The gardens of Somnior lay beneath a gentle shroud of silver mist, where moonlight and dream intertwined. Each flower bloomed with quiet luminescence; lavenders of pale and lilies that shimmered with the memory of starlight. The air was still, save for the faint hum of slumbering souls who had only just crossed the Veil, resting in their first peace since death.
At the garden’s heart lay the Pool of Prophecy, a mirror of glass and light, wherein visions drifted like whispers from Mystica Herself. Above it knelt Somnior, the Dream-Lord, his white robes flowing about him like mist upon the water. His long mane spilled over his shoulders, and his eyes, those pale, seeing orbs that seemed blind, gazed deep into the pool’s shifting depths.
The water trembled.
Then, from the heavens above, a radiant gleam split the mist. Feathers of gold and cloud descended, their brilliance soft yet commanding. Aitheros, King of the Felari, alighted upon the garden path, his taloned feet brushing the grass without sound. His wings of light dissolved into the air, leaving a faint afterglow like dawn refusing to fade. The circlet upon his brow caught the moonlight, turning it into a crown of starlight.
“Brother of Dreams,” said Aitheros, his voice warm yet edged with the majesty of command. “Long hast thou lingered alone within these hallowed gardens. Thee have not graced the councils nor the gatherings beneath Nyxara’s stars. Tell me, why doth thine heart tremble so in solitude?”
Somnior did not lift his gaze at once. The pool rippled beneath his touch, threads of light curling like smoke around his claws “Aitheros, Sky-King,” he murmured, his tone low and soft like a whisper. “Thou knowest my ways well. Oft do I seek stillness when the winds of foresight stir within me. Yet this time...” He paused, and the mist about him grew colder. “...this time the Pool showeth me a vision that grieveth my spirit.”
Aitheros stepped closer, the air bending softly with his motion. “A vision?” he echoed. “Then speak, Somnior. For no shadow born of dream should fester in silence. What hast thou seen in the waters of Mystica?”
The Pool shimmered once more. A low hum, like the breath of the cosmos, quivered through the air. The lilies about the water bent as though in reverence or fear. Somnior’s ears flicked backward sharply, his breath catching in his throat. His long fur trembled, stirred by an unseen wind.The waters convulsed, flashing briefly with blinding white light. Somnior’s reflection twisted, fracturing into countless shards of silver and shadow. His body stiffened, a tremor coursing through him as though lightning had struck his soul.
“Somnior!” Aitheros’s voice rang like a clarion across the garden, thunder beneath starlight. He stepped forward, the feathers at his ears flaring. “What hath seized thee?”
The Dream-Lord did not answer at first. His paws remained poised above the pool, droplets of spectral light trailing down his fur. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze, those pale eyes now shining with an otherworldly, trembling light. “It cometh,” Somnior whispered, his voice echoing in the mist as though a thousand unseen spirits spoke with him. “The Pool hath spoken once more.”
Aitheros drew closer, talons digging faintly into the silver grass. “Then speak its words, brother of foresight. Let not the veil of dread bind thy tongue.”
Somnior inhaled, steadying himself. His voice grew deep, melodic, and dreadful, woven with the cadence of ancient truth:
“When heart is spilt and silence cries,
Blood shall wake where coldness lies.
From grief of cream, a crown shall rise,
And Metal bloom ‘neath ashen skies.
Thee fields shall burn, the valley bleed,
As the darkness sows its wrathful seed.
Yet from his fall, the curse shall cease.
Thus Shattered Ice be forged to peace.”
When the last word fell, the mist recoiled as though struck by invisible thunder. The Pool of Prophecy stilled, its glow dimming to a faint silver sheen. Even the newly-resting souls in the garden stirred in uneasy dreams.
Aitheros stood silent for a long while, the weight of the verse hanging between them like the shadow of a coming storm. Then, at last, the Sky-King spoke. “Shattered Ice...” he murmured, brow furrowing as his wings flickered with faint gold. “These words are shrouded in riddle and sorrow. Tell me, Somnior, what doth thou maketh of this vision?”
Somnior rose slowly from where he knelt. His long mane flowed about him, whispering softly against the stone path as though alive with murmurs of forgotten dreams. He turned from the Pool and lifted his gaze to the blanket above, the endless vault of starlight that arched across the Night Zone. The constellations shimmered like a thousand watching eyes.
“Darkness,” he said at length, his tone low and solemn, the words carrying like ripples across eternity, “hath yet to be begotten in the Valley. But soon it shall arise, and we shall have not the power to still its birth. For it is Mystica’s will that it fester… ere it be cured.”
The Sky-King bowed his head, feathered ears lowering back. “Then so it begins,” murmured Aitheros. “An awakening shadow to be wrought upon Mëoi-im.”
And there, beneath the unblinking stars, the Dream-Lord and the Sky-King stood in silence, while far beyond the bounds of their garden, the seeds of fate stirred unseen. Things were about to unfold for Mëoi-im that not even the gods can stop.