Zeriel tossed and turned in his bed, his body tangled in the sheets as he sought comfort in the restless abyss of his dreams. The night felt endless, the oppressive weight of darkness pressing down on him. His breath came in shallow gasps, a subtle reflection of his turbulent thoughts, each restless turn only deepening the sense of unease gnawing at his mind.
The dream began to take shape, like a shadow forming into something solid. Zeriel found himself standing on the edge of an open field, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and the faintest trace of pine. He watched as two figures, illuminated by the fading light of dusk, stood some distance away. King Lucian and King Illeus were practicing archery. The rhythmic twang of bowstrings slicing through the air filled the silence, their arrows finding their targets with lethal precision.
