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Haliykhon moved silently through the shadows of his chambers, his heart pounding with the cold dread of realization. Each breath he took felt shallow, his mind racing as he swept the last of his possessions into a tattered leather pack. The room was stifling, a suffocating dark that had been his prison and refuge for over 5,000 years. The walls, hewn from blackened stone and etched with infernal symbols, had seen the slow decay of his people. He had called this place home, but tonight would be the last time he ever set foot inside its familiar confines. He had survived millennia of servitude to the Lords of Hell, but that servitude was coming to an end.

The Karabasan, his people, were a dying race. Dreamwalkers, they called them, born with the terrible gift of entering the dreams of mortals, demons, and even the divine. Through the dreamscape, they siphoned secrets from the minds of kings, generals, and gods alike, their power coveted by those who ruled the dark realms. Once, they had been essential tools in the war against the light.

But Hell was a cruel master. The usefulness of a tool was finite, and once it was dulled, it was discarded, forgotten, or worse, destroyed. For centuries, the Karabasan had been thinned, their numbers dwindling with each generation. They were slow to breed, each new birth taking a millennium or more, and so the burden of survival had fallen to those who remained. And those who remained had become fewer with every passing age.

Haliykhon had always been adept at his work, his skill in walking the dreams of the damned and the divine unmatched amongst his peers. It was that mastery that had kept him alive, while so many of his kind had met their fates, cast aside when their powers waned, or executed when they learned too much. The Karabasan were no more than tools, and tools that saw too deeply into the darkness of Hell were dangerous, a threat to the balance that the Princes of Hell maintained so ruthlessly.

Lord Azeroth had claimed him centuries ago, wrenching him from the service of General Tentubad of the Ninth Legion. Azeroth’s domain lay at the far edge of Hell, where the lands crumbled into an abyss of eternal storms, a desolate wasteland of chaos and despair. The prince, a being of wrath and decadence, had demanded that Haliykhon replace his former dreamwalker, a poor soul who had delved too far into forbidden dreams and had been punished for his trespass. When he arrived Haliykhon was greeted by the remains of his predecessor impaled on the blackened iron spires that adorned Azeroth’s fortress, a grim reminder of the price of failure.

For 5,000 years, Haliykhon had served Azeroth faithfully. He had learned to navigate the dangerous intricacies of the prince’s court, to walk the thin line between success and damnation. He had survived by remaining useful, by never revealing more than was necessary, and by always staying one step ahead of those who would see him fall. But now, even that skill would not be enough to save him.

The purge had begun.

An order had come down from Lucifer himself, an edict that even the mighty Princes of Hell dared not defy. The Karabasan were too dangerous. Too many secrets lay buried in their minds, too many whispers stolen from dreams. They knew too much, and Hell could not afford to leave them alive. The genocide would be absolute. Executioners roamed the capital and beyond, seeking out the last remnants of Haliykhon’s people, slaughtering them like beasts.

Haliykhon had learned of the purge, not through whispered rumors or intercepted messages, but through the dreamscape itself. The dreamscape, the ephemeral realm where the conscious and unconscious minds of all beings converged, was his true domain, a place where time and space blurred, where the very fabric of reality could be bent to the will of those who knew its secrets. And Haliykhon knew its secrets far better than most.

From his chamber, deep within Azeroth’s fortress, he had sensed the tremors in the dreamscape, a distant echo of fear, of pain, of death. As he slipped into the realm between waking and sleep, he saw it all unfold: the massacre of his kin, their blood staining the infernal streets of the capital, their cries for mercy lost in the fury of the executioners. He felt the terror of one who had tried to flee, only to collapse in exhaustion, his body broken, his soul slipping into the dreamscape as he drew his final breath.

The dying walker’s screams reverberated through Haliykhon’s mind, a haunting chorus of despair. “Run!” the voice whispered, weak and fading. “Death is coming!”

The words chilled Haliykhon to his core, realization washing over him. The Karabasan were being wiped out. Those who had been near the capital were more than likely already dead, their minds snuffed out like candles in a storm. Only those on the outskirts, like Haliykhon, had even the faintest chance of escape. But that chance was fleeting.

The room around him was suffocating, the weight of the purge pressing in on him from all sides. The stone walls, once etched with the sigils of protection, now felt more like a tomb. Even the air seemed thicker. Hell itself had turned against him.

He could feel Azeroth’s presence, distant but looming, a shadow that stretched across the entire domain. The prince would hopefully not yet know of the purge, but when he did—when he realized that Haliykhon, his prized dreamwalker, was marked for death—he would not hesitate to deliver the killing blow. After all, to defy Lucifer was to invite destruction, even for a prince of Hell.

Haliykhon’s hand brushed against the Chain of Somnus, the ancient artifact cold and heavy around his neck. It pulsed faintly, its power familiar and reassuring. The Chain had been with him for centuries, amplifying his natural abilities, allowing him to delve deeper into the dreamscape than any other. It was a tool, yes, one that made him powerful, if he lived long enough to make use of it.

He could not remain here. The fortress was no longer his refuge; it was a death trap. And the moment Azeroth learned of Lucifer’s decree, the hunt would begin.

Slipping from his chambers, Haliykhon moved through the darkened corridors of Azeroth’s stronghold, his footsteps silent on the cold stone. The walls seemed to pulse with malevolence, the very structure of the fortress alive with dark energy. Every corner was watched, every hall guarded by Azeroth’s demonic sentinels, creatures of nightmare, bound to the prince’s will. Haliykhon knew these corridors well; he had walked them for millennia, learning every secret, every hidden passage, every blind spot.

As Haliykhon crept through the cold, labyrinthine halls, every fiber of his being was alert to the danger around him. The air itself seemed to throb with malevolent energy, as if the fortress was an extension of Azeroth’s will, watching, waiting. He moved quickly, using the smallest alcoves and shadowed corners to avoid detection. His hand tightened around the Chain of Somnus, its familiar weight a constant reminder of his fragile advantage. Escape was possible, but only if he moved swiftly and stayed one step ahead of the prince. He was nearly there.

Haliykhon rounded the corner of the tiny corridor and stood in the courtyard of Azeroth’s mighty fortress. All he needed now was to break the seal and pass through the gates. He’d done it, he’d actually made it outside. He was going to make it!

Haliykhon didn’t hesitate, he hurriedly made his way to the gate, clutching his shaking hand around the Chain of Somnus and closing his eyes, summoning its power.

Suddenly, the very air seemed to still. A suffocating pressure bore down on him, and a deep, echoing voice reverberated through the courtyard.

“Haliykhon,” the voice hissed, low and serpentine. “Did you think you could leave without my permission?”

The walls trembled with the force of the words, and Haliykhon’s blood ran cold. Lord Azeroth had received the decree.

Before Haliykhon could react, the shadows ahead warped and twisted, forming into the towering figure of the prince. Azeroth emerged from the darkness like a nightmare given flesh, his crimson eyes burning with fury, his long cloak trailing behind him as if it were made from the very essence of the void. His form was massive, towering over Haliykhon, his skin etched with the scars of ancient battles. His hulking form blocking Haliykhon’s escape. A smile twisted his dark face as he met Haliykhon’s eyes.

“I sensed your betrayal,” Azeroth growled, taking a slow step forward, each movement sending waves of oppressive energy through the courtyard. “Did you think I would simply let you leave?”

Haliykhon swallowed hard, his mind racing. He was no match for Azeroth, the prince’s strength was nearly limitless, his cruelty legendary. But Haliykhon had planned for this. He reached up and clutched the Chain of Somnus tightly, its cold links thrumming with power. The dreamscape. If he could pull Azeroth into it, he had a chance. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, focusing his mind on the dream, calling upon the ancient art his people had mastered over eons.

Azeroth’s eyes narrowed as he saw the faint shimmer of the dreamscape ripple around Haliykhon. “Ah,” the prince said, a wicked smile curving his lips. “Do you think your little parlor tricks will save you, dreamwalker?”

Haliykhon didn’t respond. Instead, he took a deep breath and, with every fiber of his being, hurled them both into the dreaming.

The world around them shifted instantly. The cold stone halls of the fortress dissolved into a vast, swirling void of endlessness. Shadows twisted and writhed, forming familiar shapes and then swirling to mist. The air buzzed with a chaotic energy, and the very ground beneath them pulsed like a living thing.

For a moment, Haliykhon saw a flicker of uncertainty cross Azeroth’s face. The prince was powerful, but the dreamscape was Haliykhon’s domain.

Azeroth sneered, but his movements were slower now, more deliberate. “You think this changes anything?” he snarled. “I rule the nightmares of Hell.”

“Not here,” Haliykhon whispered, his voice steady, even as his heart raced. “Here, nightmares serve me.”

Haliykhon reached into his bag and removed a small clay pot. The Vessalith, crafted by the ancient mage Othalos, who sought to imprison the spirits who haunted his land. Forged from cursed clay mixed with the ashes of fallen angels, the pot had only one use, to contain even the most hellish of nightmares. Haliykhon had stolen the relic while walking the dreamscape when he had first arrived in Azeroth’s domain.

“What foolishness is this?” laughed the prince. “You think to defeat me with pottery?”

5000 years was a long time, and he’d put it to good use.

“Not me, my lord,” he whispered. Haliykhon dropped the pot, shattering it at his feet. “Them.”

As the shards of the Vessalith scattered across the dreamscape’s warped surface, an unnatural silence filled the air. Azeroth’s mocking laughter ceased abruptly, his crimson eyes narrowing in suspicion. The darkness around them began to pulse, a low, rhythmic hum emanating from the broken pot, growing louder with each passing second.

Azeroth’s gaze flickered between the shattered relic and Haliykhon. “What have you done?” the prince hissed, his voice dripping with venom.

Haliykhon took a step back, his eyes locked on the swirling shadows now gathering at the edges of the dreamscape. “What I must,” he said softly, his voice calm despite his terror.

Azeroth’s massive frame tensed as the shadows coalesced into grotesque forms, twisted abominations, phantoms of fear and terror made flesh. They slithered and writhed, their forms ever-shifting, their eyes glowing with a malevolent hunger. These were not the nightmares of mortals. These were the darkest, most primordial horrors of Hell itself, now freed from their prison in the Vessalith. 5000 years worth of nightmares set free.

With a roar of defiance, Azeroth swung his hand, trying to command the creatures, but they did not obey. Instead, they turned their ghastly visages toward him, their hollow mouths opening in silent screams as they lunged forward, wrapping around his massive form like living chains.

Haliykhon watched, his breathing shallow, as Azeroth struggled against the onslaught. Even a prince of Hell, with all his might, could not easily shake the relentless force of nightmares this ancient. They pulled at him, tearing at his flesh, dragging him deeper into the dreamscape’s abyss.

“You cannot contain me!” Azeroth bellowed, his voice echoing through the vast emptiness. “I will not be bound!”

Haliykhon tightened his grip on the Chain of Somnus, focusing his mind as Azeroth’s struggles grew more desperate. The nightmares would not hold him forever; even now, he could see the prince’s raw power beginning to unravel their grip.

But Haliykhon didn’t need forever, just a moment.

Drawing on the last reserves of his strength, Haliykhon whispered an incantation, one that stretched across the dreamscape like a whisper on the wind. The nightmares responded, their grip tightening on Azeroth’s form. For a brief, glorious second, the prince’s movements ceased entirely, his massive body frozen in the terrible grasp of horrors made flesh.

It was enough.

With a burst of concentration, Haliykhon severed his tether to the dreamscape, pulling himself free from that place and back into the waking realm. He was back in the courtyard, the cold stone beneath his feet once again solid, real. Azeroth was nowhere to be seen, still trapped in the twisted dreamworld Haliykhon had left behind.

Haliykhon sprinted across the courtyard, the Gates of Avarin looming ahead of him like a beacon of hope. The gates shimmered, their infernal runes glowing with dark power, meant to keep intruders out and prisoners in. Again Haliykhon closed his dream-touched eyes, and grasped the Chain of Somnus in his hand. He called out to the dreamscape with all of the strength he still possessed. With his free hand he reached out to touch the barrier and focused his mind. He felt the dreamscape surge through him, his body slipping between the two realms. He braced himself and with a final, desperate push, slipped through Gates of Avarin like a shadow through smoke.

The burning wind of the wasteland howled as Haliykhon slipped beyond the Gates of Avarin, leaving Azeroth’s fortress and its suffocating power behind. He had escaped, for now, but he knew better than to feel safe. The vast, desolate plains of Hell stretched endlessly before him, a barren wasteland where the very air vibrated with malice. The princes of Hell would hunt him down. But Haliykhon had no intention of being found.

His hand instinctively reached into his pack, where an artifact, older than any memory he could recall, pulsed faintly with a power that even Hell didn’t understand. The Tome of Ith’Taar. Unlike the Chain of Somnus, which amplified his dream walking abilities, the Tome was something else entirely, an artifact of reality manipulation, capable of bending the very fabric of space. It was a gift, or perhaps a curse, he had stolen long ago, from the dream of a dying archmage who had dared to hide knowledge that the princes once coveted.

There was no time to dwell on the past now, no time to savor his small victory. Azeroth would be tearing through the dreamscape by now, ready to spill his wrath into the waking world. And when he emerged, he would not be alone. The full fury of Hell would be at his back.

Haliykhon’s fingers danced over the faded leather of the tome, and with a flick of his wrist, he summoned a faint glow from the ancient runes etched into its spine. He whispered an incantation in a tongue long forgotten, and the air around him seemed to ripple, like water disturbed by a stone. The sky darkened, the landscape twisted, and a rift began to form, a shimmering tear in the very fabric of Hell.

The Tome of Ith’Taar allowed Haliykhon to create a pocket space, a hidden refuge outside the normal flow of time and reality, a place where not even the most powerful of Hell’s princes could find him without his permission. It was a space between worlds, where he could remain unseen, unreachable.

As the rift widened, the pocket realm revealed itself, before him an endless expanse of swirling mist, faint outlines of structures and landscapes forming and dissolving as quickly as they appeared. It was a place of pure thought, where the boundaries between reality and dreams were thin, malleable. Here, Haliykhon could gain strength. Here, he could hide.

He stepped through the rift, and the heat of Hell was instantly replaced by a strange, surreal coolness. The ground beneath him was solid yet fluid, shifting with his every step, as if the world was responding to his presence, bending to his will. The rift behind him sealed with a soft whisper, and for the first time since learning of the genocide, Haliykhon allowed himself a moment to breathe.

He was safe.

At least for now.

The pocket realm hummed with the ambient power of the dreamscape, a liminal space between worlds where he could exert his control. Here, time moved differently. Days could pass in moments or stretch into eons. It was a sanctuary, one he had fashioned over the centuries by gathering the knowledge and artifacts of those he had spied on in their sleep. The Tome of Ith’Taar had been the key, but it was his mastery of the dreamscape that made this place his own.

And now, in this hidden sanctuary, Haliykhon would plot his next move.

He moved through the mist, his feet barely touching the shifting ground as he approached a raised dais at the heart of the pocket space. There, amidst piles of forgotten relics and stolen treasures, lay the tools of his future. Artifacts gleaned from the dreams of mortals, angels, and demons alike. Each one represented a fragment of knowledge, a piece of power he had gathered over his millennia of servitude. All made whole in this place between worlds.

He would not just survive. He would thrive. The lords of Hell had underestimated him, and he had taken full advantage.

Here, in this refuge, he would continue to walk the dreams of the powerful, extracting their secrets, collecting knowledge, and trading it to whichever side could offer him the greatest protection. He would make himself too valuable, too irreplaceable for Heaven or Hell to destroy.

He could see the future unfold in his mind, Hell’s princes, tearing at each other’s throats for information only he could provide; the angels, desperate to know what their enemies whispered in the dark, would call on him for guidance. He would play them against each other, just as he had done the princes of Hell, but now the shackles of servitude were gone. Now, it would be on his terms.

Haliykhon smiled, a cold, calculating smile, as he ran his fingers over another artifact—the Mask of Vorthan, a relic that could twist appearances, deceive even the sharpest of eyes. It was just one of many tools he would use to manipulate those who sought him in the future.

A flicker of movement in the mist caught his attention. A faint ripple in the dreamscape. It was Azeroth, his rage so strong that the ground reverberated with his power. The prince’s fury was palpable, even from this far-removed place, but he was searching in vain. Haliykhon’s sanctuary was beyond the reach of any prince, beyond the reach of even Lucifer himself.

Here, in this pocket realm, Haliykhon would bide his time, grow his influence, and become a player too dangerous for any side to remove. He would live in the shadows, trading in secrets and nightmares, until he was the master of both.

And when the time came, when the balance of power tipped too far in one direction, he would be there, waiting, ready to pull the strings.

The last of the dreamwalkers would not go out without a fight.

>> DATA_LINK_TERMINATED. // END_OF_LOG.