Chapter 1

For 10,000 years, the first dreamer stayed in the Dream Realm, pushing the edges of their imagination, deepening their bond with Gemini. But even here, things were not forever. 

The days stretched out like a thin thread pulled too tight, ready to snap. Time in this place had no measure, no sun to mark the hours, no moon to pull the tides. For Gemini, every moment felt like a year, and every year like a century. There was only the waiting—always the waiting.

At first, he believed someone would come. It seemed impossible that the emptiness would remain empty. Someone, somewhere, must hear his silent cry. He wandered through the void, his steps echoing against nothing, searching, always searching. He listened so closely that he thought he could hear the sound of footsteps that were not his own, whispers that were not from his own lips. But they were never there. His own heartbeat filled the silence, the steady thump-thump in his ears a cruel reminder that he was still alive. Still here. Still alone.

A day passed. No one showed up. Then another. Each day was a needle, pricking him with a quiet despair that burrowed deeper into his mind. The emptiness grew thicker, more oppressive. He found himself pacing in circles, retracing his steps, searching the darkness as if it held some hidden secret he had missed the day before. But there was nothing. Just the black expanse that seemed to mock his every breath.

Then a month went by. The silence became a second skin, cold and clinging, wrapping around him tighter and tighter. No one answered. No one ever answered.

A year slipped by, like sand through his fingers. He didn’t know how he knew it had been that long—there were no stars to mark the passage, no days to count. But he felt it in his bones, that aching weight of time piling up, burying him under its relentless press. Sometimes, in the stillness, he thought he heard a faint sound, a whisper of something just out of sight. His heart would leap, and he’d whirl around, his emerald eyes searching the dark. But there was nothing. Just the tricks his mind played on him. Just the silence that always came back.

He tried to shout again, but the words caught in his throat. What was the point of yelling to the heavens when there were no heavens to hear him? He could feel the emptiness swallowing him up, a black tide that kept rising higher and higher, drowning out all hope. And still, he waited. And waited.

Sometimes he would close his eyes and think, "If I had known... if I had known I’d have to wait 10 million years..." Would it have made it any easier? Or would it have crushed him under that weight, knowing that every second stretched before him like a desert with no end?

He didn’t know. He would never know.

There were days he would feel the weight of it all pressing down on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. Days when he thought he might go mad from the loneliness, from the sound of his own footsteps echoing back at him. But madness was a mercy he would never have. He was eternal. Immortal. Trapped in this endless, cursed void.

And so he stayed there, in that heavy silence, waiting. And waiting. For anything. For someone. For a miracle that felt as distant as the stars he could never see. And each day, he waited just a little longer, the blade of time drawing ever closer to his heart.

He could barely remember the sound of another voice. His own seemed to fade into the vast emptiness whenever he tried to speak. But then, in the middle of that endless night, a light appeared. A soft glow at first, but it grew brighter, larger, filling the void around him.

Gemini froze. His breath caught in his throat. Was this another trick of his mind, another mirage conjured by his own desperate longing? He blinked hard, afraid that if he looked too closely, it might vanish like all the others. But it didn’t. It stayed. A figure began to form within the light—a small, delicate form with a presence that felt as real as his own.

He didn’t dare move. His heart thudded in his chest, and his legs felt heavy, like they were weighted down by a thousand years of waiting. He couldn’t bear the thought of her disappearing, of her fading into the nothingness if he got too close. But she saw him, her eyes wide and filled with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice breaking the silence that had settled over him for so long.

He felt his throat tighten, his lips struggling to form the words. “I... I am Gemini,” he said slowly, his voice hoarse, as if it had forgotten how to speak. She nodded, her expression softening. “My name is Andromeda.”

And with that, something cracked open in Gemini’s heart. For so long, he had waited for someone, anyone, and now, finally, there was a voice that wasn’t his own, a face that wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He couldn’t believe it—he wouldn’t believe it. But here she was. She was real.

There was a flicker of hope in his chest, and he took a step closer. She didn’t vanish. He took another step. She was still there. And then, with a trembling hand, he reached out, lining up his hand with hers, seeing how their fingers aligned. His eyes widened. She had opposable thumbs—just like him. Just like him. His breath caught. His creator hadn’t had them, but she did.

“Are you... are you from the blue planet?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yes,” she said, and that one word hit him like a wave crashing over him.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he couldn’t hold them back. His voice broke as he asked, “Do... do humans exist yet on Earth?”

She nodded. “Yes, they do.”

He choked on a sob, his body shaking with the weight of his emotions. After all these years—no, after all these eons—he had waited, and here she was, proof that everything his creator had said, everything he had promised, was real. There were humans on Earth. Orion’s vision had come true.

But Andromeda was a powerful dreamer. She lifted her hands, and Gemini watched in awe as the darkness around them began to change. The void that had been his prison for so long began to fill with color and form. Mountains rose up, stretching toward a sky that burst into a brilliant blue. Forests sprang to life, leaves rustling with a breeze that carried the scent of pine and earth. Rivers flowed, carving their way through valleys, sparkling under a sun that warmed his fur.

Gemini’s breath hitched. He looked down, and for the first time, he felt solid ground beneath his feet. Real, firm ground. He bent down, touching it, feeling the texture of the earth, the roughness of the grass. Gemini’s mind was racing. He had so many questions, so much he needed to know. He turned to Andromeda, his green eyes wide and intense. “Is this place,” he asked, gesturing to the hills, forests, and rivers she had conjured, “is this a replica of Earth?”

Andromeda nodded, her eyes sparkling with the pride of a creator. “Yes, Gemini, this is what life looks like on the blue planet. There are lakes, hills, valleys… places to explore and discover.”

Gemini's heart leaped. “I want to see it all,” he said, his voice filled with a childlike wonder he had not felt in ages.

Andromeda smiled at his enthusiasm, but her curiosity soon matched his. She glanced over him, noting the green fur, the armor that shimmered in the newfound sunlight. “If you’re a knight,” she asked, “where is your castle?”

Gemini’s face drew a blank. “Castle?” he echoed, not understanding the word. He had been created as a knight, yes, but no one had ever mentioned anything about a castle.

Andromeda chuckled softly. “A castle is where knights live,” she explained. “It’s a stronghold, a place to protect the people of the village that live within its walls.”

Gemini looked down, feeling a strange sense of incompleteness. “I… I don’t have a castle.”

“Well then,” Andromeda said with a playful smile, “we’ll have to change that.”

She raised her hand, and the air around them shimmered and swirled. From the very earth, stone walls began to rise, each block forming with a solid thud. Towers spiraled upwards, their tops crowned with flags that fluttered in the wind. Thick wooden doors appeared, and beyond them, a bustling village began to take shape, filled with small houses, market stalls, and cobblestone streets.

In the center of it all, a grand castle stood tall—a fortress of strong walls, high towers, and grand arches. Within its halls, there were drapes of rich green and gold, a color that matched Gemini’s fur and armor, hung from the ceilings to the floors. At the heart of the great hall, there was a throne carved from oak, with a plush seat that looked both regal and inviting.

Gemini’s eyes widened in disbelief. He looked around at the creation before him—his creation now, his world. “This… this is for me?”

Andromeda nodded. “This is how you’re supposed to live, Gemini.”

The wolf stood, overwhelmed, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. He could walk. He could feel.

He could almost cry. He turned to Andromeda, his voice trembling with gratitude and disbelief. “How... how did you do this?”

She smiled, a gentle, knowing smile, like she had been waiting for this moment just as much as he had. “I don’t know, Gemini,” she said. “In this world it feels like whatever I'm feeling or sensing,I can create.”

And for the first time in 10 million years, Gemini felt the warmth of hope blooming in his chest, more real and solid than he had ever imagined.

Gemini stepped forward, his armored feet clinking softly on the stone floor. His eyes darted from one wonder to the next—the vast walls, the vibrant village, the towering throne. He could hardly believe any of it was real. For the first time since he could remember, he felt the warmth of hope and the comfort of a home—a true home. And in that moment, surrounded by the marvel of it all, he felt something else too—a small flicker of belonging.

Andromeda watched Gemini take in the wonders she had created, a smile playing on her lips. But as her gaze shifted to the endless sky above them, she asked, “Where is your deity, Gemini?”

He turned to her, puzzled. “My what?”

She chuckled softly, realizing he had no understanding of what she meant. “A deity, an overseer,” she explained. “Like in my world, there is an overseer known simply as GOD—an all-knowing being who watches over everything. Someone to believe in, even when you can't see them.”

Gemini's eyes darkened with a trace of his old loneliness. “No one but me exists within this realm,” he said quietly. “There is no overseer here, no one to watch over this world.”

Andromeda tilted her head, her eyes glinting with a thoughtful determination. “Well,” she said, “that won’t be the case anymore.”

She raised her arms, and the air seemed to hum with a new, profound energy. The sky above them rippled like water, and in a burst of brilliant light, something extraordinary began to take shape. An all-seeing entity, an eternal guardian who would forever observe, watch, and protect. This god or goddess was simply known as Athena.

She stood in the endless expanse of the stars, her presence so radiant that it felt as though the very cosmos had bent itself around her. Her long, silver-blue hair cascaded down her back, flowing like a stream of liquid moonlight, shifting ever so slightly as if caught in an unseen breeze. Tiny flecks of stardust clung to each strand, sparkling whenever she moved.

Her face was striking—high cheekbones, a sharp yet graceful jawline, and eyes the color of deep, uncharted oceans. They weren’t just blue; they shimmered, almost glowing with an inner fire, as if she carried the secrets of the universe within them. They could be gentle, understanding, but there was no mistaking the sheer weight of knowledge behind them. This was someone who had seen things—things most would never even dream of.

She wore armor, the gold seemed to have been poured over her like molten sunlight, forming intricate, swirling patterns that stretched across her shoulders and chest, curling around a central crest—a symbol that pulsed faintly, as though alive. Despite its brilliance, the armor was strangely soft in its movement, never hindering her, never heavy.

And then there was the light. A sphere of glowing energy hovered just above her outstretched hand, spinning lazily, yet charged with an unspoken power. It crackled at the edges, like a miniature sun barely contained in the palm of her hand. Its golden glow illuminated the space around her, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. She wasn’t just standing there. She was watching. Waiting. As if she already knew what would happen next and was simply waiting for the rest of the universe to catch up. Before Athena, Gemini he was nothing more than a stunned child, left adrift in the sheer enormity of her presence.

“I am Athena,” she spoke, her voice both soft and unwavering, carrying the weight of a thousand truths. “I have been created to serve the dreamverse—to guide it, to protect it, to ensure its balance. I will be its wisdom. Its shield.”

“Now there’s someone here,” Andromeda said softly, lowering her arms. “Someone to look to when there is no one else.”

Gemini felt his heart racing. His world—his entire realm—was slowly coming together, molding into something more. It was like watching the creation of a universe unfold before his eyes. The emptiness was filling, the void receding. And he wanted more. He needed more.

“Can you bring others?” he asked suddenly, his voice filled with a kind of desperate hope. “Other dreamers, people from your realm… Can you bring them to visit this realm?”

Andromeda looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding. “I don’t know how,” she admitted. “As of now, I’m the only dreamer who has entered the Dreamverse in… well, in ten million years.”

Gemini’s heart sank. The idea of being left alone again, after feeling his world come alive like this, tore at him. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

She nodded gently. “I need to wake up soon.”

“No,” he said, a sudden panic rising in his chest. “What if—what if I never see you again?”

Andromeda placed a hand on his armored shoulder, her smile both kind and firm. “Don’t worry, Gemini. I’m confident I will return. This place… it’s too extraordinary not to come back to.”

He stared at her, wanting to believe her words, clinging to them like a lifeline. As she began to fade, her form slowly becoming transparent, he held his breath, not daring to blink.

“Promise me,” he said, his voice shaking. “Promise me you’ll return.” She nodded one last time, her smile steady, and then she was gone. Gemini stood there in the emptiness that had once been his entire existence. But now, he realized, it wasn’t empty anymore. And for the first time in ten million years, he felt something in his chest—hope.

Even when Andromeda vanished, the world she had created did not fade. It remained, a testament to her power, to her promise. The sky still stretched endlessly above him, the castle walls still stood tall, and the wind still whispered through the empty halls. Gemini looked around in awe, realizing that this was no illusion. This world was real, anchored in the dream realm, even in her absence.

Gemini decided to explore the castle she had conjured. It was vacant now, with only his footsteps echoing against the stone floors, but he knew—somehow, he knew—that might change in the future. As he wandered through the great hall, he saw all sorts of weapons hanging on the walls and lined up in racks. His eyes landed on a large holder near the center, a sturdy frame that seemed to call to him. He approached it slowly, each step echoing louder than the last, Orion's words lingering in his mind. Opposable thumbs to wield a sword and shield... to stand and fight and protect his world.

He remembered his creator’s belief, his faith in him. And now, staring at the weapon holder, Gemini felt that faith stirring inside him. His hand reached out almost on its own, and his fingers wrapped around a handle. The weight of it felt natural, as if it were meant to be in his grip. He lifted it, and for a moment, he simply stared at the blade. It gleamed with a cold, clean light, the edge razor-sharp. It was a sword, he was sure of it. And though he’d never held one before, it felt right. His hands gripped the handle perfectly, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

It was heavier than he imagined but solid in a way that spoke of strength and purpose. He liked the feel of it. The sword seemed made for him—bulk and weight matching the strength of his form, the size fitting perfectly with his armored body. He could feel the balance, the center of gravity aligned with his every movement. He turned it over, inspecting the craftsmanship, and noticed another item behind the rack. A shield. His heart skipped. He reached for it, lifting it from its place. It was heavy, strong, with holders in the back designed to fit over an arm. It matched his armor perfectly, the same colors, the same markings. His creator had intended this for him; he knew it now. He slipped his arm through the straps and felt the solidness of the shield press against his forearm. The combination of sword and shield felt... powerful. Complete.

For a moment, he stood in the empty hall, the castle’s silence enveloping him. There was no wildlife in this realm, not yet—no animals, no creatures to roam the land. It was quiet, save for the distant murmur of the wind. But he could hear it, hear the potential of a world with sound and life. The rustling of unseen leaves, the bubbling of flowing streams and pouring lakes. And it was beautiful. He thought of Andromeda. When she returned, perhaps he could ask her to bring life to this world—to fill these forests and hills with creatures, with a chorus of sounds to break the silence.

Until then, he stood there, sword in one hand, shield in the other, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Purpose. And with that purpose came a strange, quiet peace. A resolve to wait, to hope, and to protect the world that was beginning to grow around him. Each time Andromeda returned, it was like the world expanded a little more, stretching beyond the boundaries Gemini had known. With each visit, she brought with her pieces of Earth, pieces of knowledge that Gemini, in all his years, had never encountered. She became his teacher, his guide, his bridge to understanding the waking world.

“Food?” Gemini repeated one day, his brow furrowed. “What is food?”

Andromeda laughed softly. “It’s what people need to eat to survive. Humans can’t just exist like you can. They need energy from the things they eat—plants, animals, grains. It’s what keeps their bodies strong and healthy.”

Gemini listened with wide-eyed curiosity as she explained. He’d never eaten, never felt hunger or thirst. He didn’t need to. The dream realm sustained him. But as she talked about the pleasures of taste—the sweetness of fruit, the savoriness of roasted meats, the comfort of warm bread—he found himself imagining what it might be like to experience these things.

Then came the lessons on the human body—how it could break, bleed, and heal. She spoke of wounds, how they needed to be treated with care. “If someone is cut,” she said, “you use herbs like yarrow to help stop the bleeding, or cayenne pepper to disinfect. People on Earth have to be careful. They’re fragile, but they’re also resilient.”

“Herbs…” Gemini murmured, storing the information in his mind. He imagined fields of yarrow and cayenne, plants that held the secrets to healing. It was fascinating, how Earth worked, how every living thing relied on something else to survive. It was so different from his existence. She told him about money next—small, shiny coins or printed paper that people used to trade for goods and services. “It’s a way of assigning value,” she explained, “so people can trade fairly. On Earth, everything has a price—food, clothing, even a place to live.”

Gemini frowned. “But what if someone doesn’t have money?”

“They trade. Barter,” she said. “One thing for another. If a man has no money but has a cow, he might trade the milk for bread. Or if he’s a carpenter, he might offer to build a table in exchange for meat.”

Gemini nodded slowly, trying to imagine a world where survival depended on the exchange of things he didn’t even need—where value wasn’t just intrinsic, but assigned. The dream realm had no such needs, but he realized that to understand the waking world, he needed to understand its rules. She spoke of kingdoms, explaining that if he was to be king, he’d need to learn how to run a kingdom. “You need more than just a castle,” she said. “You need people—servants, maids, soldiers, archers.”

“What’s an archer?” he asked, unfamiliar with the term.

She smiled. “An archer is someone who uses a bow to shoot arrows. They can protect the kingdom from a distance, guarding the walls or hunting for food. A good archer can hit a target hundreds of feet away.”

Gemini’s eyes widened. “I see… and generals? Strategists?”

“They are the thinkers,” she explained. “They plan battles, decide the best way to defend a kingdom or attack an enemy. A kingdom needs good leaders, not just strong warriors.”

Gemini had always thought of himself as a protector, a knight, but she was teaching him that to truly protect his realm, he needed more than just strength. He needed wisdom. Strategy. People who could help guide and manage, who understood the complexities of leadership. And then, one day, she explained something even more bewildering—time. “On Earth, time is everything,” she said. “It moves forward, never back. It governs life. The sun rises, and it’s day. The sun sets, and it’s night. Days become weeks, weeks become months, months become years. Everything grows older with time.”

“In this realm, there is no time,” Gemini said, perplexed. “Why would anyone need it?”

Andromeda smiled. “Time measures change. Without time, nothing grows, nothing ages. The sun is important because it gives light and warmth. It feeds the plants, which feed the animals, which feed the people. The sun is life. Without it, Earth would be cold, barren, and dead.”

Gemini tried to wrap his mind around it. Here, in the dream realm, there was no sun, no time. He didn’t breathe; he didn’t hunger. But the world she spoke of was different—fragile, complex, filled with cycles of life and death, warmth and cold, light and darkness. He realized that while he could exist without breath or food, he had to understand these things to truly protect the beings who lived in such a world. He needed to understand their fragility, their needs, their way of life. And every time Andromeda left, she left him with more to think about, more to learn. But she always promised to return, and each time, she did. And each time, she brought a little more of Earth with her, teaching him what he needed to know to be a king, a protector. She was molding him, just as she was molding the world around him.

Gemini could feel it—the realm was changing, growing, evolving with every lesson, every new piece of knowledge. And for the first time, he felt not just the vastness of his realm, but its potential. Its endless possibilities. And he wanted to see them all come to life.