The flames had long died out, but the air still reeked of smoke and sorrow.
Among the charred ruins, a lone boy limped forward. His clothes hung in tatters, his lips cracked with thirst, and his eyes shimmered with that faint ember of hope — the kind that only children and madmen hold onto.
He fell to his knees beside a dry, ash-filled stream and clasped his hands together.
"Please... god of dreams... if you're real… help me…"
---
Somewhere in a much cleaner and less flammable corner of the world, Coyote Heraclides jolted upright in a hammock he had definitely not paid for. A strange tingle—like the universe had just poked him with a divine stick—rippled through his spine.
"A divine distress signal?" he mumbled. "Ooooh, spicy."
With absolutely zero idea what he was doing but one hundred percent confidence anyway, Coyote closed his eyes and muttered:
"I dream of teleporting to whoever just called me."
He vanished in a puff of glitter and questionable logic.
---
The boy, still praying, heard a crackle in the air. His heart pounded.
Surely, a radiant god would descend. Wings of light, halo of purity, choir of ethereal beings—
POP.
Instead, a gangly guy with bedhead and bags under his eyes stumbled out of thin air, coughing dramatically like he'd just run a marathon in a desert made of sarcasm.
"Water…" Coyote croaked, "need… hydration…"
The boy stared. "You… you're the god of dreams?"
Coyote blinked. "Uh. Technically. Small guy."
He looked around, sniffed the air, and then held up a finger like he just remembered something obvious.
"I dream… of water."
Instantly, the sky darkened. Thunder rumbled. And a flood burst forth with a vengeance.
"WAIT WAIT—TOO MUCH!!" Coyote screamed, now waist-deep in dream-powered chaos.
Another frantic wave of hand gestures.
"I dream of STOPPING the flood!"
The water froze mid-rampage, dropped to the ground like someone hit pause, and just… puddled away. Coyote, soaked and wheezing, stared at the boy and forced a sheepish grin.
"Minor technical difficulty."
Then, with more focus, he said:
"I dream… of a water bottle."
Two sleek, blue-tinted plastic bottles popped into existence with a satisfying plop.
The boy's eyes widened. "What… what is this?"
"A miracle of modern petroleum products," Coyote replied, handing one over like he was advertising it on a home shopping channel.
They both sat in silence, sipping water like exhausted legends.
Then the boy spoke softly, "Who… who are you?"
Coyote wiped his mouth, stood up, and flicked his wet hair back with exaggerated flair.
With a wink, he said:
"The Dreamweaver."
And just like that, he vanished.
---
Back in Godwin's City, Coyote reappeared outside the bounty board, still dripping wet but walking with the swagger of someone who had definitely not almost drowned themselves.
He stared at the posters, then snatched one at random—not Arthur this time.
"I won't let Flin outdo me," he muttered. "I'm the MC, dammit."
Just before heading to his inn, he paused, closed his eyes, and whispered one last dream:
"I dream of a safe home and loving family… for that kid."
He smiled.
And the stars above twinkled, like maybe—just maybe—the world was listening.
---