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“Midas’ men,” Aurora hissed, her voice laced with anger as she swiftly nocked an arrow on her bowstring.

“Wait!” Tristan called out, but Aurora had already released her arrow. It sailed through the air with deadly precision, striking one of the golden-armored guards squarely in the chest. The man disintegrated into a swirling puff of smoke, just as Tristan had witnessed in his own nightmare at the castle. They were illusions.

Aurora didn’t hesitate, sending two more arrows streaking through the moonlit clearing, each hitting its intended target. The remaining guards vanished into thin air.

The young man who had entered the Dreamworld staggered to a halt, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Recognition dawned on Tristan as he noticed the seashell engraving on the young man’s armor. He was a soldier from Tristan’s army.

“Prince Tristan!” the young man exclaimed, his voice quivering with a mixture of shock and fear. “You shouldn't be here, sir! We’re losing the battle! We’re losing our men! Go, save yourself!”

Before Tristan could formulate a response, more screams pierced the air, the ominous tolling of a bell ringing out incessantly. More soldiers from his army began materializing in the clearing, one by one, each with a look of terror etched on their faces.

Aurora’s voice cut through the chaos. “Wait! Don’t run! They’re illusions! You have to fight them!” She released a barrage of arrows, each finding its mark in the golden armor. “Stop running!”

Tristan’s mind whirled in confusion and disbelief. “These are my men,” he muttered, his gaze flitting between the frantic soldiers. “What is happening?”

“Midas got to them,” Aurora explained, her words laced with a grim certainty as she continued to unleash her arrows. “When he turns someone into gold, they enter a sleep stasis and wake up here.”

The nightmare grew even more chaotic as more of Tristan’s men appeared, accompanied by their own harrowing nightmares. Panic and terror gripped the soldiers, causing them to drop their weapons and flee in all directions.

“Don’t panic!” Aurora pleaded. “You’ll make them stronger!”

“Prince Tristan!” another young man called out. “Run! Save yourself—” His warning was abruptly silenced as a golden sword pierced his chest from behind. The gruesome sight propelled Tristan forward. He leaped off the horse.

“Tristan, don’t!” Aurora called out. But it was too late.

In a fit of rage and desperation, Tristan hurled a fallen sword at the soldier responsible for the death of the young man. The blade struck its mark, and the soldier vanished from sight. Tristan retrieved the sword from the ground, slashing at another illusory soldier.

Aurora leaped from her horse, rushing to join him at the center of the clearing. Her voice was frantic and breathless. “We have to go! If you’re killed here, you die in reality!”

Tristan, his muscles burning from the relentless fighting, continued to swing the sword with unwavering determination. “I will not leave my men!”

Together, they stood back-to-back, fighting harmoniously amongst the avalanche of illusions. Their swords cleaved through the golden-armored soldiers, but with each enemy vanquished, more seemed to materialize from thin air.

“Tristan!” Aurora yelled, her voice strained from the never-ending battle. “Your men are panicked, frenzied. The illusion is gaining too much strength.”

But Tristan refused to relent, his rage fueling his every strike. He watched as his men fell one by one, their fates sealed by the inexorable nightmare. Tristan’s vision blurred with a maelstrom of silver and green, each swing of his sword a desperate attempt to protect those who were fighting for his kingdom.

As the final golden-armored soldier vanished, Tristan’s frenetic assault slowed, his breaths heavy and labored. He surveyed the aftermath, his eyes filled with a harrowing realization.

All of his men lay defeated, their lifeless forms sprawled across the moonlit clearing. Not one had survived the onslaught.

With trembling hands, Tristan released the sword, allowing it to fall to the ground with a hollow thud. He collapsed to his knees, the physical and emotional toll of the battle sapping all of his strength.

Aurora crouched beside him. “Are you all right?” she asked between ragged breaths.

Tristan couldn’t find the words to respond. He was numb, engulfed by a profound sense of failure. His men had not only fallen in their battle with Midas in the real world, but they had also succumbed to the relentless onslaught of their own fears and nightmares in the Dreamworld.

And in both realms, Tristan had proven himself inadequate to protect them. He had failed as their prince, as their leader. He was ill-prepared to ascend the throne, and his army’s devastation served as a brutal reminder of his shortcomings.

“Tristan,” Aurora began, her voice soft and reassuring, “there were too many of them. You did what you could.”

Guilt gnawed at Tristan’s soul. While he had sought to escape into the Dreamworld, his men had faced the horrors of reality head-on, laying down their lives for him and his kingdom.

But there was no escaping from the harsh reality of his responsibilities any longer. Tristan had a kingdom to protect, and it was time to confront the source of his despair.

Tristan rose to his feet, his voice a low, resolute rumble. “Show me,” he demanded, his gaze locked on Aurora’s, “how to defeat that wretched Midas.”

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