In a vast, empty space was an island, perfectly cut into a mile long slab. On it lied a ruined palace, its once high walls now pillars and barricades, and its once forbidden secrets revealed by the fallen ceiling. Looking down revealed many broken rooms, all in disrepair save for a single, wide hall. An unblemished red carpet draped through the center of the long hall, leading those of a bygone age to an archaic throne, in which sat a once resplendent figure. Now that figure looked deathly and grave, yet he still sat upon the throne.

The figure faced straight; his eyes closed, yet his gaze was watching, his chin resting on his fist, yet impatience filled the air, his injuries numerous, yet his heart pumped with vitality and vigor. Each beat shook the island, the rhythm tearing through the endless void. His eyes began to crack, brow furrow, fist clenching, armor shaking. The palace began to hum, veins of glowing runes snaking across the endless rubble. The darkness of the void began to part, like a mist lifting and the lonely island revealed to be one of many. Then all stopped, as if waiting on edge. A hoarse breath finally parted through his lips, his chest began to shift, and the world resumed. He would wake soon, and then the world would remember its Sovereign.

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