The dreamworld trembled.
It wasn't a quake of earth or the rattle of buildings—but the tremble of two thoughts trying to exist at once. Aiden stood in a forest of bleeding glass trees, while Lucius found himself knee-deep in a swamp made of ink and broken letters.
And then, it happened.
Their thoughts collided. Two minds, reaching the same conclusion at the same moment. One shared image. One focus.
The Author.
It didn't take a spell or a ritual—just simultaneous intention. Just belief.
And the world shattered inwards.
Time folded like paper. Space cracked and stitched itself back into a new pattern. Half of Aiden's world and half of Lucius's became one, merging into a chaotic landscape that screamed with unfinished thoughts and ruptured logic.
This was a collided dreamworld—a glitch in Nytherion's perfect tapestry.
The sky flickered like a broken screen, showing both night and day. Buildings stretched and twisted, half-formed by Lucius's old memories and Aiden's childhood fears. Mountains floated in the air, with waterfalls spilling upward. The air was thick—clogged with static and ash.
They had done it. Together, they'd forced the shared infection to sync.
Now, they were inside Nytherion's own dream world, dragging her into it too.
Aiden stood beside Lucius, blades of bone sprouting from the earth around them like thorns. "So… this is it. We pull her in here and kill her?"
Lucius nodded, but his expression was far from triumphant. "We can wound her here. Maybe destroy her. Because she can't control us as easily in a world of our making."
But then the sky screamed.
Like the wail of a mother mourning every child she never had.
And Nytherion descended—her wings flaring like curtains of blood and memory. Her porcelain mask was cracked wider now, leaking crimson that didn't fall—it floated, spiraled, reversed, and vanished. Her six golden eyes blinked out of sync.
"I see," she whispered, voice layered in tones and echoes. "You would soil my dream with your unworthy thoughts."
Lucius stepped forward, shadows wrapping around his wrists like gauntlets. "You're not the only dreamer anymore."
Nytherion tilted her head. "You dream of rebellion. You dream of freedom. How sweet. How… naive."
Then her mask crumbled off.
Revealing nothing.
No mouth. No eyes. No face.
Just a void of writhing letters—thousands of sentences trying to write themselves, erase themselves, rewrite again. Fragments of broken scripts and discarded thoughts.
"This world belongs to me," she hissed. "And you have forgotten your place."
Suddenly the balance shifted.
The collided dream began to crack, tilting toward her side like a seesaw being forced downward.
Lucius stumbled. Aiden felt the air grow colder, heavier, harder to breathe.
"What's happening?" he coughed.
"She's trying to reclaim the dream. To erase our influence," Lucius said. "She's invoking it—her most dangerous state."
The words dropped like nails.
Nightmare Dyslexia.
Nytherion opened her arms—and the world dissolved into screams.
There was no ground.
No sky.
No up. No down.
Just suffering.
Lucius found himself in a library made of his own memories. Books chained to shelves screamed as he passed. He reached for one, and it opened—showing him his own past.
The moment he first defied the Author.
The moment the script rejected him.
The moment his existence became a virus.
Blood poured from the pages, soaking his hands. The words on the paper twisted in reverse, making him relive every mistake—every deviation.
"You were perfect," the voice said. "Until you broke the pattern."
Lucius dropped the book. More pages tore from the walls. They stuck to his body, leeching his memories. He could feel himself fading. Every moment he remembered was being rewritten.
He screamed—and somewhere else, Aiden heard it.
Aiden stood in a hospital hallway.
Everything was clean. Sterile. White.
The light buzzed overhead. But the people—his parents, his teachers, his old friends—walked past him like ghosts. All looking at him with disgust.
"You're a failure," said his father.
"You're too emotional," said his teacher.
"You're always ruining everything," whispered a friend.
He turned around—and saw himself, younger, sobbing on the ground.
Nytherion's voice echoed in his skull. "Every lie you believed, I make it truth. Every shame you buried, I dig it up."
The hallway darkened. The walls bled phrases he hated: "Not good enough,""Too weak,""Why were you even born?"
Aiden clenched his fists. "It's not real…"
But the shame was. The guilt was. The blood on the walls was warm.
Then—
A flash.
Lucius appeared next to him, dragging himself through the door. Shadows wrapped around them both, shielding them briefly.
"I found you," Lucius rasped. "We're still linked. Still sharing the same world."
Aiden looked at him—and something twisted inside him.
He saw Lucius's past. For a second, the link didn't just share space—it shared memories.
He saw Lucius alone. Screaming as the Author rewrote his lines. Cast him out. Forced him to become a shadow. Forced him to watch everything reset.
He saw Lucius dying a hundred times in forgotten timelines.
Then Lucius looked at Aiden—and saw his.
The hospital. The loneliness. The endless apologies Aiden whispered to no one.
They didn't speak.
They just understood.
The ground returned, formed from shared memories. They stood in a crumbling chapel built from childhoods and trauma.
Nytherion landed at the altar, a priest of madness.
"I wanted to show you your truths," she hissed. "But you cling to lies. So I will devour you both."
Her wings spread wide. From her back, butterflies of blood and shadow exploded into the air. Each one carried a memory, a wound, a fear.
And then—
The sky tore open.
White.
Blinding.
A new presence stepped into the dream.
Polished shoes touched the ground. A coat of unfinished pages flowed like a cape. His face was blurred—like someone both familiar and forgettable.
The Author.
He smiled politely.
"Uhh, Nytherion," he said, casually brushing off his sleeve. "That's enough, child."
She froze.
"My Lord !" she whispered.
The Author waved her off like a tired parent. "You've made your point. Let me handle it now."
Lucius growled. "You—"
But the Author didn't look at him.
He looked at Aiden.
And smiled wider.
"You've both done well to come this far. I always did enjoy unpredictability. You've broken patterns, rewritten scenes… quite the little rebels."
Aiden stepped forward, sword still in hand. "If you're here to offer us something, forget it."
"Oh no, no," the Author said smoothly. "I'm not offering salvation. I'm offering… closure. One final scene."
He raised a hand.
The dream shifted.
Becoming a stage.
Spotlights burned above them. An audience of shadows watched in silence. A script hovered between them.
"This is your chance," the Author said. "Take the offer. Be rewritten. Be given purpose again."
Lucius spat blood. "We'd rather die."
The Author sighed. "Pity. The Editor is arriving soon, and she's... less flexible."
He turned to Nytherion. "Continue your brilliant work, my dear. I have other stories to tend to."
He vanished.
No door. No sound.
Just absence.
Nytherion shrieked in rage.
"No one has ever done this to me!" she screamed. "This is MY dream!"
The butterflies twisted into blades. The chapel cracked and splintered. Blood rained from the heavens.
Lucius grabbed Aiden. "She's vulnerable now. Furious. That's when she's weakest."
"What do we do?"
Lucius looked at him.
"We kill her. In the dream."
Aiden nodded.
No more fear. No more running.
They raised their blades.
And ran into the storm.