As night settled over the city, Alaric found himself in a restless slumber, his mind still troubled by the day's events. The red cross around his neck was now a familiar presence, a talisman that kept his powerful aura in check. Yet, even with the protective charm, his dreams were far from peaceful.
In the dark realm of his dreams, Alaric was enveloped in an eerie, shifting mist. The landscape was an abstract blur of colors and shapes, a chaotic blend of shadows that seemed to dance and twist around him. The familiar weight of the red cross was absent, and the usual calm it provided was replaced by a profound sense of disorientation.
He wandered through this dreamscape, the mist swirling and forming indistinct shapes. It was as though the dream itself was alive, constantly morphing and shifting. The air was thick with an unsettling silence, punctuated only by the occasional whisper of something just out of reach.
