Whispers Of My Incubus Guardian
A single book, glowing faintly under the light of the overhead lamp.
It was old, bound in dark leather, with no title on its cover. I reached for it, my fingers brushing the worn surface, and as soon as I touched it, a strange sensation surged through me—a tug, like a thread connecting me to something far away.
I opened the book, and my breath caught. The pages were filled with symbols I didn’t recognize, swirling and shifting as though alive.
But more unsettling was the image at the center of the page—a figure, shadowed and indistinct, standing in the middle of what looked like a vast, endless dreamscape.
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