oh no,” said Harper as he took flight and hovered up to Ephormus’ head. He fluttered his wings like a robin as he gazed around, going even higher in the air. He now flew smoothly with the wind that whispered tales forgotten in time. The raven took a long and wide bird’s eye view of the realm they were in. It wasn’t anyone’s dream; it was the Umbric Scriptorium. It took him a bit of time to realize this, as he had never seen it with his eyes,only heard about it from fellow nightmares. They used to say that only the cursed lived here—the three women who decided the destiny of the entire world, of all humans and beings.

Harper looked deep into the swirling sky of purple and green as it faded softly into the black oblivion above, seemingly going on for an eternity. He observed that the water from the shore did not join the ocean but flowed down into the abyss of the floating island’s edge where the Dream King walked. He saw beautiful but broken ruins of old castles around the floating island with nothing of significance in them. This place seemed to be home to some living beings, as there were signs of broken castles and fallen trees but he did not know the history. The raven then proceeded to softly land back on Ephormus’ shoulder, and Dream grinned.

“Did you understand where we are, Harper?” asked Dream in a deep but funny tone.

“We are here to meet the Fates,” said Harper fearfully as he gulped.

“The Fates are allies; they should not be feared,” soothed Ephormus.

“I have heard stories, lord.”

“They are stories for a reason, Harper… the beauty of stories is that they are a mystery,” said Dream. “And it has always been the mystery that has lasted for the ages.”

“Life holds no mysteries, dear Ephormus,” said a soft and calm voice, but Dream could easily sense the darkness hiding in its corners.

Dream walked in a straight line on the shore. His footsteps were visible on the sand, a single footprint without any toes or other silhouettes. They were tired. Ephormus stopped in his way and turned his head toward the right. There, on a slightly tall black rock, he noticed a young maiden. She wore a blue dress that ran on the rock, and wore a pendant on her neck with a blue gem. She had miniature deer-like antlers in her black hair. She held her dear spider on her lap, the spider twirling its endless arms, spinning the webs of destiny.

“Ah yes,” smiled Dream. “Elara… the maiden of the Fates.”

“Our paths cross again, Dream King,” she said, blushing slightly.

The raven gave a sly look towards Ephormus as Dream held a smirk on his face. Ephormus walked slowly towards Elara, but it seemed like the maiden had manipulated the sand to draw him closer quickly. Ephormus asked for her hand, and she granted her pale blue-skinned hand to the God, and he kissed it softly.

“Where is the family?” asked Ephormus as he slowly let go of Elara’s hand. She looked towards the spider in her lap and held the glowing luminescent blue string in both of her hands as it intertwined between her fingers. She spread her hands to see how this stranger’s destiny unfolds.

“The family? Always woven in the threads…” she answered immediately. The Dream King let out a chuckle at the deity’s joke, but he looked behind her and noticed the two other ladies walking towards the shore. The Crone and the Mother reached slowly towards Elara. The mother held Grimora from behind circling her arms around, aiding her to take every step. The crone was growing old, but the truth was, she had always been old, ever since her existence in the cosmos.

“Grimora the Crone,” said the Dream King. “I pay my respects…” Ephormus walked towards the old lady-like deity and bent down near her feet. He touched her toes with the tip of his tall and thin fingers, and the Crone held her staff horizontally over his shoulder. She tapped it softly on his right shoulder, and then Ephormus walked back to his original position. No one would ever advise standing so close to The Fates, but the Dream King feared no one, not even the beings that decided he would be a God in this world.

“Selenia,” said Ephormus as he raised his hand towards the mature lady, but she shook her head. The Fates did not touch common beings like humans and Gods; they were too high in their morals and in the hierarchy of the world. Their touch could make winter give up its shaking and lay itself by an open flame, or the stars could stop flickering even.

“I respect it,” said Dream, humbled, and he took his hand back and placed both of them behind his back. “For what purpose do you beckon us?” asked the Crone in a voice that was as coarse as the sand.

“Straight to the point, no use in hellos and how are you…” murmured Ephormus. “Understandable…” he chuckled. The Fates found no humour in the words of the God.

“Well, I come here to propose a deal…” started the Dream King. “I want to know about the past and the future of the life of my dreamers…”

“Why so, Ephormus?” asked Elara softly. “When dreams cozy up to reality, sleep calls softly,” said Dream. “My world has no consequences, no heavy baggage—it’s not quite real, but real enough. In this place, power grows, and having power is always a good thing.”

“I don’t think we can grant those rights—” said the Mother, but the Crone immediately raised her hand. The Mother stopped talking right away.

“What is granted in return from your realm to ours, Dream King?” asked Grimora.

“Whatever you ask for, dear Fates…” said The Dream King as he bowed his head down towards the Fates, getting down on one knee in front of them.

“We ask for fear…” said Grimora without any hesitation. She gestured with her staff for Ephormus to get back on his feet.

The Dream King, while bowing down, turned his head up and connected his swirling galaxy eyes with those of the Crone. Hers glowed red and dark, not meant for the faint-hearted. He nodded softly and stood straight, returning to his usual pose with his hands behind his back and his head held high. Ephormus said, “What do you mean by fear?”

“I have glimpsed the destinies of mortals,” said the young maiden. “I start them, yet within their mortal spans, some defy us, shaping their destinies.”

“And we, the omnipotent beings, mold the world itself!” added Selenia.

The Crone chuckled softly as she walked ahead of the rock that Elara sat on. She stood just a couple of feet away from Dream. “We crave fear, belief, and worship, for the terror of the Fates should grip their very souls.” Dream let out a soft hum as he slightly bent his head down, his thoughts starting to deepen. The Crone respected his thinking time as she turned around and returned to her granddaughter. But while she walked back, she turned her head slightly towards the Dream King and said, “Would you not understand… the desire to hold power… Dream King?” She smirked, knowing what she had said was extremely sly and snarky.

Ephormus understood the dig at him quite well. “I am a God already, the Crone. I do not fear being weak,” said Dream strongly. “I was weak before I became a God; I am powerful now, and no one in this world is strong enough to take this strength from me.”

“Then are you a god or a monster when your hunger is for power and worship?” asked the Crone in her grizzled voice.

“I am a God, Grimora,” he had come down to her name now. “I am a God because I follow principle. I have certain morals that I must follow to keep my students and worshipers in check, and myself too.” The Fates were quiet.

“I am the Curator of Curiosities, the Philosopher of the Night,” he continued.

“Whispers of the Dream Trickster have reached my ears,” interrupted Elara. The God of Dreams chuckled slightly, knowing he had somehow elevated himself into a position of authority.

“You do not understand, Dream King,” said Grimora. “We shall grant you the destinies of people, but you need to be careful with them. One wrong move and you shall be cursed.”

“I shall use this power carefully,” said Ephormus with certainty.

“No, in the threads we’ve spun, we grasp the simple truth,” said Elara immediately. She might be fond of the pale God, but her work is completely hers.

“And what is that?” asked Dream, his voice now as loud as the waves crashing against the shore.

“People with power understand neither responsibility nor principle, Lord Ephormus. No one is different,” said Grimora as she stole the words from her granddaughter’s mouth.

“I shall handle it well; the Oblivion has made me a God for a reason,” said Dream as he raised his hand, palm side up, towards the fates, asking for power.

“Then so shall it be,” said Grimora. “Do you vow not to misuse this power and fulfill your part of the pact?”

“I give you my word.”

“And what if you do not?” asked the Crone.

“Then hold me in a curse as the Fates would deem fit,” promised the Dream King.

“This is a bad idea, sire,” advised the Raven from his spot on Dream’s shoulder.

“You do not handle my operation, Harper,” whispered Ephormus as he turned his face slightly towards his right shoulder.

“Perhaps you should listen to the Raven, Dream King,” said Elara as she pet her spider that had now stopped spinning the webs of life. The spider sat in an upright position so that the maiden could hold him and hug him tightly.

“This is our deal, Fate,” said Ephormus. “And I will not allow anything or anyone to come in between.”

“Ephormus, these ravens, they are wise and dark; they carry omens and guard destiny’s threads,” murmured Elara.

“Aye, guardians they are,” added the Crone, “they whisper truths that weave into our grand design.”

“I do not care,” said Dream. He kept his eyes locked with the Crone as he knew that she was the strongest of the Fates and the oldest. She could give him what he wanted. And he wanted power badly, as all do.

“Dream King,” whimpered the raven. “The Fates are cruel; they do not understand morality. They shall do whatever they deem fit.”

“Is it not the very essence that renders us perilous, hmm?” giggled Selenia.

“You should be a little skeptical, sire,” added Harper. “Fear is a good thing; it keeps you away from harm’s way.”

“Do you think I am afraid?” asked Dream rhetorically.

Harper took his eyes off his master. He looked away and accepted his fate. “No, sire.”

“You have a choice, Dream King; the deal is not done yet,” provoked the Crone. She knew he was desperate.

“There is no choice here; there are no choices with Fate,” answered Ephormus. “A choice from the gods is as useless as the gods themselves.”

“Very well,” said the Crone as she kept her hands behind her back, mimicking the Dream King. She turned back and walked toward the sand slowly and took rest. Elara moved ahead towards Ephormus and her deep eyes met his, swirling with galaxies.

“Hello, Ephormus, long time,” she said.

“Likewise, Elara,” said Dream as he raised his hand for her to shake. She gazed at his pale arm that rose from his robes. She kindly denied it.

“The words that I shall speak now, they will seal the deal between the Fates and the God of Dreams,” said Elara.

Ephormus nodded as he took his hand back.

Selenia, the mother, walked next to her daughter as well.

Elara started, “Dream God, you ask foresight for the dreamers who wander within your realms. A power sought from the hands that weave destiny.”

“In return, you pledge to spread the shadows of fear, to make the presence of the Fates a haunting in the hearts of mortals,” continued Selenia.

“Yet, Dream Weaver, let this pact be etched in the essence of understanding. Should the threads of dread not entwine as sworn, the loom of fate shall tighten its threads around you,” added Elara as her spider walked on the sand.

“Promise restraint in holding the threads of destiny, for if the gentle touch turns into a forceful current, punishment shall cascade upon you… Understand the limits of your influence.”

“Punishment is a consequence. And it shall be woven, fitting the unfolding of your pledged word. A reminder that in oblivion, promises ripple through the corridors of eternity,” completed Elara.

The God of Dreams thought about it. He kept his head down and closed his eyes. His raven was angry with him; he would not advise him at this very moment. Even if he did, Ephormus would not listen. Dream thought about it. It was a metaphor, he saw: He would put the punishment thing right between his teeth, but he would not give it the power to do its deed.

“Agreed,” said Ephormus powerfully as he looked into the eyes of the maiden and the mother. “An exchange of power and consequence, I see.”

The waves on the shoreline were tired this evening. The purple sky reflected in the water, and the water that had turned the colour of envy brushed up against the sand, trying to reach the God of Dreams. Perhaps the ripples knew about the future that his fate held, perhaps they understood that one must never make a deal with the Fates unless they are at a crossroads in their life. Or maybe, the waves just wanted to part their ways from the Dream King because what was meant for him would reach him even if it was in another reality, and what was not would not caress him even if it was between the space of his fingers.

Elara closed her eyes, and she raised her arm towards Dream with a closed fist. Ephormus walked towards her and knelt on one knee. He kissed her closed hand softly, and she smiled. She turned it around and opened her fingers for the God to see a beautiful telum lying on her pale blue palm. It was a brown metal ring. The ring did not completely close as it was still open at the bottom; it would perfectly fit Ephormus’ finger. The inside part of the band of the ring had blunt spikes that would hurt the user whenever they bore the brunt to use it. Both sides of the telum had a two-dimensional metallic bull face with two horns that spread wide horizontally as they merged with the ring’s band. And on top of the ring, there was no gem. Instead, there was a skeletal pyramid with a blue glowing energy that was trapped within that contraption. As the energy bounced about the pyramid, the eyes of the bull head glowed a bright white. The ring rested vertically on Elara’s palm; it looked to the Dream King as if the ring rested on top of the book of the Fates.

Ephormus gladly took the ring and kept it on his own palm. He did not wear it as of yet because he could see the spikes on the inside quite clearly. He saw the cleverness of the Fates and smiled. He got up on his feet and faced the maiden and the mother.

“This is Shadowshard, The Prophecy of Traitors…” said Elara.

“It shall show you the past and future of the dreamer that you seek to control…” continued Selenia.

“It makes a good collection with your telums… Enigma, the pouch of truth, and Lullaby, Call of the World…” taunted Elara slightly.

“It does, I must say,” agreed Dream as he smiled at the endless power that he held in his hand. He closed his fist and gazed back at the Fates. He bowed down softly and said, “I bid farewell now, the Fates…”

“We look forward to seeing you again, Dream King…” said the Crone from the distance. Her voice was as menacing as the tsunami that would destroy houses that would have never existed.

“I do not reckon we will…” he replied smartly. He turned around towards the waves as he intended to return to his realm.

“We never part, we shall meet again…” said the Crone. “When you are at a crossroads with life, we will be there…”

“Gods do not have crossroads.”

“Oh love, everybody does,” said Elara giggling. “Everybody.”

Ephormus smiled. “Maybe in some years, our paths will cross again, Elara…”

He coughed softly.

“I will tell you how desperately in love I was with you, and we can laugh about how we broke each other’s hearts…”

He walked into the sea hoping that she would call him back. She never did.

In the end, only love would destroy a God.

---

Ephormus stood there, surrounded by plum green walls that were plain in nature. They felt as if the dark forest leaves had imposed their colours onto these confines. It was a cubical room with no door. One could not enter, and one could not leave. They could only be there and stay until this dream was over or until they died.

Ephormus wore a similar style of cloak that he had worn over his robes, but instead of being a beautiful blue star-struck garment with hints of a golden accent, it was black as blindness. Curly waves of salt-like whiteness seemed to be thrown on the cloth with no real effort. He kept his hands under the robes, and his pale skin was the elephant in the room among the darkness.

Harper calmly flew near the ceiling of the room; the top of the walls seemed to be short as there was not much airspace for the bird to soar freely.

In the room, there were two other people. A man who seemed to be going into his early forties, with a grey beard and a balding head. He wore a black coat over a white shirt. His eyes were pale blue but seemed empty. He stood by a bed on which lay a woman underneath some white sheets. She had short white hair, and the wrinkles on her skin throbbed as if they were being stabbed by a blunt knife from the inside.

Her mouth was toothless, and her eyes were barren. She let out a soft moan from time to time, but the man just stood there, endlessly.

The dreamer could not see that the God of Dreams was overseeing his slumber with his own eyes.

After some time of serenity and quietness, Harper returned back to his master and descended upon the God’s shoulder.

“The shadows have fallen ill…” said Dream softly to his raven. “You were meant to scout out the dreams that needed to be given some insight, some clarity…” he continued in his crumbly voice.

“You said that you wanted to have fun?” croaked Harper.

“Is this your definition of fun? An ill man whose mother is on her death bed?” asked Dream sarcastically.

“It is not mine, but surely it is yours…” said Harper. Dream chuckled softly, his shoulders danced with his laughter.

“You know, Harper, what’s the true comedy in all of this tragedy?”

“What, sire?”

“That the lady will beat the race…”

“How do you know?” asked Harper.

“Because now that I can see,” said Dream. “I can see the stories of these people who are damned in their destinies.”

“For what? It has been barely a couple of months that you have been using that Shadowshard telum…” said Harper. “How do you trust it so easily? And not someone else, who could tell you the story?”

“Because, my dear Harper, telling a story has always been narrating a lie.” The raven was quiet, he waited for more.

“Trust only the story told, and the quiet words hidden between the lines.…” Harper turned his head towards the old man; he saw that he now sat next to his mother. He was down on one knee and held her crumbling hand with his own, which was also falling apart.

“What does the prophecy gizmo talk about their ending?” asked Harper.

“Poor Seb will die tomorrow…” said Dream. “And he does not know, but his mother can see the walk of death in his eyes…”

“Does she tell him, in this dream?” asked Harper.

“She does not…” said Ephormus. But with those exact words, he let out his hand from underneath his robes, and the pale palm held the brown metallic monstrosity that the Fates had gifted him. The blue glow of the pyramid on top of the ring glowed powerfully. Dream held the ring between his two white fingers and raised his hand above his head and spread it far. He gazed at the telum that was his key to unlimited power. His swirling black eyes reflected the blue malice in the ring. But the telum did not come without a price; even just using the telum, he had to sacrifice his own physicality.

Dream clenched his teeth as he gripped the telum; his knuckles turned white under the strain. He brought the spiked band closer to the ring finger of his left hand. The cold metal met his warm skin, and a shiver of anticipation ran down his spine. As he pressed the ring onto his flesh, it felt like tiny needles digging into him.

Black specks, reminiscent of a distant galaxy, oozed from the points of contact. The metallic taste of his blood lingered in his mouth, and his vision blurred for a moment. Despite the pain, Ephormus gritted his teeth, refusing to show any sign of weakness. The ring, now securely on his finger, seemed to merge with his very being.

He could feel the inner thorns of the ring sinking deeper, intertwining with his nerves. The sensation was tiring, as if his own essence was being branded by the wicked power within. Yet, the God bore it with stoic resolve; his breaths were measured but labored. The darkness of the moment enveloped him, and he stood there, marked by the connection between flesh and the cursed ring.

“Are you okay, sire?” asked Harper.

“Yes, Harper,” said the Dream king. “Every time I put on this ring, it harms me but with the promise of power…”

“Power is harm, my lord…”

“It does not matter…” said Dream. “A page turns. And fate continues to walk.”

Ephormus kissed his ring and closed his eyes.

The ring’s triangular energy had blended into a glowing purple. The sadness of the blue had faded into a fearful purple.

“Mother… do you feel alright?” asked the man, Seb.

She lay there quietly. Her eyes did not move away from his, but she just looked at her son. The ring had blessed Seb’s mother in his dream with the knowledge of her son’s death. She did not have words to let them out now. But after all, it was Seb’s dream, whatever he wanted could come true.

“I am on my death bed, son, how do you reckon that I shall feel?” she asked in a voice that did not belong to her.

He did not have words to answer her. He was a helpless man in his own dream.

“For some people, death is release, Sebastian,” said the mother. “And for others, death is an abomination, a terrible thing. But in the end, it is there for all of them…”

“You don’t have to die, mother…” he cried. He wept into her embrace, and his tears stained the sheets that she had slept under.

“I will, Sebastian, I have to…” she said frankly. Old age had taken away her humanity. “But you do not have the cruelty to see me go,” she said with a smile. Sebastian felt weird. He had recognized his mother’s voice all this time, but the woman that spoke at that moment was not someone he had grown up with all his life.

“What do you mean, mother?” he asked, holding her hand even more tightly. Their fingers intertwined, but he could feel the hand that he held fading away.

“Son, you will die tomorrow…” said the mother softly.

Sebastian smiled. He knew about his mortality; he understood that he would not die tomorrow. After all, all of this was simply a dream.

He asked his mother, “Mom, how long will tomorrow be?”

She answered, “Forever and a bit.”

The mother let out a soft cough as he covered her mouth with her other hand.

“Take care, son…” said the mother, and she closed her eyes to fade into oblivion.

Sebastian got up on his feet and looked at his mother. They both were there, grown up, too grown up, perhaps. Yet they were children at heart; and it was summer, - warm, beautiful summer.

“It is time to go, Sebastian…” said Dream finally. The man looked behind, and the last thing he saw before he never woke up again was the pale face of the God of Dreams. Only a few manage it in their lifetimes; he did achieve it in the very last second of his existence.

All of a sudden, there was a large explosion of white lights wherein the God and his Raven could not see anything. Ephormus covered his eyes with the back of his hand and waited for things to become normal again. As a couple of moments passed, Dream opened his eyes and noticed that he was standing on a plain grassland with the wind blowing on his face. The sky was adorned with constellations of dreams of his dreamers, and the night was its own metaphor.

“What just happened?” asked Harper as he turned his head left and right frantically.

“He died…” said Dream in a disappointed tone. “He could have dreamt more, but some dreams are just there for mortals to understand the cruelty of Fates…”

Harper gazed into Dream’s eyes.

“Grimora must have cut off the string of his life…”

“I don’t think it was wise, sire,” advised Harper.

“What was not wise?”

“Making the poor man see his fate in his last moment of existence…”

“He will exist again, Harper, as a man or a beast, or perhaps even a God…” said Ephormus. “But I had to… even in that last second, the moment of realization, you have to understand what I have gained,” said the Dream King slowly as he took his time to say every word clearly.

“Power?” asked Harper.

“Cosmic and divine power…” said Dream as he looked at his pale arms and his fairly toned biceps. He walked on the green grasslands of Somnia, and with every step he took, a ray of blue energy surrounded his upper arms that swirled around his pale skin for a while and then entered into his body through his galaxy eyes. As he consumed the energy, he felt happy, a grim smile appeared on the God’s face as his skin glowed brighter.

“You see, Harper, these souls grant me the control of the world for half of their lives, in their sleep…”

Dream took a pause to swallow in the pressure.

“And with more that they sleep, the more power I shall gain. And with that, I might just go beyond my tenure of a millennium perhaps…”

“That is impossible…” murmured Harper.

“No one has tested the limits of The Quorumeers…”

“What about the Fates? Their propaganda of spreading fear?” asked Harper.

“A small price to pay…” replied the Dream King.

“But then what is the point, sire?” asked the raven. “What is the point of showing them the truth in their dreams? People would simply keep sleeping, and their dreams would show them their whole lives. What would be the point of living then?”

The God of Dreams stroked his chin softly. Even he had not thought about this.

“Wouldn’t you be taken for granted then, Dream King?” continued Harper. “Always showing the truth for the dreamers would be messy…”

“I like the way you’re thinking, Harper,” smiled Dream.

“No, no, I do not mean any malevolence or trickster deeds…” Harper tried to repair.

“I understand what you mean. Perhaps I should then mix up the true and false futures?” suggested Ephormus with a smile, reminiscent of the jester of the astral carnival.

Harper simply shook his head in disappointment. He looked up to the endless night sky of the dream realm and took flight into the infinite.

---

Two Years Later,

Year 7,202

The Dream King stood in his own realm, perhaps a mirage to the dreamer. A lady with short ginger hair sat on the coarse-sanded beach on her knees. Her skin was dusky, and her eyes were bright as she gazed at the purple sky above. She was on an island, wearing a long black dress with a beautiful yellow lining. Turning her head around to find someone or something familiar, nothing met her eyes except the tired waves of the sea crashing against the sand. Unbeknownst to her, Ephormus was watching every move of the dreamer, standing a long way back into the water. He floated over the waves as the tops of the tides softly brushed the sole of his pale feet.

On his ring finger, the Dream King wore the telum of Shadow Shard. The holes that the inside spikes had made were scars now, but as he kept wielding the telum to achieve more power, a new hurt simply soothed an old wound.

From a distance, in the swirling purple and green sky, a creature flew by Dream. The raven softly took some rounds around his master’s head and finally landed upon his shoulder.

“What’s the story with this one?” asked Harper immediately, comfortably seeing the lady in the distance.

“Ellen here is at a crossroads with life…” said Dream softly.

“Isn’t that then the job of the Fates?” asked Harper.

“It is, yes, but she has entered the crossroads in Somnium, my realm…”

“They will come still,” stated the Raven.

“I will make a mirage of them; it is a part of our oath…”

“You have been fairly abusing that promise for a while,” confronted Harper.

“But the Fates don’t have to know that, do they?” smirked Dream.

As he spoke those words, another tall and heavy woman appeared out of thin air, as if the wind had gathered the parts of her being from around the lady’s dream and assembled her. The tall woman wore a long brown trench coat and a wide brown fedora that mostly covered her face. Ellen looked up at the woman and noticed that her face was that of an old lady. Wrinkles told tales of time, and she had a fairly long nose.

“You are at a crossroads, my dear…” said the Crone.

“Who are you?” asked Ellen sweetly.

“I am Grimora, the Crone of the Fates…” replied the old lady.

“Who are the Fates?” asked Myra.

“We are!” yelled the Mother as the face of the Crone drastically merged into that of a middle-aged woman. She shook her head violently, and the caring eyes of Selenia appeared on her face.

“You must choose, my dear, your career or your love,” said the voice of Selenia. The Fates had merged into a single, scary woman. “One cannot choose both…”

“I will!” she said aggressively.

“You have no choice…” said the Mother.

How much strength would it take to hurt a little girl? How much strength will it take for her to get over it? Which one of them would be stronger?

As Ellen sat there frozen in fear, the air around her seemed to thicken, suffocating her with the weight of inevitability. The once comforting presence of the Fates now emitted a sinister energy, their collective form looming over her like a dark cloud ready to unleash a storm of consequences.

The lady changed her face back to the Crone. Grimora, her face now a grotesque blend of age and malice, stepped forward, the fabric of her trench coat billowing grimly as if moved by unseen hands. Her voice dripped with venom as she spoke, each word echoing with chilling finality.

“You dare defy us, mortal?” The Crone’s voice echoed through the air, sending shivers down Ellen’s spine. “You think you can challenge the threads of destiny? Foolish girl.”

The transformation continued, the features of the Fates shifting and contorting with each passing moment, as if they were not bound by the laws of nature but instead by some darker, more sinister force. The Mother’s voice boomed with thunderous intensity, shaking the very ground beneath Myra’s feet.

“Choose,” she demanded, her eyes ablaze with otherworldly fire. “Or suffer the consequences of your defiance.”

Ellen’s heart pounded in her chest as she looked upon the terrifying visage of the Fates. She knew that she was trapped, ensnared in a web of fate from which there was no escape. But still, a flicker of defiance burned within her.

“I will not be cowed by you,” she spat, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and resistance. “I will forge my own path, no matter the cost.”

A cruel smile twisted across the lips of the Fates, a smile that scared Ellen.

“So be it,” they whispered in unison, their voices merging into a noise of darkness. “But know this, mortal: there are consequences for those who dare defy the Fates. Consequences you cannot begin to comprehend.”

With a final, bone-chilling laugh, the Fates faded into the shadows, leaving Ellen alone at the crossroads, her fate now more uncertain than ever before.

The lady gathered her face into her hands. She wept endlessly until there were no more rivers to flow and the oceans of her eyes had run dry. She was in a worse position than before now.

“Well, as you can see Harper,” addressed Dream. “I have provided my side of the promise…”

“Very well, sire,” agreed the raven.

As the raven nonchalantly agreed with him, the Dream King kept his hands behind his back, under his robes, and turned around. He started walking on the floor of the Somnium; as it softly morphed from a beach troubled by waves to a surface that was a mosaic made up of glass shards. There were faraway grasslands on either side, but the path that Ephormus walked on was a beautiful compilation of dreamers dreaming their dreams. Ephormus, as he strolled, gazed at his hand that wielded the powerful telum. The spikes now had made a home in his pale white fingers, the power that he had wished for so many years had finally arrived to him, but it chipped away at his very form.

“You know, it’s funny, Harper…” said Dream as he turned his finger around to appreciate the beauty of pain and control.

“What, sire?”

“No God is feared?” said Dream as he did not meet his eyes with his raven’s. “Gods are arguably the most powerful entities below the Quorumeers… shouldn’t they be looked at as a threat?”

“I believe that the Quorumeers made your soul a God because they saw something good in it… something of hope,” said Harper.

“Really?” asked Dream sarcastically as he chuckled.

“And probably some decency,” poked the raven.

“They probably did not understand, my dear Harper,” said Dream. “Gods are tribal, they will take sides…”

“I have not seen any Gods do that…” said Harper.

“Idelia and Ohdros are too much at peace with themselves, they do not see the beauty in power, they have found serenity in each other…” said Dream. “And Fraya, she is the God of the Insane. Insanity needs no power.”

Harper was quiet.

“I am angry, perhaps…” said the Dream King as he stopped in his steps. He turned his head down and looked at his pathway. He gazed at all of his dreamers dreaming of a different land. He sighed deeply and gazed into the deep swirling sky of the realm of dreaming.

Harper did not want this conversation to go ahead, but he had no choice. He was the hound, and Dream was his master.

“Why so, sire?” he asked.

“I want to be feared…” said Dream as he turned his head towards the unforgiving sky.

“There is nothing beautiful about fear, sire…” said Harper. “Gods need to be loved, that is the only way they can serve…”

“Fear will make people understand, that we need not be taken lightly…” said Ephormus calmly.

“What do you want to show the dreamers then?” asked Harper softly.

“I want them to fear me and not the Fates,” announced Dream as the tall grass spread around him was brushed by the restless wind. The wind came from his passion.

“But then you would be breaking the deal, my lord,” said Harper.

“Forget the deal!” said Dream. “I have been showing them enough in my theater of dreams. When shall I be in the spotlight?”

“A god must be humble, Dream King,” murmured the raven.

“There is pride in being a God.”

“There mustn’t be,” said Harper.

“No!” yelled Ephormus. “It’s time for me to shine! The dreamers must know that I am their lord and not the ones weaving destinies.”

The Dream King rushed as he knelt on the glass floor, which was a collection of dreamers living their dreams. All of them were part of the realm of Somnium at one point in their lives. Even if a person did not sleep for their entire life, they would still be there, perhaps as a nightmare or perhaps as a caretaker.

He felt the floor of his realm with his hands as he searched for a dream. The power had gotten to his head. He saw one that interested him; it was a nightmare. Ephormus got back on his feet and took a couple of steps backward. He closed his eyes and joined his palms together as he raised his arms upwards. He tilted his head up and prepared for a dive. He targeted the dream and dove right into it as if it were a tranquil lake of water.

As the world around him faded into the endless abyss, he opened his starry eyes and saw himself standing in the corner of yet another room. It was painted black with a small rectangular window on the center wall. A ray of bright white light sneaked through, but that was the only hope they had. In the center of the room were two single-seater red leather couches placed in front of each other. A small wooden cabinet was placed adjacent to the dark wall as well. Between the seats, a large man stood tall, wearing an open brown shirt revealing his hairy body. His stomach struggled to be caught under his pants as the man held the belt in his hands.

In front of him lay a boy on his knees, pleading with his father, joining both of his hands. He prayed. His brown hair was rough, and his pale skin had scars that barely healed. More than being hurt, the son was sad. He pressed into his sadness, like a door. He believed there was light on the other side.

The tall man viciously rolled the belt in his hands, intertwining the hard leather between his fingers as if he had equipped a set of brass knuckles. The son cried and pleaded, but the drunk man had no choice. He stood at the edge of his own demise, torn between extinguishing his own light or unleashing darkness upon the innocent.

As the Dream King stood in the corner of the room, he was quiet as he watched the life of the poor young boy fall apart. Gods would never understand what it means to be human. Being human came with its monstrosities. Perhaps the tragedy of this life, that the boy lived, had become a comedy in his mind. As Ephormus stood, he could hear trumpets, drums, and playful horns of a joker’s performance. He could hear a clown laughing maniacally. Maybe the dream had overlapped with another dreamer’s realm. Or perhaps, it was all funny to the boy. Abuse had become something he was so used to, he found the absurdism in it. The father gripped the belt tightly and unleashed hell upon the boy. The child took it bravely, as there were red and blue marks on his pale skin. There were no tears streaming from his eyes. The father kept hitting him, and the child took it on. He had no option but to submit to the madness of his dream. He would reckon, what’s the difference between living the night and sleeping the darkness away? There would be none, sleep was a rose. A beautiful lie that was surrounded with thorns.

“You’re just going to stand there and do nothing?!” shouted Harper.

“He needs to fight his own battles…” said Dream.

“That’s the one thing I hate about you Gods,” said the raven. “If you are here to make the world better then why don’t you?”

“It’s a paradox, my dear…” murmured Ephormus. “As Gods, if we intervene in between every conflict that a mortal faces then how would they learn? How would they understand what pain means?”

“Why does everyone believe that pain is what makes a man?”

“Pain will always make a man,” said Dream. “When one is faced with pain, they have two choices. Pain makes the man a hero or a villain. What they do with their tragedy is up to them.”

“Then what is the point of the Gods?” asked Harper. “To just be conductors of free will?”

“You would not understand Harper, it’s a tightrope that we must balance on…”

“Why are we here then if you do not plan to help the boy?” asked Harper.

“Most people enter the crossroads of life later in their existence, some arrive there when they are young and they are presented with the choice of who they want to be in their lives…” said Dream. “And here he is.”

“The Fates shall come soon then?” asked Harper.

“They will, but not even they would help him out of his misery,” said Ephormus.

“Then who will?”

“The suffering shall never end…”

Harper’s eyes flickered away from the God of Dreams, they were now drawn instead to the child writhing on the ground. The innocent laughter that mingled with the pained cries stabbed at his heart. How could the child find glee in such agony? The father’s fists tightened on the belt as the leather descended with cruel force, each blow landing with a sickening thud. Harper softly hovered on the ground and landed on the cold floor, he stepped closer, the child’s laughter became more strained, mixing with gasps of pain. The room seemed to shrink around them, suffocating in its intensity. Harper’s own chest tightened with a mixture of horror and anger. He reached out, his wings trembling, wanting to stop the violence but unsure how to intervene. The father’s eyes, dark with rage, darted towards him, a silent warning not to interfere. He did not understand, a nightmare was looking at him. Perhaps this wasn’t an image of the child’s own father, maybe it was a nightmare that had entered his dream.

Summoning all his courage, he stepped forward, his voice trembling but resolute. “Stop,” he commanded, the word hanging heavy in the air, charged with resistance. Slowly, reluctantly, the barrage of blows ceased, leaving behind a heavy silence broken only by the child’s ragged breaths. Harper knelt beside the child, offering a pat of comfort. The bruises marred the child’s innocent face, a reminder of the cruelty lurking in the world. But as their eyes met, Harper saw a glimmer of hope in the pain.

“Why aren’t the Fates here?” asked Harper looking back towards Dream.

“I will not let them in anymore…” said Dream as he broke each word down to its individual syllables.

“Sire…” said the raven rebelliously.

“No,” denied Dream. “Why must humanity worship them, as their saviours? Why mustn’t they worship me?”

“Sire, the father is a horror from the land of nightmares…” said the Raven.

“Very well,” said Dream as he walked forward to the Father that held a leather belt in his hands.

“Show yourself,” said the Dream King in an authoritative tone.

“What if I don’t?!” yelled the Father.

“I am the King of this realm! You must obey every single order!”

As those words left the mouth of the God, they tumbled and they fell. The father went down on his knees and wept into his hands. The child could not believe it. He could not remember the hopelessness that he felt when a parent cried. The Patriarch was a creature of nightmares. As the tears covered his face, the liquid got him out of the disguise of the poor child’s father. The Patriarch was as a tall, shadowy figure cloaked in swirling darkness. He looked indistinct, with shifting wisps of shadow constantly morphing around him. He had gleaming red eyes that would pierce through the darkness.

His features were obscured by the shadows, but occasional glimpses revealed twisted, contorted facial expressions that reflected his cruel and sadistic nature.

“You are my creation, Patriarch…” said Dream as he confronted the nightmare. “What are you doing here, troubling poor souls in the land of dreams? Why are you not in your own realm?”

“I….” croaked the nightmare. “I am tired…,” said the Patriarch. “I want things to hurt, cigarette smoke to burn someone’s lungs, glass shards to cut a dreamer’s skin, I am your creation, Dream King.”

Dream did not say anything.

“But you wanted me to be beautiful, an angel in the darkness of fathers…,” said the Patriarch. “I do not want to be beautiful! I want to be a goddamn tragedy!” he yelled and bellowed.

“Alright, that’s enough,” said the Dream King and he snapped his fingers. As his pale skin generated friction against each other, a white glowing wisp covered the nightmare and his creation disappeared, sent back into his own land.

“You are safe now, child…” said Dream as he bent down towards the boy that sat cross-legged on the cold floor. Dream’s swirling galaxy eyes met his brown ones and he felt okay. The God allowed the child to see him. He would mourn for a kid but won’t cry for a king.

“Sire, you mustn’t do that!” said Harper in the tone of warning.

“No, the dreamers deserve to know who saved them and who did not!” growled Dream. “The Fates are unkind. They do not understand the difference between good and evil!”

“They do!”

“No, they don’t! I will be their messiah, Harper. Do you not understand?!”

“The Fates are not going to like this…” said Harper.

“The child would be beaten up by a parent, in a couple of days, Harper…” said Dream. “I just warned the poor kid… isn’t that what this telum is for?”

The Dream King took his hand up and Harper saw the pyramid of the ring glow brightly, he saw that the old blue glowing wisps that danced in the prism were no longer there. Now they were simply purple ghosts that haunted it.

“You need to understand sire, this telum is not a gift! It’s a curse!”

“It is not,” he said calmly. “How else would I see the future?”

“By waiting,” replied Harper wisely.

All of a sudden, the two creatures of the Dream Land heard a thunder in the sky. Sweet heart lightning rumbled in the blue as it growled and it flowed. Harper and Dream both looked up in the sky and they could not see anything, they were inside a room after all. Dream thought of this as a distraction, had the child gained more power in Sominium to distract the God? He looked down again and saw the child had disappeared. The dark room around them fell as if it was a cardboard cut out of a room. The walls fell behind them, all four of them, and the ceiling collapsed.

The floor underneath morphed into some coarse sand and the sky ran a purple hue across it. Dream knew where he was, even Harper knew what was going to happen.

The fallen room around them disappeared as a father from a home.

“The Umbric Scriptorium…” murmured Dream.

“Is this another dream?” asked Harper. “Or are we really here?”

Ephormus bent down and felt the forgiving sand with his pale hands. He rubbed the floor as if he rubbed the head of a fluffy puppy. He deemed it to be real. This was no illusion that a dream would create, no, this was the realm of the Fates. Perhaps the thread that Elara weaved, it had a stop in between by Selenia. The Fates decided the destiny of Gods too. He remembered a couple of years ago, he was right here; making a deal with the Fates, but the memory was not a good servant. After every breaking, Dream realized that destiny had a different opinion, that did not resemble him.

Nothing distinguished memories from ordinary moments. Only later do they become memorable by the scars that they left.

“Ephormus, the God of Dreams,” spoke a familiar voice. Dream looked up straight and saw Elara walking towards him, her little spider peacefully sitting on her shoulder. He saw his own reflection in the maiden of the Fates.

“Yes, m’lady,” said Ephormus. “How may I serve you?”

“This is not a dream,” spoke a more mature voice.

As Elara’s form jerked, another body ripped itself free, a grotesque spectacle of flesh and bone. The Mother emerged, her arrival marked by a display of separation. Dream, though determined and unafraid, still felt a chill run down his spine at the sight. And then, a sudden touch on his shoulder made him jump. He turned to see the Crone, her eyes burning like embers in the darkness. With a gnarled cane as her support, she jabbed at him, her intentions clear and unsettling.

He took a deep breath and settled himself as his feet never touched the ground. He hovered over the coarse sand of the scriptorium; he had no intentions of touching it. He closed his eyes and faced the Crone, keeping his hands behind his back as he focused on her face. “What is it that brings me here without my wish?”

His voice was authoritative, as if he owned this whole realm, but little did he know. This was no longer a dream; he had been summoned into the realm of the Fates, not by choice but by force.

“Your deeds have faltered,” said the Crone.

“No, they have not,” he said confidently.

“Your weighty words fail to signify their truth,” said the Mother from behind.

Ephormus looked over his shoulder to see Selenia with folded hands. He turned his head around again and saw that the Crone had disappeared. He felt a wind gather around him, and the Dream King was spun around to face the three Fates. While the wind turned him around, Harper escaped into the air and flew high in the sky. He still hovered over the four entities but kept his distance.

“Life finds you at its crossroads,” said the Crone. “Dream King.”

“There are no crossroads for a God!”

Harper softly realized that his master was making a mistake. He fluttered his wings quickly and landed slowly on Dream’s shoulder. “Master, you mustn’t do this.”

“No, Harper,” said Ephormus. “I have nothing to fear; I have not done anything wrong.”

“Do you believe that to be true?” asked Elara as she walked ahead of the other two Fates.

“You must apologize, sire,” pleaded the Raven.

“NO! A GOD APOLOGIZES TO NO ONE!” Dream was angered as he aggressively turned his shoulder. Harper had predicted that as he already jumped off his shoulder and flew away in the wind.

“Your raven’s words hold wisdom,” said Elara.

“He does not understand,” said Dream.

“You do not understand!” bellowed the Crone. “He understood how dangerous the Fates are…”

“Let me see what you can do,” said Ephormus as he crossed his hands near his chest. He looked at them with eyes that knew no fear. Power had gotten to his head.

“Tread wisely, Dream King,” said the Crone once again. “You find yourself in a precarious position.”

“What have I even done?” asked Ephormus as he raised his voice.

“Raise your words, not your voice, Ephormus,” said Elara calmly.

“We’ve been observing the dreams you’ve been orchestrating,” said the Crone.

“And where have we found ourselves?” asked Selenia as she too joined the three Fates.

“Somnium is the realm of dreams, not the realm of destiny,” said Ephormus as he held his head high. “I shall be the King of my realm, why mustn’t I hold myself capable of being powerful?”

“Why, then, do you seek us out?” asked Elara.

“Why must we grant you the telum of future and past?” continued the Mother.

“Why must you swear an oath to us?” said the Crone.

“You think you three might overwhelm me,” said Dream. “But worry not, I do not get troubled by the kindly ones.”

“That name is not bestowed lightly,” chuckled the Crone.

“Kindness has never been our domain,” said the Mother, looking at Grimora.

“You have very kindly given me this ring,” said Ephormus as he shamelessly showed off his hand. On his ring finger, he wore Shadowshard. Its spikes now were at home in the flesh of his finger. He had not removed it since he wore it for the first time.

“We can strip it away as effortlessly as we granted it, Dream,” said Elara as kindly as she could.

“I would like to see you try, sweetheart,” said Ephormus flirtatiously. But as he said those lines, he could see deep anger burning in the maiden’s eyes.

“Your trust was placed in me, Ephormus,” said Elara. “You shattered it.”

“As your grandmother had said earlier, Elara, I am known for my tricks,” he chuckled.

“What has seized you?” asked the Mother. “You once were held in a high regard, a deity of grand stature.”

“I am still a God!” announced Dream powerfully. “I might even live longer than any other God that has existed in Hollowshire.”

“Do you believe it to be true?” asked the Crone with her croaky voice. “Do you expect the Quorumeers to approve of your antics?”

“Desperation for power leads to naught, Dream King,” continued the Mother.

“I am not desperate for power!” exclaimed Dream. “I am power.”

“Desperation can corrupt even the most virtuous,” said Elara. “Now I see him ruling the realm he once revered.”

“But—” said the Dream King.

“There is always a but,” interrupted the Crone.

“But, I have not sinned,” continued Ephormus. “I am a God; I understand morals.”

“Unlike us, were you going to imply?” asked Elara.

“Your words, not mine,” he smirked.

“Your worst sin, Dream King,” said the Mother. “Is that you have let go of your power and donned the filthy coat of power, of greed, and for what? For nothing.”

“Every wrong has its consequence,” added the Crone. “Yours shall come as well.”

“How is hoping for permanence a wrong?” asked Dream aggressively.

“Nothing is permanent,” said the Crone. “Not the Gods and not even the Quorumeers.”

“Though we never believe in permanence, we all yearn for it nonetheless,” said Elara. “But such is not the way of lives, believe me. I have woven countless.”

The sky boomed and swallowed its purple hues, turning into a vast expanse of blackness. Stars vanished, leaving a void in the night. Lightning danced across the heavens, yet the figures in the scriptorium remained unmoved, rooted in place despite the chaos outside. The wind howled, whipping translucent clouds into a frenzy, a rare sight in this unchanging realm.

But Ephormus, he remembered. His memories were like a relentless storm, haunting him with every flash of lightning and gust of wind. As he looked up, he couldn’t escape the memories that surged within him, mingling with the gathering clouds above. The clouds of destiny.

“Your time has come…” said the Crone softly.

“No, it has not,” said Dream.

“Who are you to decide that?” asked Selenia.

“I am the God of Dreams, and I will not let my fate be held by some lowly deities…”

“Very well,” said Elara. “Dream King, why don’t you show us the future then? Show us where you end up?”

Dream smirked.

“You have the telum of the future and past after all…” continued the Maiden.

Ephormus had mastered the use of Shadowshard. The future shadows that the telum cast, he could manipulate them perfectly. He could use them in his own way, to benefit him, to make people dream more and to sleep more. The sleep was a rose. But nobody told him that it only brought them fear.

He raised his hand, and the ring on his finger glowed a beautiful purple. The hue had changed now; it used to be a wispy blue when he had first been gifted the ring, but now it had become a deep, fearful purple. The spikes underneath the ring’s band dug deep each and every day, but he had gotten used to the pain. The pyramid on the ring illuminated the sand around him into a deep purple as the grains of the coarse floor had risen up in the air. A circle formed around him, and from his very form, a deep blue shadow stepped out. A shadow of the God of Dreams. The dark blue silhouette looked around; its form was slightly bent, and in general, it was in a bad posture. He looked around and gazed at the Fates. He wanted to attack them.

The shadow ran for the kindly ones, but then he encountered a barrier in between. He hit his head at the edge of the circle and fell down on the ground. And then the shadow held his head in his hands. He looked back at the real God of Dreams and reached out with his hands. Dream tried to help his shadow up, but he could not.

He must have broken someone in his life.

The more he listens, the more he falls silent,

The more he thinks, the more he falls silent.

He has become two people alone,

Himself and his shadow

The shadow dissolved into the swirling sands, the god crumbling into nothingness. And then, as if from the depths of a nightmare, silhouettes emerged against the horizon of the illuminated purple circle – an unkindness of ravens, their dark blue forms stark against the fading light. With precision, they descended upon him, tearing at his flesh, devouring his essence. Perhaps this was his final chapter, or perhaps it was merely another cruel twist in the tale of his existence.

“Do you witness the path your rule leads, Dream King?” the Crone’s voice echoed, her steps deliberate as she approached the God. Her eyes met his swirling gaze, mirroring his posture with hands clasped behind her back and head held regally high. Despite the weight of years, her spine remained straight.

“Very well, Grimora…” Dream’s reply was measured, his hands hovering just above his waist, fingers coiled around dark wisps of magic. The air crackled with their ominous energy, swirling into orbs within his grasp.

“Your enchantments hold no dominion here, Dream King,” Grimora’s voice sliced through the tension, her fingers snapping effortlessly as she dispelled the orbs, sending them scattering like fractured shadows upon the sea’s surface.

“I still possess my strength,” Ephormus retorted, his fists rising to eye level, determination etched across his features. “I’ll fight for my existence.”

“Daring to challenge the threads of fate, are you?” Grimora’s words were laced with a hint of amusement.

“Perhaps…” Dream’s admission hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the perilous path he trod.

“Throughout your reign, Ephormus, folly has been your constant companion,” the Crone’s admonition carried the weight of ages. “And this, perhaps, is your gravest misstep.”

Ephormus assumed a defensive stance, inching forward with cautious intent, his movements calculated. With a sudden burst of momentum, he launched a powerful strike towards Grimora, only to find his hands met with nothing but mist as she dissolved before him, leaving behind nothing but a haunting scent of lilac and smoke.

“Illusions, then…” Dream’s voice held a tinge of realization.

“This realm does not bend to your will, Dream King,” Grimora’s voice whispered from behind him, a reminder of his vulnerability. Before he could react, she seized his forearms with a grip like iron, forcing them behind his back with a giant-like strength that contradicted her old appearance. He struggled against her hold, an attempt to break free from the inevitable.

“The Quromeers shall unleash their wrath upon you!” Dream’s defiance rang out, a desperate plea to invoke the wrath of higher powers.

The Crone’s laughter was a low, rumbling sound, carrying with it the weight of inevitability. “Dear Elara, relieve our beloved God of his burdens,” she commanded.

The young maiden approached the captive Dream King, her touch gentle yet purposeful as she reached for his hand. “Do you enjoy this?” Dream’s voice wavered, tinged with a sense of resignation.

“To be honest, yes,” Elara’s reply was soft, accompanied by a wistful smile. With careful precision, she attempted to remove the ring from his finger, only to be met with the resistance of spikes embedded deep within his flesh. Dream’s smirk spoke volumes.

“No matter,” she murmured, determination shining in her eyes. Gripping the telum firmly, she wrenched it free, tearing through flesh and bone alike. Dark blood welled from the wound, a memento of his mortality as his once-proud facade crumbled before their eyes.

She looked at the telum that the Fates themselves had crafted, and then she threw it into the gambling sea. The waves would not bring it back. She placed her hands inside the robes of Ephromus. She found his pouch of sand and his lyre. She took both of them out of his clothes and held them high in the riveting air of the scriptorium. “These are of value,” she said. “I will send them back to the mortal world; perhaps a wise man would gather them and treat them well…”

“Enigma, the pouch of truth,” said Elara as she held the pouch in front of Ephormus’ eyes, softly pushing it into the air. The brown pouch, tied with a soft yellow string, disappeared into a turquoise mist. The Dream King did not say a word; he simply could not. She then placed the lyre from her right hand onto her left hand.

“Lullaby, Call of the World,” she named the telum. It was a beautiful silver-blue metallic lyre with strings that seemed conjured from the delicate hair of a hag. They glowed brightly against her pale hand as she plucked a couple of them, producing a beautiful sound. It bore a tapestry of two angels playing their lyres, with a baby between them asleep in its cradle, carved into the lining of the instrument. Elara smiled at the cute art and walked towards the sea, placing the lyre on the sand. The sea waves would slowly collect it, to fall into the hands of someone deserving, capable of lulling away sorrows.

Wave after wave.

She bid farewell to the beautiful telum, undeserving of a cruel king, and then she got back up and walked in front of the frozen God.

“There is nothing more you can take from me,” said Dream hesitantly.

“I can,” said Elara, “but I would not.”

“Your wish shall be granted, Dream King,” said Selenia from behind.

“What?” Ephormus was confused.

“Our adherence to our end of the bargain remains unwavering, regardless of your own failure to uphold it,” Elara continued from her mother.

“You shall endure until the end of time, or until you deem your existence fulfilled,” said Selenia.

“That time will never come; our tenure in this world is too precious,” said Dream.

“Only time will tell,” said Elara. “She will see us through.”

Dream stood before Elara, his heart heavy with confusion. He searched her eyes for a glimpse of affection or encouragement but found only a vast emptiness stretching endlessly before him. It was as if he had stumbled upon a barren wasteland, devoid of any sign of love or hope. In that gaze, he felt the weight of his own loneliness pressing down upon him, like a heavy fog holding his soul.

But at the end of his suffering, Ephormus smiled. “I have achieved what I wanted.”

Elara smirked. She snapped, and her little spider crawled towards her, carrying a beautiful and long golden thread speckled with a glowing obsidian tint.

The thread stretched from the forest on the island to the edge where the water ran dry.

“This is your life, Ephormus,” said Elara. “Quite a long one.”

“But it will come to an abrupt end, unfortunately,” said Selenia as she held a certain part of the string between her fingers, twirling it softly, playing with it as if a cat would play with a ball of wool. She then gazed towards the Crone, into her glowing red eyes. Grimora let go of Dream’s hands and she walked towards the string that Selenia held. She took out her spear with a sharp triangular silver blade on its end. Ephromus could do nothing but stand there. He was encased by the beauty of being a witness to the work of the Fates. Grimora cut off the string into two parts where Selenia held it.

The Dream King, had no heart, but he yearned for tenderness still. He cradled the stars with a gentle touch, wary of extinguishing their glow. Despite the pull of perceiving every glimmer as precious gold, he resisted, knowing the fleeting nature of such illusions. In the vast expanse of his dream wanderings, he bore witness to the passage of time, as life ebbed away and love gradually faded, leaving behind a void.

In the hazy corridors of his dreams, he grappled with existential mysteries that challenged the fabric of his being: “How can I dream of something and, at the same time, never let that dream come true? Worse, making efforts for it to never be true…”

“Has it ended?” asked the Dream King softly. He stood there, held by his own hands as bounds. He could not move; his eyes were glued to the tragedy of his own life that was happening in front of him.

“That’s where the intrigue lies, Ephormus,” said Elara as she walked over the two strings that were cut. The latter part of Dream’s string of destiny was rather short, but still, somehow the Maiden managed to hold onto both ends. She tied them up with her pale hands into a tight knot. She pulled the thread hard, so that it shall never split apart again. Only the blade of the Crone shall hew it apart if necessary. Now Elara held the string delicately in her hands as she looked at her dear spider. She bent down holding the God’s life and gestured her pet to move ahead. The spider tumbled onto the latter half of the repaired string and started weaving a new tale with its infinity arms.

Elara stood up; she knew the spider will do what she wanted it to do. She looked back at the Dream King holding his life. She pointed at the knot at the latter end of his life and said, “Here we stand, Ephormus… a moment frozen in time.”

Elara walked ahead and left the string on the ground as it fell on the sand dramatically. The waves played with it softly, but it did not move. The Maiden held Ephormus’ face between her hands and laid a soft kiss on his cheeks. He wished he could say something; perhaps his life would be different.

As she let her head go away from his, her hands stayed still. She then held his head as tightly as she could, and her fingers etched deep into his skin. Her pale fingertips bore witness to the galaxy-black blood that flowed like a river from his cheeks and then from the corner of his eyes. His face was separated now. He could not feel much except the longing he had for hands of love to be on his face when he took his last breath.

Elara dug deep into the God’s form, and her fingers finally found a solid skull underneath. She now pulled his bony structure apart, and his form fell off. All she could hold now was a skull between her two mournful hands.

She hugged Dream’s skull tightly and placed it softly over his fallen starry robes. The skull felt at peace on his old self. “This is your second life, Dream,” said Elara. “You will persist until the end of ages, whether in servitude or solitude, with naught but your thoughts. Your soul shall survive, but your physical form shall never be again.”

“You have never trod the realms of men and beasts, have you?” said the Crone as she held the skull in her hand. She raised it towards the sky, and her red eyes looked deeply into his hollow ones. As her wrinkled hands held the skull of a God, the surface of his forehead had started to develop an abstract pattern of a feather with a stone etched into the bone. “It’s time to find your love for misery there; humans are masters of it,” said Grimora as she walked slightly deeper into the waves of the scriptorium and kept the skull delicately among the deep waters.

The Fates walked away from the sea then; it was still foolish and restless. Nothing was a gift, it was all on loan. The God was drowning in debts up to his ears. He will have to pay for himself, with his self, to give up his life for his own.

The spider stood at the edge of the water, now weaving a new life for the Dream King. Where it had stopped but still went on. Like a person who had died inside but kept on living.

The waves took the God’s skull and passed it into another ocean of a county in the world, Hollowshire. The Waves of Hasttry carried the dead God into a quaint town called Grassbury. It was snowing there. An old fisherman saw the skull and kicked it onto the sand. But was there really any sand? It was covered with a white sheet of nature’s softness. And in the distance, the cursed God heard a loud shrill alarm from a bird’s voice. In the distance, a dark green raven flew in the air; he saw everything around him. The rivers that went through a town, the amphitheatre of storytelling, the world where humans and beasts bustled. And among the snow, he noticed his old master.

Harper descended slowly onto the skull that was trapped in the snow. He sat there, on top of it. As a raven, in the snow.

Every bird, silent in flight,

Starving where the earth lies cold,

The winter dawn, green on white,

Like a raven, lost in the snow.

There was no salvation and no turning of the tide. That’s not the point anymore. They were here. Oh so briefly. But they were here. They tried. Do you know what I mean?

“It’s been said that the people of Hollowshire ceased to dream for five decades, as if the very essence of imagination had fled their hearts. But then, on one of the silent nights, a lone storyteller dared to close his eyes and walk into the depths of the unseen. He dreamt of a midsummer night’s dream, where hope flickered like stars in the velvet sky. Did he save us? Who’s to say? But in that moment, he did try. Stories have always lasted, and some are etched in history. Folk tales of old Gods and their past mistakes, and how they were punished. Maybe one day, they would be told to make a child sleep, out of fear. And that’s how an old faded God would be remembered. ”

“Over time, as stories were handed down from grandfathers to sons, fathers to daughters, and even from mothers to their cats, the details became muddled and the names confused. Ephormus came to be known as Morpheus, the cursed God. He was remembered as the one who never learned his lesson…and left his raven, in the snow”

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An Interview

What made you start on this story?
I've always been a huge fan of this graphic novel called The Sandman. And I think it truly influenced a lot of my fantasy writing, as well as the contemporary stuff that I've worked on. To pay homage to the character of the God of Dreams, I've included him in bits and pieces in Shoes For Men and Beasts. He exists within the skull of a dead god in the novel. I started it out as an inspiration from Hamlet, where Hamlet's childhood friend, the court jester, died, and Hamlet carried his skull around as a friend. Similarly, we see the protagonist of the book carry the skull of the dead god around. He does not know why he feels so connected to Ephormus, but as the story of Raven in the Snow unfolds, we truly understand how the God of Dreams tested his own limits as a god, balancing on the very thin line between fun and pure evil, and breaking the rules of time and space. He was punished for going too far from the road that fate meant for him, and he was trapped in a skull

What does it make you feel?
Raven in the Snow is a story that reflects on the dangers of seeking too much control and too much power, the ethical implications of manipulating reality, and the consequences of neglecting the wisdom offered by others. The final transformation of Ephormus into a skull serves as a powerful symbol of the emptiness and powerlessness that can result from unchecked ambitions and the misuse of extraordinary abilities.

How it is going to connect you to the world?
Perhaps my obsession with the study of power and how power could never be innocent leads me to explore real-life instances of people being overpowered in the world, often leading to insanity or pure malevolence.

Why it is important to you?
Because the story belongs to me, I hold the responsibility as its author. It's my duty to breathe life into the tale that constantly is in my thoughts. This narrative goes beyond simple storytelling; it possesses the ability to give wisdom and inspire deep reflection. I delve into the depths of a god's downfall, exploring the profound consequences of power misused. Through my words, I aim to show the complexities of morality and the fragility of authority, offering an insight into the human experience and our eternal quest for balance in life's chaos.

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