8 #3
Gritting my teeth, I tried to calm my mind.
I could feel the colossal trees hovering, waiting to drop.
I imagined a set of shadows unfurling from my back.
Following Lelantos’s advice, I also flexed my shoulders back and forth in the imitation of wings, helping to connect my body with the new appendages. Then there was the most crucial part.
Belief.
I had to believe that the wings were there. That they took shape, that they were firm, and that they held true to my body. That they could carry me, just as I could command them to move. That they were a part of me until I willed it otherwise.
I was moving before I could doubt myself—another of Lelantos’s tips—flying low and fast.
Concentrating, I imagined a surge of shadow running down the various threads that connected every dreamer to me.
I willed the shadows to sate the dark holes in the dreamers’ hearts, blanketing the threads so they didn’t vibrate so much.
It took a lot of mental energy—especially without Erebus—but I could see it working.
Many dropped their hands, giving up on clawing their fellow dreamers to the ground, just as more wings unfurled.
Cheers of triumph rang out as an older woman gained her wings, yelping in amazement. Two dreamers carried another, supporting a young man so he had more time. Some dreamers had already reached the top of the cliff, victorious. I smiled. We’d lost only one. I had imagined it would be much worse.
But then the colossal trees, some tenfold the width of a house, began to fall.
They fell slowly, descending over us like grotesque castles in the sky. Roots tangled, reaching for us like a sea of wooden serpents. We had time—we had time. But then the trees sped up, roots spiraling at a dizzying pace. Some struck the ground, tearing the earth apart in great chunks.
Another dreamer fell, body snapping against the spikes.
Then another.
Another.
“No,” I gasped.
I spun, narrowly missing a root before it crashed to the ground, but a second caught my right wing, tearing it in half.
I screamed in pain, rolling to the left as another root tore a line down my hip, ripping into the leather armor and drawing blood.
Shadows shot around me, desperate to help but not knowing how.
I caught a glimpse of Erebus, frantically trying to reach me, but he was too far away.
He sent a wave of shadow careening into a root aimed at my head, crushing it, but he was late to stop another.
It hit my shoulder, shoving my body toward the spikes.
My eyesight was blurry, fogged by fear, but I could vaguely hear a frantic masculine voice screaming my name.
Screaming for me.
“It’s not real!” I heard Erebus shout. “You are not shackled to reality in the Dream Realm—fight it!”
“It’s not real,” I cried to myself, repeating it like a mantra. “It’s not real—”
Erebus’s shadows struck again, shattering a root before it could hit me.
“Clear your mind, Esmer!” he roared. “Focus!”
I was hurdling fast toward the spikes. If I didn’t do something, I’d be impaled. I wondered what it would feel like. Would it be fast—painless—as my body vaporized into shadow? Against every shred of self-preservation telling me to flee, I calmed my mind.
The spikes weren’t spikes, but soft, flowing grass.
The roots weren’t roots, but gentle, wispy hair.
The trees weren’t trees, but columns of clouds.
The spikes will cushion me.
The roots will caress me.
The trees will embrace me.
Instincts shrieking, I relaxed my body, refusing to flinch as a sharp root—no, hair—careened toward me.
And then my body simply slipped through it.
Perfectly unharmed. Instead of ducking under the next root, I purposefully rushed toward it, anticipating a pleasurable, ticklish sensation.
And it worked. The root brushed along my back in long, sweeping caresses.
Erebus flew down to meet me, expression haunted.
“I’m fine,” I said briskly, giving him what I hoped was a calming smile. I stamped down the rising sense of pride I felt. The warmth of success. “But the dreamers—they need to know. We need to tell them how to navigate this so more can survive the trial.”
“The Weavers will be angry,” he noted, a faint trace of intrigue curling into his tone. “We’re not meant to interfere.”
“I don’t care. If it’s within our power as Weavers to inspire our dreamers to succeed, we must. Lelantos was right—this is more than just a dream. Too much is at stake, and if we have the ability to turn the tide in our favor, we need to do something.”
Even in the chaos, a smile tugged at Erebus’s perfect mouth. Of course he’d do anything to defy the Weavers. To do things on our own terms. And so, wielding our shadows like a current, we sent a command through our dreamers’ bonds.
“The spikes are soft grass.
“The roots are gentle hair.
“The trees are columned clouds.
“Rise.
“Rise.
“Rise.”
And the dreamers—the hundreds who were still alive, still fighting—listened.
And they rose.
When we all finally reached the cliff, dark wings fluttering with the thrill of what we had just accomplished, Erebus and I directed our shadows into the trees, ripping them apart by their dark, hidden centers—much to Sorren’s and Ceveon’s delight.
And much to the Weavers’ shock.
“Good,” said the voice inside my head. “Let them squirm.”