The night was heavy, suffocatingly quiet save for the faint rustle of curtains disturbed by an idle breeze. Lord Alstan Ferindale jolted awake, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. Sweat slicked his brow, soaking into the expensive silk sheets clinging to his body. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, the phantom weight of a nightmare still bearing down on him. The vivid images of his dream lingered: walls crumbling, molten gold pooling at his feet, and a man—an unrelenting figure with a blazing glaive, his eyes piercing through the haze of destruction.
"A dream," he muttered hoarsely, forcing himself to sit upright. "Just a foolish dream." His voice trembled, betraying the faintest quiver of fear that lingered in his chest. He pressed the heels of his palms to his temples, trying to banish the haunting images that refused to fade. The man with the blazing glaive—his sharp, unrelenting gaze—remained vivid, etched into the corners of his mind like a brand.
