"Dreams are no escape. They are a kingdom.
And I am its jailer."
— Hypnos, Emissary of Death
ACT I — Hypnos, Lord of the Dream Realms
The Realm of Gentle Mists was celebrating,
as it did every other day.
Cloud-like cushions floated lazily through the air,
starry ribbons curled between pastel domes,
and animated plushies scurried in all directions,
squeaking with glee.
Creatures far too round to fly nonetheless hovered effortlessly—
mere whims of dream logic.
At the center of it all,
a little boy laughed heartily.
He wore a silver tunic embroidered with moon-thread,
and his tousled hair seemed woven from strands of soft darkness.
Though his eyes remained closed,
they pulsed with a childlike energy.
"Faster, faster, Choominou!"
He cried, straddling a winged panda.
The panda meowed in response
and darted through two arches of crystallized sugar.
Two other plushies—one a blue flame, the other a geometric rabbit—
followed, squealing joyfully.
Then… everything stopped.
A door opened in the void.
Rectangular.
Cold.
Perfectly black.
The boy slid off his mount in silence.
His smile vanished instantly.
He rose.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
And as he raised his head to the figure stepping through the threshold…
his expression turned to ice.
"You dare interrupt my Games?"
The figure was tall and gaunt,
clad in an official-looking uniform of embroidered shadows.
Its head was masked by a polished onyx helm,
pierced by narrow glowing slits.
It bowed deeply.
"Forgive me, Lord Hypnos."
A pause.
"Speak."
"There are… disturbances."
The boy did not move.
"An incoherent presence has fractured the Axis of the Lesser Realms.
Three domes collapsed.
Twelve dreams consumed."
"Consumed?"
"Yes, my Lord. Absorbed.
According to the Sentinels, it is not a native entity…
but an intruder. A troublemaker."
The boy's gaze drifted toward his frozen plushies.
"What kind of fool would dare disrupt a dream without permission…?"
His voice, though still soft,
held no trace of innocence.
"A name?"
"None. It is shrouded… in black."
Hypnos's expression hardened.
A blink—
and all the plushies turned to stone in an instant,
as if struck by a cosmic wave.
"Very well," he murmured.
He slowly turned his head toward the realm's central axis.
Another insect that doesn't know its place…
I really don't feel like wasting my time with this.
Umbra. Come forth.
A vast, glacial shadow burst from his silhouette—
as if exhaled from the very pores of a dream turned to darkness.
"You will handle the intruder.
But do not devour him…
Not yet.
Let him live through his worst nightmares.
One by one.
For what will seem like an eternity.
And when the moment feels right…
savor him.
Slowly.
Piece by piece."
Umbra faded in a whisper of shadow,
as though swallowed by the ground.
Hypnos sank back onto his throne of mist,
his gaze already drifting elsewhere.
He snapped his fingers.
A tray of dream-confections appeared mid-air.
He picked one up. Chewed slowly.
The sugar burst across his tongue.
"Mmm…
Strawberry and mental agony.
My favorite."
Then, he sighed.
A long, soft breath.
Almost contented.
"A normal day…"
But suddenly—
The walls trembled.
The arches warped slightly.
The floor, made of solid ether, pulsed once.
Hypnos, crouched low,
was still playing with his animated plushies.
A smile on his lips,
a soft hum in his throat.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Umbra… are you shaking my realms?
Feeling playful today?"
He pointed toward a suspended globe.
Inside:
one of the dream realms.
Its outlines shimmered, unstable.
A second tremor.
Stronger.
Deeper.
Hypnos froze.
His smile dissolved.
He stared long at the globe, unblinking.
"…No. That's not Umbra.
His signatures are there, yes…
but this isn't him.
It's… too pure."
He stood.
Slowly.
Like a child suddenly robbed of warmth.
His eyes widened.
A flash shot through his neck.
A shiver down his spine.
A memory.
"No…"
He stumbled a step.
His breathing quickened.
His fingers clutched at his silk tunic.
Then he dropped to his knees.
And without a word—
he wept.
Real tears.
Thick, uncontrollable.
As if an eternity of silence had just been pierced.
"My… Mistress…
Is it truly You…?"
The plushies remained still.
The entire realm seemed to hold its breath.
Hypnos lifted his head.
His tear-drenched eyes gazed up at the dream-sky,
now fracturing in silence.
"Mistress Thana…"
No one saw this Mistress the Lord dared to name.
But a shadow—
and an ancient, forgotten cold—
slowly blanketed the entire Dream Realm.
Not as a conqueror.
Not as a guest.
But as a Queen
who needs not enter to be obeyed.
For if this kingdom belonged to Hypnos…
then Hypnos, without question,
belonged to Her.
And within the very ether of Oneirism,
a truth settled upon all:
She was not here.
But She was awake.
ACT II — The Realms in Disarray
The Dream Realms were still trembling.
But it was no longer the joyful ripple of childish nightmares.
It was… a silent collapse.
Invisible. Systemic.
Crystal arches crumbled under their own impossible geometry.
Ink-stained skies fractured in utter silence.
Oceans of feathers emptied with a single breath.
The Realm no longer raved.
It yielded.
A high-ranking Dreamer, draped in white mist, staggered toward the throne.
He fell to his knees.
"Lord Hypnos… the weave is unraveling. The Realms no longer respond."
But Hypnos gave no answer.
He didn't even raise his eyes.
He was staring at some invisible point in the void.
He rose. Without a word.
And walked away. Alone.
Toward the Oneiric Heart.
The Nexus.
Where all mental layers converge,
where the architecture of dreams takes root,
where Oneirism becomes Law.
His steps were slow. Without echo.
Each cobblestone seemed to hesitate
before existing beneath his feet.
Even the ether recoiled from his presence.
Reaching the central sphere, he extended a hand.
"I am the Lord of Dreams. I command you to—"
A sudden jolt repelled him.
Not harsh.
Not hostile.
Simply… a refusal.
Hypnos stepped back.
Not out of pain.
But out of respect.
He understood.
He was no longer the center.
"She is here…"
Not present.
But dominant.
He summoned an Emergency Council.
The Weavers of Dreams.
The Architects of Logic.
The Mental Sentinels.
All eyes turned to him.
Not with panic.
But with a suffocating dread.
For they, too, had understood:
Something—or rather Someone—was weighing down on them.
"What should we do, my Lord?"
Hypnos closed his eyes.
"Nothing I could command… would surpass even the unconscious breath of My Mistress."
A silence.
Thick.
Visceral.
Even the Realms held still.
As if the dreams themselves refused to interrupt this moment.
Then—
A crack.
Not in the chamber.
In Hypnos.
He reopened his eyes.
Red. Heavy.
Not with tears…
but with millennial fatigue.
"I am not ready," he whispered.
A breath barely audible—
but every mind heard it.
Every Dreamer recorded the fracture.
The vertigo of a god.
Then, suddenly—he struck.
Not with fists.
With will.
The mental table shattered,
dissolved in a shriek of broken logic.
An unstable dream exploded in a plume of black.
A plushie staggered.
Then faded.
The room emptied.
In a single heartbeat.
The Council's Entities vanished.
Not in fear.
But by silent command.
Hypnos remained alone.
Seated at the edge of an endless staircase,
where the steps led to memories he had not created.
In his hand:
a collapsed plushie.
He stroked it with his thumb.
Blew gently upon it.
It returned to life.
A blink of thread.
A breath of cotton.
He smiled.
Faintly.
"Time to mend."
He rose.
And snapped his fingers.
A pulse surged through the Realms.
Not a wave—
an accord.
The mental melodies resonated once more.
The Weavers resumed their craft.
The Sentinels fused with broken lines.
The Architects recalibrated the flows.
The stars of memory flickered back into being.
Fewer now.
But sharper.
More precise.
A new order was aligning.
Not by decree.
But by resonance.
Hypnos, standing atop the highest arch,
watched the fractured sky.
And murmured:
"If Her awakening is inevitable…
then I must be worthy of welcoming Her."
And within the very ether of Oneirism,
the Realms understood.
Her return
was no longer a question—
but a certainty.
ACT III — The Echo of Awakening
The Realm had calmed… on the surface.
The plushies had returned to their places,
the mists to their curling spirals.
But everything felt wrong.
Hypnos had not left his throne.
Legs crossed, gaze locked on the void,
he no longer smiled.
Not even inwardly.
A quiet-footed Archivist approached.
He bowed deeply.
"Lord Hypnos… shall we reinforce the barriers?"
"No need."
His voice, usually soft as velvet,
was almost sharp.
Not hostile.
Just… sad.
He rose.
"This is not an intrusion.
Not an assault.
It is a Resonance."
The Archivist didn't understand,
but dared not question.
He stepped back.
Hypnos turned slowly on himself.
A full rotation.
Measured.
"It was not a call.
Nor a will.
It was… a Resonance."
He touched the surface of a mist-mirror.
No spell.
No command.
Just contact.
And the reflections began to flow.
Images—
blurred at first,
twisted, unstable.
Like memories that were not his.
Then… clearer.
Sharper.
A tower of black sand.
A buried temple.
Trials.
Screams.
Oaths.
He saw a boy.
Young.
Wracked with pain.
Driven by a force he did not yet understand.
His gaze held no trace of divinity…
but something within him already rumbled.
The mirror pulsed.
A golden flash.
A female silhouette—
sealed, buried, swallowed into the boy's very flesh.
Then… the awakening.
A black light.
Silent.
Relentless.
Thana.
Hypnos stepped back.
A denser breath struck him.
Not physical.
Pure.
An impact of soul.
His pupils contracted.
He whispered, voice trembling:
"She has awakened…
but not for us.
Not for me.
Not even for the world."
He clenched his fists.
His nails dug into his astral palm.
"She has awakened…
out of necessity.
For him.
For that… Kael."
That mortal…
so fragile.
But the instant the name formed in his mind—
a searing pain twisted his heart.
Brutal. Unexpected.
Like a wrenching of pure Magia.
A divine recoil.
A warning.
Hypnos staggered.
His breath caught.
He collapsed to his knees,
hands clutching at his chest.
It was no punishment.
It was… a correction.
Subtle. Absolute. Deserved.
He understood.
His words…
had been an offense.
Not toward Kael.
But toward Her.
Because the choice had been Hers.
And if He was Her chosen—
then his fragility no longer mattered.
The mirror clouded.
Its reflections distorted,
as if Hypnos's emotions disrupted the resonance itself.
He looked away.
But the harm was done.
He had doubted.
And he knew it.
So he swore.
Silently.
To earn forgiveness.
Whatever the cost.
ACT IV — Preparations for the Unknown
Silence had returned.
But it was not a peaceful silence.
It tasted of emptiness…
…and of waiting.
Hypnos walked slowly, arms limp, wild strands stuck to his brow.
He had returned to the form of a little boy with closed eyes…
but his steps had lost all childishness.
Beneath his feet, the ether crumbled at every touch.
And behind him…
the very fabric of the Dream Realms seemed to pull away.
"Lord Hypnos… you are bleeding."
The voice came from an ancient Dreamer—
a hunched figure, stitched with insomnia.
It bowed deeply.
Hypnos lowered his gaze.
His palms.
Not wounded—
but streaked with fractal red lines,
as though a surge of mental Magia had torn his inner circuits.
He murmured:
"She… transmitted something to me.
An echo.
But it's not a message.
Not a command.
Not really…"
He shut his eyes tighter still,
as if trying to force his mind to decipher the impossible.
"It wasn't meant for me."
He turned his head.
A suspended globe, filled with white mists and tiered dreams, floated toward him.
Hypnos stared for a moment.
Then extended his hand.
The globe opened in silence.
And a soft wave rippled across the Realms.
No word.
No phrase.
Just a pure injunction:
Prepare.
The Realms stirred.
The Weavers left their meditative spirals.
The Sentinels, once statues of sand, rose again.
The guardian plushies grew—some to the size of titans.
The Central Dreamers opened the Unwritten Books.
The Oneiric Corridors vibrated, reshaping into a new logic.
Chaos became… order.
Not a word passed Hypnos's lips.
But the entire dreamed universe understood.
The Queen—even in absence—had spoken.
And Her Emissary had heard.
He stopped in the Mental Sanctuary.
Where ether took shape.
Where concepts became matter.
Around him, the Scribes, the Archivists, the Strategists of Dreams bowed.
He did not look at them.
He dropped to one knee.
Then slowly set a crystal onto a pedestal of silence.
"A pure receptacle," he whispered.
"A link.
If ever… She speaks to me again…
let it be through this channel."
He rose.
And snapped his fingers.
A thousand mental circles began to spin.
The Dream Realms bent.
Dreams were recalibrated.
Emotional flows diverted.
The laws of memory reprogrammed.
The kingdom was changing.
Hypnos wasn't preparing for war.
He was preparing for a welcome.
And suddenly—
A tremor.
A black flash.
A pulse in the dream-sky.
The ether screamed.
The dream-stars dimmed, one by one.
A word.
Or the beginning of one.
A fragmented sentence, injected into the very cortex of the god:
"…Prepare… for… when… he…"
Then—
nothing.
Hypnos collapsed to his knees.
His clenched fists trembled against the ground.
But he did not cry.
He closed his eyes.
And a smile, imperceptible, touched the corner of his lips.
"An order…
Even incomplete…
is still an order."
He stood.
And without another word,
began to walk.
ACT V — The Final Order
The oneiric sky no longer shone.
The fluid constellations had gone still,
and the crystalline arches of the Great Dream
had fallen into a silence almost sacred.
Hypnos walked alone.
His steps left no trace—
as if he were moving through a world
that was no longer entirely his.
He entered the Hall of Whispers.
A place that only existed
when doubt became real.
Blurred columns rose toward a ceiling that had no end.
At the center:
a pedestal.
Bare.
Empty.
Hypnos approached.
"Mistress…"
He whispered—barely audible.
He placed both hands on the stone.
A crack.
A breath.
A fragment of void materialized—
not a voice,
but a trace of will.
Silence took form.
And in that pure emptiness…
something was said.
Not in words.
But in impact.
One instant.
One transmission.
Hypnos stepped back.
His fingers trembled.
His breath quickened.
Then he dropped to his knees.
No pain.
No fear.
Only certainty.
"…Very well," he whispered.
He stood again.
Slowly.
Then, in a calm, gentle voice:
"The final order… has been given."
He turned.
The gates of dream closed behind him.
In the silence,
the echo of that last contact rippled across the Realms.
The eldest froze.
The most sensitive… wept.
And all understood—without hearing it:
She has returned.
But what the order contained…
no one knew.
Except him.
END OF THE ONE-SHOT
— But the first step of another nightmare.