February 26, 2026Story Meta: Genre: Thriller & Horror · Read time: 5 min · Mood tags: melancholic, hopeful, mysterious, romantic
When I first slipped into sleep, the world that opened before me was a hazy expanse of mist and memory. It felt like a blank canvas that the mind could paint upon, yet it was as familiar as the rhythm of my own pulse. I had learned to hold the brush steady, to shape my own world as one learned to shape a dream. Each night, I would wander the silvered woods that grew out of my thoughts, the trees bending like quiet witnesses to my longing for something grand.
The forest was alive with the sounds of distant rivers, the whisper of leaves in a wind that carried my own heartbeat. It was an echo of my own interior, and yet it was not. It was a place that only I could navigate, a place that felt both mine and not mine. I had grown to treasure it for its quiet, for its endless possibilities, and for the way it let me forget the weight of ordinary life.
On the night of the second moon, the forest took on a new shape. The air thickened with the scent of rain, and my senses sharpened. A figure appeared from the gloom—a towering silhouette that seemed carved from night itself. He wore armor that shimmered like oil and smoke, and his presence demanded reverence and terror in equal measure. My mind, the very one that had conjured the trees and streams, was suddenly faced with an opponent.
"You are not the kind who dares to wander these woods," his voice boomed, carried on the wind that swirled around us. He stepped forward, revealing a broad chest plate etched with the runes of old wars, the edges of his helm a deep, obsidian black. The gleam of his greataxe was a silver moon against the darkness of his armor.
I was not a warrior by trade. I was a dreamer, a wanderer between the edges of my own mind and the endless horizon that stretched beyond. Yet in this forest, I had seen no other creature. I had seen only the path of my own thoughts, and I could not retreat.
The battle began with the clamor of our blades. The sound of steel meeting steel rang across the trees, while the ground beneath us pulsed with the rhythm of battle. I moved with the knowledge of the forests’ pathways, weaving around his strikes, avoiding the heavy swings that could have broken my shield. The giant’s arm swung in a wide arc, a blade that could slice through me in a single motion. I sidestepped, the blade flashing across the bark of a pine, leaving a scar of light.
He was a beast of strength and skill, a living paradox of brute force and deft technique. Each of his moves was calculated, as if he were a master strategist who had practiced this duel for centuries. I could feel the weight of his sword in my hands, my own sword heavy with a dream’s intention.
After a long dance of steel, I noticed a weakness in his armor—a narrow seam between his helm and breastplate that seemed to glow with a faint, almost imperceptible light. A flaw in a dream, almost a phantom. I used my own movements to probe that seam, hoping to exploit it.
In a sudden rush of motion, I leapt forward, my own blade aiming at the gap. The great warrior’s arm swung to block, his shield flashing in the moonlit air. But the motion caused a small crack in the steel. A sliver of darkness fell to the ground, and the night sky seemed to hold its breath.
I seized the opportunity. With a single strike, I drove my blade into the gap. The great man flinched, his eyes widening. The shock of that single motion was enough for me to gain the upper hand.
The clang of metal rang out one last time as I pushed my opponent to the forest floor. He fell, his shield clattering as it hit the ground. His armor, the black of a storm, was now marred by the light of defeat.
Slowly, I approached him, each step careful, the forest's damp leaves muffling my tread. He lay there, the great man who had once commanded kingdoms now reduced to dust and a trembling, broken dream.
He did not beg for mercy. He simply stared at me with a tired gaze, as if he were a mirror reflecting the last breath of his own ambitions.
I drew my own blade and, with a quiet resolve, finished the story at the end of his life. Then I turned to the fallen warrior, to the secrets he had carried. Beneath his belt, where the gleam of his armor dimmed, a small compartment cradled a scroll that glowed with a gentle, gold light.
The scroll was not wrapped in ordinary cloth. Instead, it was braided with vines etched in gold—an ancient sigil of power. The paper within carried an ink that seemed to breathe. With cautious hands, I unrolled it. The words that lay upon it were in a language I knew, the one of the old world, the one that belonged to the dreamscapes I had fashioned.
The ink shimmered. It was a map, a guide to a secret that was once held by this world’s forgotten rulers. The map was a key to a place where my own dreams could flourish, where my thoughts and my fantasies could weave into reality. The story within the scroll promised that, for those who dared to dream with purpose, the world beyond would be unlocked.
I placed the scroll in my satchel, feeling the weight of its promise. The forest around me seemed to breathe in a steady rhythm, the trees nodding as if acknowledging my triumph.
When I awoke, the dream world faded, leaving me in the ordinary spaces of my life. But the memory remained: a night when I faced a towering figure in black armor, when I turned a dream of endless possibility into a victory. I had once again found that the greatest battles are fought not in the world outside, but in the dreamscape that lives within each of us.
And I thought back to my initial promise to myself— to learn how to live in a world that was not only a dream but also a place where my ideas could take flight. The scroll was a reminder that the path was only as winding as the dreamer’s will.
In the quiet moments that followed, I could hear the echo of my own footsteps in the forest, the faint glow of gold and the rustle of leaves. I knew that every time I closed my eyes, I would return to the woods, to the battle, and to that hidden key that would guide whatever new dream I dared to create.
The next night, I drifted into sleep once more, eager to walk the path I knew, to write a new story, and to continue being lost in a dream that was my own.
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Source inspiration: adapted from a Reddit Writing Prompt [OT] Hey guys, resonatingfury here. Four years ago I responded to a prompt about two people who go on adventures in lucid dreams and eventually find each other in real life. Today, after years of struggle, I’m so proud to say that Lost in a Dream is a published novel. I’m finally an author!!!.
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