A week passed.
For once—
Nothing exploded.
Nobody tried assassinating him.
No mysterious prophecies appeared.
No legendary inheritances descended from the sky.
No fate backlash.
No hidden enemies.
No terrifying revelations.
It was peaceful.
Suspiciously peaceful.
And because of that—
Clay spent the entire week trying to convince himself that those dreams meant absolutely nothing.
Just dreams.
Nothing more.
That was what he repeatedly told himself.
After all, dreams were dreams.
Sometimes people dreamed about ridiculous things.
Sometimes they dreamed about flying.
Sometimes they dreamed about becoming kings.
Sometimes they dreamed about getting chased by giant chickens.
Dreams did not have to make sense.
Unfortunately—
The more he tried convincing himself—
The less convincing it became.
Especially because the details remained perfectly clear.
Not blurry.
Not distorted.
Perfect.
Every face.
Every voice.
Every tragedy.
Every vow.
