The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the parched earth. Lyra, still weary from her confrontation with Morwen, found herself unable to shake the feeling that something was profoundly wrong. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a low hum, a discordant note that resonated deep within her bones. It wasn't the usual hum of the Dreamlands; this was different, colder, more unsettling. It felt…wrong.

She'd spent the last few hours attempting to rest, but sleep eluded her. Her dreams, usually a vibrant tapestry of colors and sensations, were now fractured, fragmented, filled with unsettling glimpses of twisting, shadowed figures that seemed to writhe and pulse with an unnatural energy. Even when awake, these images lingered, blurring the edges of reality. She'd find herself momentarily disoriented, a fleeting sense of wrongness clinging to her like a shroud. A flickering lamp would suddenly appear as a grotesque, skeletal hand, a familiar tree morphing into a snarling beast.