The return from Russia had left Edward in a somber state. The fall of Rasputin, once a trusted though volatile sub-member of the Order of Light, weighed heavily on him. The betrayal, the chaos it unleashed, and the consequences that rippled through the Russian monarchy forced him to re-evaluate the very criteria by which his Order admitted new members.
Rasputin's corruption, his entanglement with power and lust, and the devastation he left behind was a reminder of how even Edward's blessings could be misused when given to the unworthy.
But before Edward could reflect for long, another storm gathered, one that would not erupt in public battlefields or royal courts, but in the hidden corners of occultism, where desperation and hubris often birthed disasters of cosmic scale.
In the quiet English countryside, in the estate of Wych Cross, Sussex, a man named Roderick Burgess prepared a ritual unlike anything the world had seen.
Burgess, the self-proclaimed Magus of the Order of Ancient Mysteries, was a man consumed by ambition. His wealth, acquired through questionable means, had bought him many followers. Men and women disillusioned with the world, drawn to promises of hidden power of eternal life.
For years, Burgess had obsessed over immortality. He feared death more than any enemy, more than any downfall. To him, eternity was the only prize worth striving for.
At first, the Order of Ancient Mysteries had sought the same path many magi did, by attempting to infiltrate the great strongholds of magic.
They tried to pry secrets from Vinland's runic fortresses, only to be repelled by barriers that hurled intruders back across the sea. They attempted to breach Eternia, but its defenses recognized their greed and hostility, casting them out before they could even glimpse its wonders.
Frustrated, Burgess shifted his gaze to the stories of Greece. He had heard whispers of Edward, the so-called "Great Hero," honored in temples and myths as if he were a divine being. If they could not find eternal life by their own means, perhaps they could seek Edward's aid—or, if necessary, try to bind him to a deal.
But their journey through Greek lands yielded nothing but silence. The temples were empty of answers, their prayers unheeded, and every attempt to track the hero's presence failed. Edward remained hidden, untouchable.
It was then that Burgess uncovered a more dangerous possibility. Among fragmented texts and forbidden scrolls, he stumbled upon mentions of the Endless, beings beyond gods, beyond mortals, embodiments of existence itself. Destiny, Desire, Despair, Delirium, Dream, Death, and Destruction. Among them, the name that had seized Burgess' obsession: Death.
If she could be bound, if Death herself could be forced into service, then eternal life would no longer be a dream. It would be his.
By 1920, Burgess and his Order had prepared everything. The ritual was crude, stitched together from mistranslations and fragments stolen from half-burned tomes, but Burgess believed it would work.
On June 10th, as the Cold waves of impending War raged across Europe, the Order of Ancient Mysteries gathered in the cold halls of Fawney Rig, Burgess' sprawling estate.
The mansion had been converted into a temple of sorts. The marble floors were carved with concentric circles of runes, their grooves filled with powdered onyx and salt.
At the center stood a great glass sphere, its structure reinforced with lead and etched with sigils meant to trap whatever entity they summoned. Around it, candles flickered, casting jagged shadows against the walls.
Burgess stood at the head of the circle, robed in black and crimson, his voice rising over the murmurs of his followers. His son, Alex, watched with uneasy eyes, though fear of his father's wrath kept him silent.
"Tonight," Burgess declared, his voice sharp with triumph, "we seize dominion over the oldest tyrant of mankind. Tonight, Death herself shall be chained."
The Order began chanting, their voices rising and falling like waves. The air grew heavy, the temperature dropping as the runes drank in their words. Power stirred, ancient and impatient, threading through the hall like invisible lightning.
But Burgess had miscalculated one thing. His ritual, flawed and arrogant, did not call forth Death. Instead, the circle of power tore through realms until it snagged another Endless—Dream, Morpheus, Lord of the Dreaming.
To he honest, Roderick was lucky. If he somehow truly summoned Death herself, she would end them the minute she appeared in rage, as she was enjoying the warmth of married life.
The moment was violent. A figure formed within the circle, collapsing into the glass sphere with a force that rattled the very foundations of the estate.
A tall, pale man lay sprawled within, his dark robes clinging to him, his helm, crafted from the bones of a god and the spine of a dragon, gleaming faintly in the candlelight. In one hand, he still clutched his pouch of sand and Ruby in another, though they quickly slipped from his grasp.
The chanting ceased. The Order stared, bewildered. Burgess himself faltered for a moment, recognizing that what stood before him was not Death.
"Who… who are you?" he demanded, stepping closer to the glass.
Dream lifted his head slowly, his eyes like twin voids that threatened to swallow all who looked into them. He did not answer.
Burgess clenched his fists, unwilling to admit failure. "If you are not Death, then you are one of her kin. Another Endless, perhaps. No matter. You will serve just as well. With you bound, your realm is mine to command. And through it, perhaps Death will come to me in time."
Morpheus said nothing. His silence was sharper than words, a disdain that pierced Burgess more deeply than any curse.
Morpheus was feeling at a loss at this moment. He never throught the humans he considered weak would be able to bind him in such a way, stealing away his symbol of powers.
Days turned to weeks, and still Dream remained trapped. Burgess stripped him of his tools. The helm, the pouch of sand, the ruby , and hoarded them like trophies. .
Dream's helm he locked away in his vault. His pouch he kept in a locker in London, never realizing the danger of scattering such power. The ruby he kept closest, believing it the key to his own immortality.
In Wych Cross, Burgess' triumph began to draw attention from forces he had not expected. It was not Death who came to him, but another creature, a nightmare given flesh, born from the Dreaming.
The Corinthian.
He appeared in the halls of Fawney Rig one evening after a few months as the Order celebrated their "success."
To mortal eyes, he was a tall, well-dressed man with pale skin, blond hair slicked neatly back, and a charming smile. Only those who dared look closer would notice the truth behind his sunglasses: his eyes were teeth, rows of sharp, glistening teeth that grinned hungrily.
Burgess was startled when the stranger stepped from the shadows, uninvited yet utterly confident.
"Who are you?" Burgess demanded, hand tightening on his cane.
The Corinthian smiled. "A friend of your prisoner. Or rather… one of his creations."
The Order murmured uneasily. Even Burgess, for all his arrogance, felt a shiver.
"You've made quite the mistake, Magus," the Corinthian continued, circling the glass sphere where Dream sat in silence. "You wanted Death. Instead, you caught Dream.
And though he may look fragile in there, do not underestimate him. He is patient. He is inevitable. One day, he will be free."
Burgess frowned, unwilling to let doubt spread. "He will remain bound as long as I will it."
"Perhaps," the Corinthian said smoothly, tilting his head. "But if you wish to keep him truly locked away, there are rules. Precautions.
You must never let him speak. Never let him draw sigils in the dust. And above all… never let him escape into dreams. Nobody can fall asleep in his presence. For if he does, you will never hold him again. And he will come to destroy you and all you hold dear."
Burgess hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Then tell me what I must do."
The Corinthian's smile widened, the rows of teeth behind his lenses almost audible as they clicked. "Keep him silent. Keep him starved. And guard his tools. Without them, he is diminished. With them… he would unmake you. "
And thus, the nightmare taught the mortal how to cage his own master. He even explained the weaknesses of Morpheus to ensure he remained locked.
A raven watched them discussing and flew away, perhaps looking to seek help from outside to free her master.
Corinthian noticed it and spoke,"Also, pay attention to that bird, for she is one of his."
Roderick looked tense, " A familiar? Can it spread the knowledge of his imprisonment?"
Corinthian chuckled, "Her name is Jessamy, the raven of the Dream Lord. No, she won't spread the news much, maybe to his siblings who cares for him. Lucky for you, only one might give a rats ass and do something, and she's the one you have tried to summon."
Roderick smiled in anticipation, " Death? Maybe I can bind her too and finally tet my wish."
Corinthian's smile faded, " I would strongly suggest you don't do that Mr. Roderick. Death... Is far stronger than Dream, and has no weaknesses. She usually doesn't interfere in mortal matters ever since...well, let's say Death got shagged."
Roderick's eyes bulged in shock. "What! How! Who in their right mind would marry Death?"
Corinthian chuckled and turned around. " Well, you have tried looking for him , haven't you? The man who's become a myth in your every culture. But I assure you, he's very real. And the stories.... Let's just say they don't cover his wrathful side."
******
Days passed, then months, then years. The ritual that had bound the Lord of Dreams had become nothing more than the centerpiece of Roderick Burgess's existence.
The decades slipped by like sand through an open palm, and with them any semblance of normal life that the magus might have once possessed.
More than ten years had now passed since that fateful night in Wych Cross when the ritual circle had been lit with fire and the Endless had been dragged down into a crude glass prison.
The world above had changed in ways that those trapped within the manor's basement could scarcely understand. Empires had risen and fallen, wars had scarred nations, and yet within the shadowed confines of Fawney Rig, one constant remained: Morpheus, Lord of Dreams, sat silent, imprisoned, and unbroken.
But irony was a cruel master.
Though Roderick had spent the better part of his fortune and sanity on capturing one of the Endless, he could not keep the tools of his prize. Time and greed gnawed at his household from within.
His second-in-command, a man who had once sworn loyalty, betrayed him by stealing away the gleaming helm of Dream. A token forged from the bones of a dead god, it vanished into the underworld of occult collectors and was never seen in Wych Cross again.
His mistress, consumed by her own hunger for power and independence, slipped away with the pouch of sand that could shape the very fabric of sleep.
All that remained in Roderick's possession was the ruby — Dream's most personal tool, the Heart of the Dreaming itself. It became his constant companion.
He clutched it in moments of fear and wore it as one might wear armor. He did not dare part with it, not even for an instant, convinced that it was his only protection against the being that glared at him from within the glass cell.
Age had not been kind to Roderick. The once-ambitious man was now a bitter shell, ravaged by paranoia and gnawed at by regret. He lived half in shadows, half in rage, his mind consumed by the single act that defined him.
The burden of locking away one of the Endless weighed on him like a curse. At times he considered himself a conqueror, a sorcerer who had achieved the impossible. More often he felt himself a prisoner too, bound by his fear of what he had unleashed and what might come if he faltered.
Day after day, he descended into the basement where the glass sphere stood, cold and merciless. And day after day, he performed his rituals of futility.
He would stand before the cage and shout, his voice trembling with defiance. He cursed the Dream Lord with every vile word he could conjure. He threatened him with endless torment.
Then, in weaker moments, his tone would shift. He bargained, offering release in exchange for promises — immortality, wealth, safety. Sometimes he even begged, his voice breaking, his hands trembling against the ruby pressed to his chest.
"Swear it!" he cried on countless nights. "Swear to me that you will grant what I seek! Swear you will not harm me, and I shall free you!"
But Morpheus remained as he had always been. Cold. Silent. His dark eyes, endless as the void between stars, never wavered. He gave no words, no bargains, no mercy.
Only the unyielding weight of his gaze, a gaze that spoke of fury held tight, of patience forged over eons, and of judgment yet to come.
Roderick could feel it.
Even without words, the rage radiated from within the cage, pressing against his skin like frost. Sometimes he would stumble back, clutching the ruby, convinced that the silence itself would one day be the death of him.
Beyond Wych Cross, the world bore the scars of Morpheus's absence. A strange affliction spread across nations, whispered about in hospitals, homes, and newspapers. They called it the "sleeping sickness." Perfectly healthy men, women, and children would drift into sleep as if it were any other night — and never awaken.
Their bodies lived on, but their minds remained trapped, unreachable. Families grieved over loved ones who would not open their eyes. Doctors searched for explanations and found none.
It was as though the boundary between waking and dreaming had fractured. Yet despite his imprisonment, the Dreaming still lingered. Perhaps it was the dreams of the afflicted, locked in endless slumber, that held the realm together, preventing it from crumbling into dust entirely.
But the cracks were there, visible to those who dwelled within it.
Word of the Dream Lord's captivity did not remain unknown in his realm. Jessamy, his loyal raven, flitted between worlds with restless wings. Her black feathers shimmered faintly in the half-light of the Dreaming as she carried messages and warnings.
She reached out to Lucienne, the ever-dutiful librarian, and shared what she had seen.
"The world is unraveling," Jessamy croaked, her voice urgent. "Dream Lord is bound. Humanity suffers. The Dreaming weakens. We must do something to free Him.!"
Lucienne, surrounded by her towering shelves of books that recorded every dream ever dreamed, closed her eyes in pain. She had tried already.
She had reached out across the great void to the Endless — to Desire, to Despair, to Destiny, even to Death herself. Their silence told her all she needed to know.
"They will not intervene," Lucienne said at last, her voice steady but filled with sorrow. "Not without his summons. It is their law. Their pride. Their curse. But Lady Death said she will think about it.
"
Jessamy's wings flapped sharply, agitation clear in her movements. "There must be another way! The Dreaming cannot endure this forever. The waking world cannot either."
Lucienne hesitated. Then, after a long silence, her eyes flickered with reluctant thought. "There may be… one hope."
Jessamy tilted her head sharply. "Then speak it!"
Lucienne clasped her hands together, her expression conflicted. "Lord Morpheus would not approve. He is too proud to ask for help. Too proud even to allow us to seek it. But… there is one man who could succeed where we cannot."
The raven leaned closer, feathers bristling. "Who?"
Lucienne let out a heavy sigh. "Lady Death's husband. Sir Edward Elric."
Jessamy's head jerked back in surprise. "Him? Why would Lord of Dream object help? He is imprisoned! Shouldn't all aid be welcome?"
"You do not understand our lord," Lucienne replied softly. "Pride governs him as much as duty. To ask for help from his siblings would be to admit weakness. And to accept help unbidden may wound his pride more deeply still.
Yet if Sir Edward were to act of his own accord…" She trailed off.
Jessamy ruffled her wings. "Then let him! Find him! Ask for his help. Speak with Lady Death if you must. The world is breaking apart while Lord Morpheus wastes away in silence!"
Lucienne's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Perhaps Lady Death has already spoken with him. Perhaps not. I cannot say. But Sir Edward is… elusive. One cannot find him easily. He walks where he chooses.
Last I heard, he wasn't on his island, or any of his kingdoms. All we can do is watch, wait, and hope."
The raven gave a sharp, impatient caw. "Then I will return to the waking world. I will watch over our master and those who hold him. If there is even a chance, I will find it."
Lucienne nodded gravely. "Go, then. Keep him in your sight, Jessamy. I will continue my efforts here."
With that, Jessamy spread her wings and vanished into the gray mists, leaving Lucienne alone among the shelves, her heart heavy with worry.
Back in the human world, the Dream Lord sat within his glass prison. Naked, exposed, yet regal even in defeat. Time stretched endlessly. He could not tell whether days or decades passed anymore.
All he knew was the silence, the cold surface beneath him, and the unblinking gaze of his captor whenever Roderick dared descend the stairs.
The damage grew. He could feel it. His realm frayed at the edges, threads pulling apart. Mortals suffered in their sleep, their dreams untended, their nightmares unbound.
He did not know how long he would have to endure this . Yet still, he would not beg. He would not ask help from his siblings. His Pride forbade it.
And yet, in the depths of his solitude, a memory surfaced. A voice from long ago, sardonic and infuriating, spoken at the wedding of his sister Death.
Edward , that strange, stubborn and enigmatic man she had chosen. He had once teased Dream, offering help should he ever stumble into trouble, swearing that he would never let Dream live down the indignity.
For the first time in years, a faint, bitter chuckle escaped Morpheus's lips. It was humorless, born of despair. "I, the Dream Lord… dreaming now?" he thought. The irony was not lost on him.
Meanwhile, Far from Wych Cross, along the roads of Sussex, a carriage moved steadily through the night. It was no ordinary carriage. Its wood gleamed as if untouched by dust, its wheels rolled as if the earth itself bent to ease their passage.
Drawn by four black horses, it radiated a subtle chill, a sense that shadows clung to it even under the fading light of day.
Inside, a man and a woman sat across from one another. They spoke quietly, their tones calm, almost mundane. They commented on the weather, on the state of the roads, on the tea they sipped from delicate porcelain cups.
To a passerby, it might have seemed an ordinary conversation between a gentle couple traveling through the countryside.
But to any who looked closely, the truth would be unmistakable. A cold aura wrapped around them, palpable and heavy, as if the world itself bowed away from their presence.