They came wrapped in sleep.
Not with armies.Not with fire.But in whispers.
The first signs were subtle—children who forgot how to speak overnight, elders who stared blankly at walls, entire neighborhoods waking in silence, unable to recall their own names.
It spread like a fog—soft, kind, erasing.
The Dreambreakers had arrived.
They were not gods.They were not men.
They were thoughts—sentient mantras forged by Vaikuntharaja himself, crafted to dissolve identity through dreams. They entered the mind through fear, through doubt, through guilt, and made you forget who you were before belief shaped you.
Aarav sensed it before it touched him.
He sat in meditation beneath a banyan tree near the city's edge. Breath smooth. Spine firm. But even then, the Dreambreakers tried.
They whispered:
"You never left Delhi.""The gates were just dreams.""You're nothing without someone watching.""You will wake up broken."
He didn't resist.
He breathed into it.
Let the false memories wash over him. Let the illusions play their tricks. Let the fear speak.
And then—
He exhaled.
And like smoke, the Dreambreakers unraveled.
Elsewhere, Meha began teaching children how to sit in stillness before sleep.
In homes across Shraddhalok, people breathed together at dusk—not out of ritual, but as defense.
Because you can't erase someone who remembers their breath.
In the Celestial Court, Vaikuntharaja stood slowly.
His fingers cracked like thunder.
"Very well," he said.
"Let's give him something real to fear."