The unsettling quiet of the following nights was broken only by the insistent whisper of dreams. They no longer felt like gentle breezes rustling through leaves, but rather a relentless tide pulling her under, a current of unsettling images and cryptic symbols. Sleep, once a refuge, had become a battleground.
It started subtly. A fleeting glimpse of a swirling vortex of darkness, a shadow stretching across a sun-drenched field, the chilling echo of a battle cry lost to time. Then, the symbols began. They appeared etched into the very fabric of her dreams, glowing runes of an unknown language, swirling across obsidian landscapes, shimmering on the surface of a vast, starless sea. At first, they were fragmented, glimpses of a greater whole, like shattered pieces of a mirror reflecting a distorted reality. But each night, the fragments coalesced, revealing more of the prophecy's chilling truth.
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