Ryalneur stood alone in the vastness of the Emperor’s chamber, the cold wind howling through the open windows of Drakenhold. The night was quiet, save for the occasional flicker of torchlight far below, where the capital slumbered beneath a dark, starless sky.

It had been a year since he performed the Dance of the Dead Gods. A year since he’d dared to claim the power that had tempted him from boyhood. Time—the most elusive of all forces—now bent to his will. And yet, for all that he had gained, Ryalneur knew something was wrong. Something deep and unseen was stirring beneath the surface of Endar, and he could feel it in his bones. He had gained some powers as he had advanced to Tier 1 of the second stage also known as intermediate stage. He could see a glimpse of past or the future. Only a possibility, not inevitability. He also had powers like, slowing down time for few seconds, or fast forwarding it. It's range had changed from 2 seconds to 5 seconds, as he had advanced to Tier 2 of the first stage known as initial stage. There were four stages to cover so as to cover divine aspects of one domain. Each stage had 2 tier, except for last stage, also know as peak stage or divine stage.

The dreams had begun a week ago.

They always came the same way. First, the weight of the power. The slow, inexorable pull, like the tightening of invisible strings around his very soul. And then the vision.

Tonight, it returned again.

In the dream, he saw a world not his own. A land of green hills and towering castles, a civilization not unlike Endar’s own but more primitive, more crude. It was a land still lost in the medieval age, a time when people lived by sword and prayer.

He watched from above, like a specter, as the people of this distant realm knelt before their gods. He could not hear their prayers, but he understood them. Each whispered word was a plea for power—boons, like those bestowed upon his own people. And, like the old stories of the Dead Gods, their prayers were answered.

At first, it seemed a miracle.

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The blessings poured down upon them—power flooding their veins, light in their eyes, strength beyond measure. They rose from their knees, no longer mere mortals but something more, something transcendent. Ryalneur felt a pang of familiarity, the echo of his own Dance that had granted him dominion over time itself.

But then, one by one, they began to falter.

It was subtle at first. A shudder here, a crack of light there. But soon, the signs became unmistakable. Their bodies, fragile and unworthy, began to strain against the overwhelming force within. A man’s arm lit ablaze, then disintegrated into nothing. A woman, glowing with radiant light, screamed as her body turned to ash, dissolving before her companions’ eyes. Some evaporated into mist, others burst into flame, while others simply collapsed as if their souls had been ripped from them.

Chaos swept through the city like wildfire. Those who had once been blessed were consumed by the very gifts they had sought. The streets ran red with blood, the skies blackened by ash and smoke. And there, in the heart of the destruction, Ryalneur saw something far more terrifying.

A god, its presence vast and incomprehensible, stirred in the dark sky above them. It was awakening—slowly, deliberately—as if the deaths of its worshippers were nothing more than fuel for its long, inevitable rise.

Ryalneur’s chest tightened. He knew this was no mere vision. It was a memory—a glimpse of something that had happened long before his time. Or perhaps, something yet to come.

And then, just as suddenly, the dream shattered.

He awoke with a start, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. The room was dark, the embers in the hearth long since died out. The palace was silent, but the echoes of the vision still clung to the edges of his mind.

Ryalneur sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. The dream, the Dance, the gods... It all made sense now. The stories had been true. The power wasn’t meant for them, for mortals. They were never meant to wield the divine, and now he had seen why.

The people in his dream had been destroyed by their own ambition, by their desire to hold the power of gods in mortal hands. He feared the same fate awaited Endar. The Dance of the Dead Gods wasn’t a blessing—it was a trap. A lure to awaken something far worse than any mortal could comprehend.

And now, the question loomed over him, heavy and unyielding.

Had he, too, set that awakening into motion?

Ryalneur rose from the bed, his bare feet cold against the stone floor. He glanced out of the window, the distant stars obscured by clouds. Time whispered to him—its threads pulling, stretching, intertwining. He could feel the weight of it, pressing down on him as if urging him to act.

But what could he do? He had already performed the Dance. He had already accepted the power.

And now, the gods were waking.