Ozymandias, regretfully, would not have time to study the tome. Unlike the weapons, he could not simply demand its story. He had to actually read it. And with the memory collapsing after only a minute or two each time he entered it, the amount he could glean from the book was minimal.

However, he was certain that he would have it eventually. As his power grew, he would likely be able to stay inside the memory far longer, and exhibit greater control over the space in which he viewed it. Once he was strong enough, he would simply ask the Law to bring forth the memory once again, and he would have his knowledge.

Once he was strong enough. It sounded rather easy, but the memories were not something so simple to practice. Ozymandias couldn't just watch a memory over and over, he had to actually push his boundaries. Which led him to the idea of inspirations.

He and his fellow disciples all had one tether of white connecting them to the Law that was stronger than all the others. No matter how close or precious a memory or sin was formed, it could never hold a candle to an inspiration. For that inspiration was their name, their being, their purpose.

His own had been a poem. A set of rhythmic words, lulling and enthralling all who listened, to listen to its story. A story of a king. One who ruled the grandest kingdom of them all, and stood above every other mortal in the world. One who had fallen to, of all things, the weight of time.

It was a purpose, but it was also a challenge. Ozymandias was no mortal. Time would only grow his power, not lessen it. He would rule, but he would not fall. Not to time, nor to any other enemy.

He chose the winged thing first.

It was imposing, around his size, but so much more deadly. Its black and crimson feathers stood out, brighter than they should be on any natural being.Yet, It's eyes were the most telling.

Above the claws like knives, the beak like a spear, and the control over wind and flame, the eyes seemed the most dangerous. They darted ever which way, constantly searching for danger. They contained a challenge, not unlike his own inspiration.

Catch me if you can.

The Law was idling around at the bottom of the room, so the tether was within reach. Ozymandias drew his sword, and with a final glance towards the regal form of the beast, slashed through its tether.

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He awoke in a desert. Sand stretched for as far as he could see, with nothing above but a clear blue sky.

And an oasis.

It was far off, but looked beautiful. Tall and leaning trees, a pool of crystal clear water, and nice green shrubbery breaking the monotony of the sand. By his best estimate, it would take maybe half an hour to walk to it.

And so he began.

As he walked, Ozymandias pondered. This was an inspiration. Even if it was taken only as a challenge, like with his, it still was part of the foundation of a being's soul. And this desert had not shown much similarity to the bird. It was strange.

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The best way to describe the desert would be desolate. Yet, the bird seemed full of nervous energy, not lazy emptiness. The oasis looked promising and fulfilling. Yet, the bird seemed prepared for any danger or threat. The sky was clear and calm. Yet, the bird whipped the wind into a frenzy.

It was strange.

As Ozymandias approached the final stretch of the journey, he saw the oasis in more detail. Or rather, lack of detail. It was hazy round the edges, and the previously pristine image now took on a more fragmented appearance.

He strode forward to investigate, and the oasis withered away. Within a moment, all that it had to offer turned to nothing but more sand. The trees, the water, the shrubs, all gone. As if they had never been there at all.

He whipped his head around, searching for an explanation. And saw another oasis. The strange thing was, it looked like the mirror image of the one he had just approached. And he was sure he should have seen it on his way to the previous one.

It was strange.

This time, Ozymandias ran. He reached the next oasis far faster, but just like the last one, it withered away. Again, with no explanation as to how or why. As if it had never been there at all.

Another, in the distance, hidden between two dunes.

He ran.

It withered.

Another, further away, across a long flat stretch of sand.

He threw himself forward with shadows, limited to using only his own in this bright place.

It withered.

Another, closer this time, perched perfectly atop a dune.

He bounded towards it on legs of darkness, stretching his power to the limit.

It withered.

Another, at the very edge of his vision, at the apex of a veritable mountain of sand.

He flew towards it, shadows pulling him forward faster than ever. They too were desperate for answers.

It withered.

And in its place, a storm appeared. Wind funneled the sand through the air, forming into a crude approximation of a bird. It flew straight for him, soundless and terrifying. The sand and wind pushed him stronger than any hand could, throwing him down the dunes.

Gales tore his sword from his hand, and ripped apart his shadows whenever they took solid form. The grains held him to the ground, slowly burying him in the very ground he walked over.

His mask and crown were worn down in the constant barrage, flecks of ruby drifting off to join the storm of sand. His own form degraded next, the wisps of darkness either being taken by the wind or buried by the sand.

And Ozymandias withered.

As if he had never been there at all.

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He stumbled back, still tasting his own death in the air. His fear towards both the Law and its feathered disciple growing tenfold. Its inspiration was brutal, misleading, one of constant running and evading until a devastating storm was unleashed.

It had been enough to kill him, even if it was just a dream.

As he reeled away, he tripped. It was such a simple thing. A simple stumble, and his was falling towards the floor. His hands flew out to catch himself, and caught on a string. One that stretched towards the outside world, with no end in sight.

One tinged with red.

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Ozymandias landed in a pile of gold. It was made of all manner of things. Coins, goblets, trinkets, weapons, people. And it laid before a throne. And on that throne, there laid a being so powerful that he felt as if his soul was being shoved away, hiding from what could only be a god.

On that throne, a god made of twisting red lines and flashing, pulsing lights sat. A god whose form seemed to change every other moment. A god who seemed to defy reality itself, and who would win that battle.

A god of Chaos.

It looked him in the eyes, smiling with a mouth of dagger-like teeth, and Ozymandias heard but one thing before he was ripped from the dream.

"You aren't supposed to be here."