Dreamlog of Eliasyra

The sky bleeds moonlight. Rain falls in spirals. You fly, but you’re too slow. The lighthouse is underwater now, and the sea is reaching up. A tendril of black kelp wraps around your ankle. You scream, but your voice turns to bubbles. The water wants you. The light vanishes. You wake with a gasp, salt in your throat and feathers slicked flat, like they’ve been soaked from the inside.

The world is painted in moonlight and ink. The wind carries whispers in Elvish and Sylvan, but none she quite recognizes. Shadows swirl with substance; the sea’s surf glows faintly purple.

You stand atop a lighthouse you have never seen—half-ruined, slick with moss and shadow. A plate of tarnished silver, etched with curling runes, rests in a cradle at the tower’s peak. Your palm bleeds—willingly or not, you’re not sure. The blood is caught in a crystal vial, swirling together with a thin, black liquid that seems to drink the light around it.

A voice not-quite-your-own whispers:
“To wake the gate, you must seal the night. Pour the shadow. Bind your will. Let your friends see the light, but keep the darkness for yourself.”


“Who else could shape the night? Who else could bear the secret? Trust yourself, shadow-weaver. Trust only yourself.”

The sea rises again. Rain falls in spirals, a whirlpool in the sky itself. The beacon’s light turns violet, then black. You stand on the tower’s peak, the vial of shadow heavy in your hand. A voice calls up from the deep, oily and vast: “You are mine. Pour yourself into me. Shape the tide. All power, all promise.” Tendrils of brine and slime creep across the stones, reaching for your feet.

Before the tendrils touch, another voice crashes in — immense, resonant, undeniable. The storm halts, the sea itself freezes. A colossal eye opens in the clouds, not alien but draconic, slit-pupiled and vast. “No,” it rumbles. “This one is mine.” The dream splits apart. The brine vanishes, the whispers hiss in retreat. Shadows flood the tower instead, wrapping you like a cloak.

You stand before an endless shadow stretching in every direction. From it rises the form of a dragon vast beyond scale, its wings blotting out the moon. The voice shakes your bones: “You carry my gift already, little knight. You poured the darkness. You chose the night. The tide may claim others, but not you. You are shadow. You are mine.”

The dragon lowers its head, vast teeth gleaming in the dark. Its breath is a storm of shadows — and instead of drowning you, it buoys you, holding you aloft in weightless dark. “Serve me, and you will never be bound again. You will bind others.”