The obsidian spires loomed closer, their surfaces now seeming to writhe and pulse with a malevolent energy. Lyra felt a tremor, not just in the unstable ground beneath her feet, but within her very being. The metallic tang of ozone intensified, burning the back of her throat. She knew, instinctively, that she was close – close to whatever lay at the heart of this nightmarish dreamscape, close to the next piece of the prophecy.

She pushed forward, her dreamweaving abilities flaring to life as a protective shield. The shifting ground threatened to engulf her, but her will, fueled by a growing desperation, held it at bay. She navigated the treacherous landscape, her senses heightened, alert to any subtle shifts in the dream's fabric, any whisper of the prophecy's secrets.