In a place that is no place, at a time out of time, in a castle that doesn't exist, behind a throne seldom occupied, sits a king lost in thought. There was a time when it was the only dream, coursing through this realm like blood courses through the veins of men. That was a time when the king was glorious, and terrible, a power beyond reckoning, a thing of terror and beauty. Then other dreams appeared, small at first, but always growing. Self-important preening scheming princes that claw and grab and squabble. Once he would have swatted them like flies, but he took too long to notice and they grew too strong. Now all he hears is their endless chatter. The king preferred his solitude, but he's patient. He knows it will return.
