Once more, Lamphrey's dream-world spun, weaved through her scaled, ancient fingers.

He looked upon the blasted realm of Westerweald. He felt the pain of its people. And he saw the Hybrids surge through the realm, spurred on by the devastation that had been inflicted on them for centuries under their human rulers.

An eye for an eye…Ethan thought.

Then, in the midst of the carnage, Ethan caught a glimpse of a brilliant light on the horizon. At first it was only a single beam. Then, as if the heavens themselves answered the call, a star-like radiance descended. Marching beneath that celestial banner was an army of Greycloaks, the last bastion of mortal hope. Scarred men and women wearing tattered cloaks advanced with grim determination. Leading them was a figure whose aura outshone the gloom.

Artorious, the Lightborn.

He stood tall, clad in armor that caught the remnants of sunlight and magnified it until it shimmered like a radiant promise. A golden sword rested in his hand, its blade etched with runic patterns that pulsed with pure energy. The spines and tendrils of Gyko's fungal domain seemed to recoil from his presence. Where he stepped, the ground appeared to revive for a heartbeat—flowers of natural hue blossomed briefly before wilting again under the Archon's oppressive power. Even so, it was a sign that hope was not extinguished.

Artorious rallied the Greycloaks, his voice resonating with unwavering conviction. "We stand against the last Archon who would plunge the world into endless night," he proclaimed. "We fight for every life that remains untainted, for every dream that still flickers in the darkness!" The army roared in response, brandishing swords, spears, and staves infused with faint glimmers of the Lightborn's power.

Ethan, enthralled, watched as they clashed with Gyko's monstrous horde. The battle was chaotic, limbs and weapons entangled amidst a chorus of screams and battle cries. Both sides suffered devastating losses. The toxic spores choked many of the Greycloaks, but Artorious' light shielded his warriors from the worst of the corruption. His shining sword cut through the twisted bodies, severing bloated vines and scattering vile pollen. Gyko's shrieks reverberated through the forest, resonating in the minds of friend and foe alike, a chorus of madness that threatened to unhinge the bravest hearts.

Ethan's vision narrowed, drawn to the pivotal confrontation in the heart of the forest. Towering nearly as tall as the ancient oaks once had, Gyko loomed over Artorious. Her central bloom opened like a yawning maw, revealing a circular formation of eyes that burned with malevolent intelligence. A mosaic of petals, sharper than steel, clacked as if they were jaws. Artorious held his sword forward, its tip blazing bright. He leapt, swinging at Gyko's trunk-like limbs, severing one of her massive vine-arms in a spray of sap and gore.

Gyko retaliated. Vines lashed, forming a whirling cage of serrated petals and creeping roots. Artorious was thrown backward, smashing through rotted trees and sinking into the spongy earth. His light faltered for a moment, flickering like a candle in a storm. The demon flower advanced, spitting a cloud of spores that shimmered with lethal potency. But the Lightborn rose, battered but unbroken. He raised his hand, forming a shield of blinding radiance that forced the poisonous cloud away.

The clash escalated. Shockwaves of raw power rippled through the battlefield, forcing the remaining Greycloaks and the monstrous horde to stagger back. Trees snapped and fell, the ground quaked. Gyko's shrieking hammered at Ethan's senses, even though he was only an observer in the dream. Some force—Lamphrey's presence, perhaps—kept him tethered, ensuring he would not flee this macabre spectacle. He had to witness it, to understand the cycle.

Finally, with a roar that echoed across leagues, Artorious lunged forward, sword aflame with searing light. He drove the blade deep into Gyko's central bloom, piercing the seat of her being. For an agonizing moment, the Archon quivered, her petals trembling as if they might snap shut and crush the warrior within. But Artorious channeled his essence into that blade, letting it blaze with a radiance so fierce that it shattered the outer husk of Gyko's massive body. The demon flower twisted in agony, letting out an ear-splitting wail that rattled the cosmic depths of the dream.

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Then a hush fell. Gyko's towering form began to collapse, vines wilting, petals losing their unnatural color. The ground shook as her mass toppled into the forest floor, bringing trees crashing down in a chaotic symphony. Exhausted but victorious, Artorious withdrew his blade. Beams of sunlight, weak yet determined, filtered through the swirling dust and spores, casting the battered forest in a ghostly glow. Around them, Greycloaks either cheered or sank to their knees in relief. The monstrous hordes, deprived of Gyko's commanding presence, faltered. Some screeched and fought on, others wandered aimlessly, and still others crumpled to the ground, their life force tethered to the Archon's heart.

And in that moment of finality, Ethan saw something that chilled his soul. Gyko—though dying—smiled. Her crimson eyes, drained of hatred, seemed almost serene. It was the smile of one who knew a secret. Her voice, a rasp of wind through broken petals, was inaudible to all but the dream's memory, yet Ethan felt it resonate in his mind. The words were unclear, but he understood their meaning: The cycle would not end here. This was only another turning of the wheel.

Lamphrey's voice resonated from the periphery of the dream. "She knew she would not be the last. She offered herself as the final Archon, but it was never destined to be so. Artorious, though valiant, had a flaw that no Lightborn had ever shown before. He feared death. He was too human." Ethan turned, seeing Lamphrey's face drawn in sorrow and resignation. "In that fear," she said, "he faltered. He did not let the Light consume him entirely. Therefore, he could not destroy the seed of the darkness forever. A fragment remained."

Ethan watched Artorious in the dream's aftermath. The triumphant Lightborn lowered his sword, his expression a swirl of exhaustion and relief. But there was also worry etched in his features. He stood among the fallen trees, the rotting vines, the corrupted husks of Gyko's spawn, and his shoulders sagged with a burden that seemed beyond mortal comprehension. Even as he was hailed as a hero, even as he received the adoration of the survivors, Ethan understood: Artorious had doubts gnawing at his heart. And in that crack of uncertainty, the cycle would begin anew.

The dream lifted, dissolving like mist, and Ethan found himself once more standing in a domain of swirling visions. It was a place outside conventional space—a dream corridor where countless possibilities floated in glowing orbs. Each sphere contained a history, a tragedy, a prophecy. He saw flickers of Karfangg, the enormous dragon-like Archon of a previous era, saw his downfall at the hands of another Lightborn whose heart was filled with unwavering resolve. Karfangg, Gelsaadra, Moratavious, and Gyko…on and on went the cycle, Archons rising to envelop the world in darkness, only to be slain by a Lightborn champion.

Lamphrey circled him, her robe's intricate patterns shimmering like trapped stars. "You have asked me, Ethan, what the point of it all is. Why does the cycle continue? Archon after Archon emerges, each unleashing untold devastation, each seemingly unstoppable, until a Lightborn stands forth to challenge it. Then, inevitably, a new Archon eventually takes shape from the remnants of the old. Why? Is existence so cruel that it must revolve in circles of despair?"

He searched her face, anxiety twisting in his chest.

"You've shown me so many visions. All those people, innocent and guilty alike, consumed by one horror or another. How can any of this be justified? Why would the world even allow this cycle to continue?"

Lamphrey reached out gently, brushing a tendril of dreamstuff from his brow. "Only you can answer that," she said, her voice hushed but resolute. "The pattern among all these fallen Archons is there, evident in each story. Reflect, Ethan. What common thread binds them all, from Karfangg to Gyko, from the earliest devourers to the last seeds of corruption? There is a hidden truth embedded in each repetition of chaos, something that the Lightborn have yet to fully understand. And you, who stand with one foot in dreams and the other in mortal flesh, may see it clearly—if you choose to."

Ethan tried to focus, narrowing his eyes to control the sweeping visions that threatened to overwhelm his mind.

Then all at once, like a mad haze of emerald fury, Lamphrey grabbed him.

"See, Ethan Hawke," she said – and he got the impression that she was talking directly to him now – not his Host, not the Demon Hat – but him. The human soul that was still looking out from within.

"See what my dreams may show you that my words may not," she said – desperation pricking at her voice. She was shaking. "See! What is the common thread? What is the link that binds them all!?"

In that moment of intensity, visions swirling around her gnashing teeth, Ethan felt his brain about to burst…

-than.

Another voice was calling to him from somewhere…a familiar voice…

Ethan!

The dream died just as quickly as it had begun. He fell back, secure in his Drytchling form, and hit his head against the cold, dark stone of Haylock's prison chamber.

Above, Fauna the Hopla was staring right at him.

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