I am dreaming.
For others, dreams are mist. For me, they are doors. They open whether I wish it or not, and on the other side waits memory that has never cooled.
He stands there first, as always—golden hair catching sun like a drawn blade, crimson eyes that do not ask permission from the world. Julius.
When we met, he was still raw. Pride sat badly on him then, like a cloak he hadn't grown into, but the spine beneath it was real. I saw more than power—I saw conviction that did not bend. My Lucent Harmony poured into him, and in return his gift awakened fully: Empyrean Order. He spoke, and reality listened. Not because it loved him, but because he made it inevitable.
