What remained of the Dreaming was quiet.
Not silence—no, 'silence' had already been shattered —but something heavier. Like a breath caught mid-sigh. Like the pause between thunder and rainfall. The Dreaming no longer pulsed; it lingered. The great tide of illusion had receded, and what was left was ruin—and 'truth'.
Above it all, framed by a hollow sky smeared with the ashes of dreams, the GUIDE stood.
He no longer glowed. He no longer shimmered with stolen light. He simply was—a silhouette so still it seemed to warp time. Behind him, the wreckage of once-beautiful realms spun like dying galaxies, their light blinking out one by one. Below him, unshaped thoughts floated in black water like bones unclaimed—half-fantasies, unfinished poems, fragments of wishes abandoned mid-sleep. His demons destroying, eating, ravaging everything in sight.
And across from him:
Dracula.
Still standing.
Still burning.
But breathing hard.
