Kael's feet lifted from the ground—no, from the dream itself.
The field, the fractured sky, the dying grass… it all began to melt away, like ash slipping through his fingers. The dream was nothing more than an illusion now, a fading echo in the dark recesses of his mind.
He felt the familiar hum of the Loomheart pulse gently against his chest, a soft reminder of the waking world. The power of the Weave, of the threads that bound all things, surged around him, tugging him toward reality.
But Kael wasn't done yet.
He knew the power he held—he could wield the dreams of the universe, but he had to choose to leave them behind.
His hand curled into a fist. Not out of rage. Not out of purpose.
Just… because he could.
One last act. One command.
Kael's eyes flared with an impossible intensity, the world of dreams evaporating like mist before the rising sun. His voice was low, steady.
"I'm done."
The Loomheart's pulse intensified.
A soft hum. A heartbeat.
And with that, Kael returned.
His eyes opened.
Not the dull, empty eyes of a dreamer.
But the eyes of a god.
He sat on his throne in space, the vastness of the multiverse spread before him, undisturbed by the dreamworld he'd just left behind.
The cosmic silence returned.
He could hear his breath. His heartbeat.
The Loomheart pulsed softly in his chest.
Kael stretched out his fingers, feeling the weight of the real world once more—the threads of existence tethering him to everything. The Rift, the stars, the worlds he'd yet to conquer, and the ones that awaited his next move.
"Maybe a nap," he muttered, leaning back into the throne