Chapter 5
Leon
It’s still dark when I wake, pulled from a deep post-sex slumber. Ana’s sleeping soundly beside me, her expression peaceful, and I’m not sure at first what’s disturbed me. I listen for a sound—some danger I might’ve sensed—but there’s silence.
I sit up, leaning across to the side table where a helpful servant has left a carafe and an empty glass. The surface of the water glints in the moonlight peeking between the curtains, and I pour myself some, lifting it to my lips.
A bitter iron tang fills my mouth, and I cough, spitting the horrible taste back out into the glass. When I lift it to the light, I see it’s not water at all but dark, purplish blood.
I lose control of my hand, and the glass slips from my fingers. It hits the floor, the crimson liquid spilling across the rug, except it fizzes like acid. Heart thudding, I watch the floor crumble away under the bite of its touch, revealing a black night full of stars.
What in the gods?
It dawns on me then. I’m dreaming.
Why didn’t I realize it before? I’ve seen other people’s dreams. I know how often their minds trick them into thinking the visions surrounding them are real.
But that never happens to me. I’ve always been in command of my unconscious self, able to shape the dream around me as I please. Is this lack of control a side effect after my encounter with the scythe?
Waking myself in the dream world is always easy enough. I just create a door and walk through it. The bedroom is still mostly intact, so I stand to exit, glancing down at the dream version of Ana.
See you on the other side, my love.
I open the door and walk through it…
…into a field of flowers.
I blink at the bright sunshine and curse.
This definitely isn’t the waking world. So where am I?
Or more precisely—whose mind am I in? People’s dreamscapes are always unique to them.
They’ll have a certain scent that keeps cropping up, or a color that always looks brighter than the others.
This person has a fixation with yellow. The flowers are so vividly yellow they’re almost hard to look at.
I see him then, moving through the field, hands outstretched to touch the petals. The half-dryad, Mal.
Strange. How would I have stumbled into his mind? I’ve never visited his dreams before, nor have I ever wanted to. We get along well enough, but I wouldn’t say we’re close.
I’m likely invisible to him. Most people can’t see me in their dreams unless I make myself known or they’re expecting me. I look around for a subtle spot to make a door. I don’t want to spend all night watching the rebel count flowers, after all.
But just as I turn my back on the dryad, he screams.
I whip around and see him cradling his hand, now bright with blood.
The flowers crowd in around him, only now they’re dark, malicious blooms jagged with thorns.
As he tries to run from them, they tear and bite at his body, ripping gashes in his flesh.
Frantically, he passes his hand over his wounds.
He’s trying to heal himself, but the cuts simply split open again.
Even if none of it’s real, it’s a depressing scene. I want to put him out of his misery, so I reach for my sensic magic, imagining the field of flowers returning to its friendly state, picturing Mal healed and happy…
Nothing. The rebel’s still struggling under the thorns, bellowing in pain.
Damn it. It seems my magic is malfunctioning in more ways than one. Well, if I can’t change the dream, I might as well leave it. With a wave of my hand, I conjure a door out of the field.
And walk straight into a library.
For Classitus’s sake.
I move quickly through the bookshelves, stopping when I find the owner of the dream.
It’s Lafia this time, her face buried in a book.
I’m not watching her more than a few moments when she gasps, a flame bursting out of the pages of the book she’s reading.
She stares at it in shock and horror as the fire spreads until it’s engulfed the whole book.
With a shriek, she drops it, but the flames are on her hands, searing her skin.
She frantically tries to pat them out, but the blaze continues to grow, climbing across the bookshelves and her clothes.
I turn away, not wanting to witness the rest of it unfold.
People have nightmares all the time, but this is too like Mal’s dream: a peaceful place turned violent and terrifying moments after my arrival.
No, this isn’t coincidence. Something about my presence here has turned the dream into a nightmare.
And why can’t I wake myself up?
A rare sensation—powerlessness—starts to creep up on me. A gnawing fear comes with it.
I sprint to the next door, pushing myself through it, willing myself to wake up.
I find myself in Fairon’s head next, my brother sitting by a fireplace, drinking tea with my grandfather.
I don’t stop to witness the scene, already predicting the kind of direction it will take.
Still, out the corner of my eye, I see Fairon choke, clutching his throat as if poisoned.
He starts to spew black liquid onto the carpet as my grandfather watches on, doing nothing.
I hurry on, through another mind, and another.
Every time, it’s the same, each dream quickly turning foul and dark.
The gnawing fear starts to turn to panic.
What if I can’t ever leave? What if this is the punishment for escaping whatever void the scythe sent me to—an endless wheel of nightmares, trapping me for eternity?
Then a door appears beside me, one I know I haven’t made myself. There’s a voice calling through it, clear as a bell.
“Leon, Leon, wake up.”
I shove my way through it, holding onto that voice, the one I know will always find me.
When I open my eyes, Ana’s leaning over me. I have a strong sense of déjà vu; this is the second time in the last day I’ve woken up to see her face filled with concern. It’s the second time she’s called me back to myself.
But of course she did. Even my sensic magic is no match for the strength of the mooring. I feel foolish for losing my head. I should’ve trusted she’d pull me back.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
I sit up, clutching her hand. “Yes,” I say. “I was just having a nightmare.”
She frowns at me. “But you don’t have nightmares. In fact, it’s usually you waking me up from some horrible dream.”
I want to shield her, but I know telling her the truth is the better option, even if it’s painful. I’ll never again betray her trust with a lie. I send my answer across the mooring, not wanting to say it out loud.
“I think when I came back, something went wrong.”
Her eyes widen.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I don’t know. But my magic isn’t obeying me anymore.”
I remember the way I was shunted through those dreams, trapped and unable to change them, like there’s some disconnect between myself and my power. I swallow, meeting Ana’s gaze.
“Maybe when I left this world, it severed something we couldn’t fix by bringing me back.” I inhale a deep breath. “Maybe my sensic magic doesn’t recognize me anymore.”
Morgana
“Will you stop looking at me like that?” Leon grumbles in my mind.
I widen my eyes innocently. “Like what?” I reply.
“Like I might collapse into a fit any moment,” he says aloud, playfully tossing a crisp white shirt in my direction. The palace servants brought us more court-appropriate clothes early this morning, but Leon ignored his in favor of his usual soldier’s gear.
I duck the shirt, using my magic to put it into orbit and send it flying back across the room.
“I think it’s perfectly reasonable for me to be a little worried after last night,” I say.
“I’m fine,” he says, huffing a laugh as he catches the shirt before it smacks him in the head. “It was probably just a one-off, and I got shaken up because I’m not used to my power misbehaving. I tested my terrial magic this morning, and it worked fine.”
I squint at him. He certainly feels in better spirits than last night.
“Besides,” he puts his hands on his hips, looking at me accusingly. “I’m not the one who gave up a piece of their soul. I should be asking how you’re feeling.”
I shrug, though I know he can sense the flare of uncertainty his question provokes.
“I feel fine,” I say through the mooring. “Just…different. I can’t say how exactly.”
It’s the truth, but I deliberately avoid going into more detail—in no small part because I don’t have more details to share.
I was warned enough times about what I was getting into, so I’ve been alert to any changes, but that doesn’t mean I can easily put my finger on them.
It’s only that sometimes, when I think about it, I’m sure I can sense the hole inside me—a dark void.
It’s not painful or scary, it’s just…nothing. That’s why it’s hard to put into words.
There’s a knock at the door, and Leon lets Tira and Fairon in.
“Come to check we’re still all in one piece?” I say, then internally wince at my own wording.
“We’d be stupid not to after what you two have been through,” Tira points out, immediately parking herself on the bed.
Fairon stands by the door, straight-backed and regal as usual.
“We thought it would be wise, given the circumstances,” he agrees.
“You look good. Better,” Tira says to me, then turns to Leon. “She was like one of those Hallowbane creatures when all of you first arrived. The ruined?” My friend shudders before meeting my gaze. “It would be great if you could avoid scaring us like that again.”
“Sorry,” I say, sitting beside her on the bed and giving her a hug. “Thank you for your help.”
“Thank Mal more than anyone. I think he’s still sleeping off the panic attack he nearly had when he thought he might have killed you both.
We put him and Lafia near me and Wadestaff—we’ve nearly got a whole wing of humans now—well, and half humans.
I want to rename it ‘Little Trova,’ but Fairon says it’s not allowed. ”