"Listen..." In a distant echo, Domine is called from the depths of his indolence. Awakened by a dream, he emerges into a world shrouded in mystery—a landscape where voices echo through the air, urging him from sleep to awareness.
In this vast and shadowy realm, colossal silhouettes of unborn empires arise from the mist—titanic towers, immense domes, and endless walls, suspended on the threshold between existence and oblivion. Amid the darkness, a single red eye glows, ancient and unfathomable, concealed within the black silhouette of an indistinct presence. Its gaze pierces the void, indifferent and eternal, as light and darkness struggle for dominion over a world yet to be formed.
The voice, a cutting whisper, creeping like the hiss of a fire that cannot be seen but devours everything around it. The scarlet, crimson figure rises in the shadow, almost invisible, yet burning with its essence, like a flame that feeds on the very darkness. The heat spreads, unassisted, ungoverned. It exists there, on the edge, on the brink of perception.
The landscape is an enigma. The air seems charged with something indistinct, a tension that cannot be seen but permeates the very fabric of the environment, making it thick and heavy, as if the space itself is contained within something greater, something that pulses within the shadows. The shapes, still unfinished and spectral, rise from the depths of the unknown, like traces of a forgotten memory that refuses to vanish. The colossal silhouettes of unborn empires appear to wander through the veils of nothingness, casting shadows over a land untouched by light.
Domine, in his indolence, senses the air carrying a promise without words. Something stirs within him, a sense that there is something beyond the gloom waiting to be revealed. His eyes cannot focus, but his mind begins to react, as though something is calling him, an unreachable whisper that reverberates through the stillness. He is somewhere between the now and the beyond, caught in a wait that mingles with the void. Something is about to emerge. Something that cannot simply be ignored.
And then, at the heart of the profound silence, he hears—first as a sensation, then as a presence. The fire. A fire that does not burn, but consumes the very air around it. Its flame is not visible, yet its heat is palpable. He feels its proximity without understanding its origin, like an animal sensing a predator, but unable to see it. And still, the flame approaches, defying the laws of physics, of reason. It is something more than that—an idea, a force. The presence of something greater than him, and perhaps greater than the very world around him.
At this moment, the fire—or what it represents—manifests, a nebulous and fascinating presence, resonating with an energy that cannot be contained. The crimson, scarlet form rises from the obscurity, emerging from a distant, undefined point. The figure, both imposing and elusive, remains at the edge of perception, like a living flame that requires no fuel. Its edges are distorted by the smoke of existence, and its essence burns without ever fading.
And with it, the whisper. The voice, hot and drawn-out, tears through the silence, laden with the fervour of something that feeds off the darkness. The flame does not reveal itself in form, but its presence is absolute. It spreads like a wave of heat, mercilessly, inexplicably. A force that cannot be tamed. Its temperature rises, not because of a conventional fire, but because of something deeper—something that transcends what Domine knows.
"Listen..." The word cuts through the space like a chill, a silent command that resonates in his bones, making his flesh tremble without him knowing why. The word drags itself along, as if it were taken directly from a nightmare, uttered with the force of something that demands to be heard, something that insists on being obeyed.
And as the flame moves, the scarlet figure seems to expand. Its presence infiltrates the air, almost as though it might touch, yet never quite approaching in a concrete way. There is a promise within it, something that draws Domine in, something that perhaps understands him in a way he himself has yet to comprehend.
"You... don't understand. You cannot understand what this flame is," the voice murmurs, almost intoxicated, feverish, as if each word were a flame on its tongue, incapable of being extinguished. "It is not... it is not something you can control. It is not something to be touched. It burns and blazes, but it does not yield. It consumes all, but it does not surrender. It needs no one. It is... isolated. Yet, there is something in you, in your presence, that... touches it."
The figure seems to waver for a moment, a floating shape, as if the very notion of form was being consumed from within by the flame. It draws closer, the heat beginning to encircle Domine, yet never directly touching. He feels the flame around him, but cannot trace where it comes from.
"And you... you are lost, aren't you? Searching for something, perhaps... but you do not know what. You cannot see... what stands before you. You cannot see the truth that surrounds you. You cannot see the fire within you," the figure whispers, drawing nearer, its presence not touching, but cornering, like a tide of heat that cannot be ignored. "The flame is not a thing... it is a force, something that moves, that stirs. It lives. Like you. Like me."
The voice rises, a faint tremor of excitement, as if the very idea of the flame was a delirium, a possession. The figure seems to lose itself for a moment, as if the fever of its own desire began to overtake it, to consume its words, its thoughts. It retreats briefly, but soon advances again, closer, more intense.
"But you... you may be... useful. I cannot... I cannot touch what you see, I cannot take what you already possess, but perhaps, if you know how... perhaps you could. Have you ever wondered, Domine, if what you seek... what you yearn for... is closer than you think?"
It smiles, though the smile never fully forms, never materializes. It is only the shadow of a promise, the outline of something that could be, but remains obscure. The figure shifts, without truly leaving its place, as if the very space were being eaten away by its scarlet presence.
"You... never wondered why you are here? Why everything seems to move around you, as if... you were at the center of something greater? Perhaps the flame, Domine, has something to do with this. Perhaps it seeks you. And you... will be the means, or the end."
The voice becomes sharper, yet maintains that tone, the one that shakes reason, that enters the veins like the heat of a fire that cannot be put out. The figure, with its scarlet, crimson presence, remains in a space distant, yet inescapable.
"I am not... not offering anything. I am not the one to bring the answers. But you... you may find them if you know how to look."
And then, the figure withdraws, not out of disinterest, but by some barely perceptible shift, as if the very flame itself decided to pull back, allowing the doubt to infiltrate, to spread, to seep into the fibers of Domine's being. It is not trustworthy, it is not clear. But what it offers is... something. Something Domine does not yet understand.
The air lingers in a strange stillness, heavy with the remnants of the whisper that still pulses through the darkened landscape. Domine's consciousness floats in the half-light, suspended in a liminal space, neither truly asleep nor fully awake. The lingering warmth of the flame—its invisible heat—coats his senses, curling around his thoughts like a vice. His mind, hazy and clouded, feels the burn of the voice that had sliced through his solitude, and yet, the echo of it clings to him.
The weight of the words presses down on him, but they do not reveal themselves fully. It is the not knowing that disturbs him most, the gnawing uncertainty of what had been whispered into his very soul. It lingers in him like a thirst—sharp and insatiable. The thought of it, that force, the flame, it consumes him now, feeding on the very core of his existence. He is drawn towards it, even as something deep within him resists. The paradox coils tight, binding him in its pull.
His body stirs. But it is not the voice that stirs him, not the promise of an answer or the pull of the unknown. No, it is the weight of something else. The sensation of being watched—of being trapped between what is real and what he cannot yet understand. The air around him grows thicker, heavier, until it presses against his chest. His breath becomes shallow, and for a moment, he feels as though he is being suffocated by the sheer force of the unknown.
Then, suddenly, there is silence. The flame, that presence, retreats, as though it had never been, leaving behind only the faintest trace of its heat—barely perceptible, but enough to make his skin prickle. He is left in the void, the vast nothingness that stretches before him like a chasm.
It is in that moment that he knows: something has shifted. The world he once knew—the indolence, the comfort of obscurity—no longer seems certain. The ground beneath him no longer feels solid. The question is no longer about whether he can sleep through it all, as he once might have. Now, he must awaken fully, or risk losing himself entirely in the wake of what has been set into motion.
The fog lifts, but not gently. It tears away from his mind with the force of a sudden revelation—abrupt and unforgiving. The landscape shifts violently, snapping into focus. The dim landscape gives way to the harsh clarity of a new, unsettling reality. His eyes, wide open now, pierce the haze, but it is not the familiar world he once knew. This is a world where shadows and light fight for dominion, and every step feels like it might lead him closer to something he cannot yet name.
He rises, not in triumph, but in necessity. The voice that had once seemed distant now seems to call from all around him, the very air alive with the unsaid words. His path is no longer one of passive observation. His body aches from the weight of what is unknown, from the weight of what he must now face.
Domine's awakening is neither gentle nor soft. The darkness of the dream, which had at times seemed like a safe refuge, abruptly dissolves, as though an invisible curtain were drawn back before his eyes. The world around him is no longer the vast and enigmatic landscape of his nightmare, but the small, stifling reality of his room. The faint, flickering light of a solitary lamp on the bedside table casts a soft glow over the furniture, projecting shadows that stretch and distort across the walls. The air is thick, heavy.
He feels the cold sweat trickle down his forehead, his body still weighed down by the remnants of the dream, trembling. His chest tightens, as though something were consuming him from the inside. It is not pain, but an intense need, something inflaming and spreading, growing within him, devouring every thought, every breath. An unshaped desire begins to mark his being. The heat of fever slowly rises, as though his heart were about to burst or perhaps expand into something greater, more dangerous.
The passion, immense and strange, overwhelms him, yet he does not yet understand what it is. He has no words for it. The sensation is not pleasure, but the promise of something vast, something he cannot control. There are no answers, only the relentless fever that floods his veins, trapping him in a way he cannot escape.
The shadows of the dream are still there, though distant now, but a part of him cannot forget what he heard. What was said. And the voice... that voice... he does not know whether he can trust it, whether he can trust what it has awakened within him. But there is no more time to doubt. Reality, like a cold gag, closes in around him, leaving him trapped in his own need.
Now awakened, Domine must attempt to recollect his destiny. As he recalls the enigmatic landscape, it feels as though hours have passed, although only minutes have slipped by. The sensation is like that of someone who has slept a deep, dreamless sleep, where time stretches beyond its normal bounds, and the waking world suddenly seems unfamiliar, as if eternity itself is pressing against the door. He tries to understand his role within the unfolding saga of empires, knowing that the true problem lies in the moment when dreams take on the shape of reality—because the proud always get what they desire.