I dreamed in silence.

Not the silence of sleep, but the hush of something sacred—a stillness that wrapped the world in reverence. The halls of the palace faded away, stone by stone, until I stood beneath a darkening somber sky that shimmered like a mirror, stars silver and pulsing like slow heartbeats.

. . .

The first to come to me was an old friend.

A comrade from wars not long past. Worn by grief, bent by burdens, wounded by a hundred losses, yet still standing—but only barely. The battlefield now was no longer soldiers and combat and carnage, but burdens of the heart: worry, terror, unease, uncertainty, doubt, and disquiet. A heart full of fear, dread, and desperation. A soul tired of watching dreams crumble. He staggered beneath the weight of what the world had pressed upon him. I stood tall in my ancient armor—dragon-scale and storm-wrought. It had saved my life more times than I could count.

But this time, I unfastened it.

Piece by piece, I handed it to him.

“For every blow you cannot bear alone,” I said, “let this shoulder it for you.”

He said nothing—but straightened. And he ventured forth with newfound strength.

I felt a hollowing in my chest and said, "I have more to give.

. . .

Next came the woman.

The one whose voice could break the chains around my heart. She walked barefoot through the dream, her presence soft as dawn, with eyes full of dreams she still dared to dream. She had given me everything—her laughter, her trust, her love, her fire—and I had buried it all behind the stone walls of my duty and fear.

But now, in the dream, I reached inside myself.

My heart came out whole and beating, warm with all the words I had never dared to speak.

“For every moment I turned away in silence,” I whispered, “I give you my heart.”

She held it in awe. It pulsed in her hands like a living flame.

I felt a hollow bloom inside my ribs and said, "I have more to give."

. . .

Then came my son.

He was not yet grown, not yet shaped by war or wisdom. My beard fuller, my eyes more lined, my spirit heavy with the weight of what I hoped to teach. My hands, calloused but sure, gripped the hilt of a sword whose name I had long forgotten but whose weight had shaped my fate. A boy stood before me—my son, trembling at the edge of manhood, eyes shadowed by fear.

A storm loomed on the horizon. Not wind. Not fire. But something darker, old and patient.

I knelt, offering the sword.

“You won’t always feel brave,” I said, pressing the blade into his hands. “Nevertheless—you must stand. You must fight.”

He took it. Not with triumph. But with tears. And yet I felt his resolve growing inside him.

I felt a weakness in my arms and said, "I have more to give."

. . .

Then my son returned.

A place of warm lamps, scattered scrolls and half-written pages, and cold truths. Books lined every wall, bound in leather, laced with secrets. He stood in the center, bleeding from the battles of the world—not in body, but in spirit. Lost in doubt. Haunted by unmade decisions. Desperate to understand how to become.

So I gave him my books—my wisdom gathered over sleepless years and bitter trials.

Not just to read. But to carry. To shape. To mold. To one day leave behind.

And as each volume left my hand, the knowledge spilled from me like sand through my fingers. I forgot names, wars, wisdom—until I could not remember why I had first taken up the quill.

But he could.

I felt a hollowing behind my eyes and said, "I have more to give."

. . .

Then, I gave everything I had left.

I stood alone on the bridge beyond the world. Behind me were those I loved. My friends, my family, the ones to follow my legacy. Ahead, a darkness that asked no questions and gave no answers. It moved like winter. It fed on fire.

There was no sword now. No armor. No heart. No wisdom.

Only love.

And that was enough.

I turned and stepped forward. Not to strike. Not to flee. But to become the wall. I closed my eyes and let the last of my warmth pour into the space between them and the void.

I met the darkness and said, "I give all that I have left". And it passed no farther.

. . .

I woke with tears dried into the corners of my eyes.

There was no son in the yard, no queen in the garden. But the dream lingered like a promise.

Someday.

The halls were quiet. My armor rested untouched. My sword waited in its sheath. My books laid waiting on the tables and the shelves. And my heart was still beating.

I lay in the stillness, emptied and laid bare in spirit but full of purpose.

And I smiled.

Because I knew what I would give… when the time came.

And let the dream become prophecy.

Someday.

I was forged in the fire.