I can’t remember when I stopped screaming.
Something wet pressed against my cheek, reeking of dead fish and rotting wood. I sprang up, horrified—only to find mud dripping from me. Cold, slimy, foul-smelling mud . It coated the side of my face, crawled down my neck, and burrowed itself all over the folds of my clothing.
Great.
I wiped it from my eyes, trying to focus on the dimly lit landscape that surrounded me. From what I could see, I sat before a dark pond, its edges webbed in cattails, haze, and scum. A shadow of something splashed atop the water before disappearing again, impossible to see below the surface.
At the sound of someone spitting, I whirled around. Dull grey eyes met mine through the mist.
The Bringer coughed, flicking mud from his hands in disgust. “My power is gone,” he rasped. As if to demonstrate, he opened his fist, scowling as a small shadow appeared. It quivered pathetically before vanishing in a puff of smoke. “I have nothing . That bastard took it from me before we fell.”
“How is that even possible?”
“These dreams are Weaver-crafted. As long as we’re here, we’re at his mercy.” He made a frustrated, violent sound. “Somnus has the authority to show us anything. Do anything. Take anything. This might be the vision of the past, someone’s actual, lived dream, or something new made specifically for us.”
“And yet he gave us another chance.” Erratic splashing of a large, unknown creature sounded again over the water. I added, shivering, “Although I’m not looking forward to that demon finding us.”
He gave a small, dreadful smile, catching me off-guard. “Or we can find it ourselves.” Noticing me watching, his smile slipped, discarded like an ill-fitting mask. “Something about this place feels familiar. I think there is a village beyond the mist.”
“A village, out here? Are you sure?”
He tilted his head, considering. “Mostly.”
I sighed, eyeing the forest and the strange, clouded pond. A cottage, filthy and falling apart, stood at its edge, but there were no other signs of life. No lights, no voices. Only the sound of water lapping against mud and the occasional splash of some creature in the pond. I shivered again.
“Which way?” I asked.
And he took my hand, guiding me forward.
There was not a village beyond the mist.
There was an entire town beyond the mist.
Built from luminescent stone, a large town sprawled from the forest, fading into the distance as it trailed along the edge of a sea. A lively wind, rising up from the sea and swirling through the streets, dusted the air in salt, citrus—and something nostalgic and sad. I lingered for a moment, trying to place the particular scent, but as quickly as it appeared, it vanished into the night.
I glanced at the Shadow Bringer, who was analyzing the town with an unreadable expression. Recognition? Agony? Indifference? It was impossible to tell. The shadows that had lived within his eyes were broken, ripped away with the rest of his power.
“Do you know where we are?”
“It’s…” His mouth opened slightly, as if he were tasting the seam of some long-forgotten memory. “Istralla.” Then, more confidently, “This is Istralla.”
“The kingdom’s capital,” I murmured, looking around with a new sense of purpose.
Istralla was the fabled capital of rebirth—of hidden, slumbering Weavers and the illustrious Citadel Firstlight. It was also where my family had wanted to build their new life. And while this wasn’t exactly how I envisioned seeing Istralla for the first time, it felt wonderful nonetheless, watching as the town sparkled with promise and light.
But the longer I looked, the quicker its fine edges began to unravel. Some structures made sense—quaint cottages, an open-air marketplace, a shop for dresses and hats—while others twisted into bizarre shapes and sizes. All around us, buildings shifted into trees, trembling between forms at the edge of our vision, while others faded in and out, disappearing and reappearing in time with our breathing.
The twisted beauty of a dream, I supposed: half reality, half but a shadow of truth.
I started to comment on this observation, but the Shadow Bringer was no longer at my side. Whirling around, I scanned the forest and the city’s edge. Had Somnus forced him out of the dream?
Then, there he was—waltzing into a nearby inn.
“Are you kidding me,” I seethed, hurrying to follow.
The inn seemed rather nondescript in comparison to Istralla’s more extravagant buildings, filled with regular-looking people gathered around regular-looking tables and the warm glow of a hearth at its center. The Bringer was easy to spot, a smear of darkness amidst colorfully dressed patrons.
“I take it you have some kind of lead?” I asked under my breath.
He ignored me and stalked toward a noisy group of men, glaring daggers into the deepest parts of their souls as they laughed around ale and a half-eaten roast.
“Begone!” The Bringer snarled, seizing a dinner knife and brandishing it over his head. “You have no place here. Leave, and I will spare your throats.”
I sucked in a breath. He was hopeless. An utter fool .
Without his powers, how could he antagonize an entire building of people—some of which were armed—and survive? Dream or not, a battle was still a battle. Taking a step back, I ducked behind the largest man I could find, his belly spilling over the table at which he sat. If I could hide, maybe I could avoid being associated with the Bringer altogether.
“My companion and I have need of your table,” he added, gesturing to where I hid. I recoiled, waiting for people to start staring. Or attacking. But the men didn’t so much as glance up from their food and drink. Irate, the Bringer continued, lowering his voice into a deadly command. “I will not ask a second time.”
Still, the men refused to move. They continued joking and carousing, drinking deeply and laughing heartily. I watched, mildly amused as the Bringer’s expression slipped from disbelief to utter fury.
“I warned you,” he said simply, slamming the knife’s hilt into the nearest skull.
Except it didn’t slam , exactly.
The hilt bounced harmlessly off the man’s head, no more a threat than a push from an infant.
The man reached up to pat the spot where the Bringer hit him. “Aye, boys, I’m thinkin’ there’s a bug flyin’ ‘round here. Just bit me on the head!” The Bringer tried again, throwing his full weight into the swing. “Aye, ouch! It just ‘appened again!”
His companions gave a pointed look about the room, laughing wildly.
“Mate, there ain’t any bugs flyin’ ‘round here.”
“No, I swear it! The spot’s itchy an’ everythin’,” the man protested, much to the hilarity of the others. Huffing, he pointed dramatically at a fly buzzing around the ceiling. “See? See ? There it is!”
Another man chimed in, jabbing him playfully in the side. “More like yeh’ve drank too many ales for that thick skull of yours to ‘andle.”
“Aye, shut it,” he responded, shoving himself away from the table—nearly colliding with a visibly disturbed Bringer—and stormed out of the inn. His companions followed shortly after, quickly downing the rest of their ale on the way out.
After a short pause of his own, the Bringer sat down, selecting the most shadowed part of the table to sulk.
“No effect, huh?” I asked, sitting across from him. On my way over, no one acknowledged my existence. Not one single person looked up, even if I nudged their back or waved my hands in front of their face. “It’s like we’re ghosts.”
The Bringer grunted in agreement, steepling his hands under his nose. “It means we’re in someone else’s dream. Something Somnus dredged up from the past.”
“Someone else’s dream? So could this be your dream?”
He ignored me, instead sweeping his hands across the table to grab an empty cup and plate.
“What are you going to do, eat? I think we have more important things to figure out.”
He shot me a withering look. “Do we, now.” At my confused silence, he touched the edge of the cup, concentrating as it filled itself with a ruby-red liquid. Wine, likely. Or the blood of his innocent prey, I thought darkly. At another touch, the plate—and then several more—bloomed with fresh fruit, seared meats, and a slice of mysterious dessert. “Go ahead, figure out your important things. Then you can watch me eat, if that’s what you would prefer. The demon will be found regardless.”
I crossed my arms. “I don’t want any of your food.”
“Good. Because I did not offer you any.”
Irritating bastard.
“How is this allowed, anyways?” I asked, gesturing at his admittedly delicious-looking creations. “I thought you couldn’t use your powers.”
Selecting a cut of lamb, he took his first bite, frowning slightly as he chewed. “If an act of creation does not disrupt the dream’s purpose, then it is allowed.”
As I watched the Shadow Bringer eat, I wondered at the point of it all. Was it for the sake of normalcy, to eat and even sleep in a dream? It made sense, I supposed. If I had been locked in a castle for centuries, maybe I’d want to keep normal habits, too. He brought the cup to his mouth, drinking deep. But when he brought the glass away, lips flushed with dark liquid, he still wore a frown.
“For someone eating food fit for a king, you sure scowl a lot.”
“Envious, are we?” he asked, taking another sip. Still, the scowl stuck.
“No. I’m not hungry,” I protested, crossing my arms. Just as my stomach unleashed an absolutely pathetic-sounding growl. An instinctual reaction at seeing food, probably.
The Bringer’s mouth ticked up, taking pleasure in the fact that he caught me in a lie.
“This is a dream . I don’t need your imaginary food.”
“Suit yourself,” he drawled, leaning back to glare at the ceiling and finish his wine, which refilled itself whenever the liquid dropped too low. “I will continue relishing my food fit for a king .”
I eyed an especially beautiful strawberry, unable to ignore the hunger prying at my insides. Maybe I spoke too soon. Why wouldn’t I want to partake in a feast fit for a king? Plopping the berry into my mouth before I could think otherwise, I closed my eyes, awaiting a delicious, tart burst of juice.
Rancid, sickly sweet slime filled my mouth.
“A hatred for strawberries. Interesting.”
“What? No. It was rotten —” I choked as its taste clung to my tongue. Grabbing the nearest cup, I motioned for the Bringer to fill it. “Fill this—please—ugh .” I took a drink before the liquid had even pooled halfway up the glass, desperate to rid the foulness from my mouth.
Except I almost spit that out, too.
I hadn’t taken more than a few sips of wine in my entire life, but the taste of it never bothered me. No, normal wine was fine. It was the fact that the Bringer’s concoction tasted watery, mud-like, and vaguely sour.
“Is there a problem?”
I gaped at him. “Do you not taste it—or smell it? It’s all wrong.”
At first, the food and drink appeared perfect, pristine. But now the truth of each smell was unmistakable: the fruit was rotten, the meat was burnt leather, and the dessert looked to be powdered with ash, not sugar.
“Ah.” His eyes widened, a rare glimpse of mortification dawning there. “My ability to craft food was stunted in the castle. I may have forgotten the taste of things.”
His sense of taste was forgotten ? More like absolutely destroyed .
“How long has it been since you ate something?”
“Besides the Light Legion’s pathetic attempt at roasting wild duck, I haven’t eaten proper food or drink in…” The Bringer stopped to consider, still drinking from his glass. “Five-hundred years, give or take. Though the Realm clouded me from remembering or properly experiencing the majority of them.”
My mouth dropped open. “Five-hundred years ? Maker, stop drinking that—you’ll poison yourself.”
“It is fine enough for my tastes.” He avoided my attempts at stealing his drink, waving the glass just out of my reach. Still, when he took another sip, his mouth twitched in displeasure. “But if it is not to yours, craft your own.”
“How?” I inspected an empty cup, willing it to fill to the brim with a rich, fragrant wine. When nothing happened, I sat back in frustration. “It’s not working.”
“In my castle, you designed an entire dream from memory. A cup of wine or a slice of bread should be simple.”
“Coming from someone who can’t even make a strawberry taste edible,” I muttered, earning a stiffening of the Bringer’s posture. “What?”
He moved closer, the wine staining his mouth looking more and more like blood. “You insult me casually for someone who claims to desire my knowledge.”
“Show me how, then. It can be the first thing you teach me. As per our bargain.”
“That’s what you want your first lesson to be? A tutorial on the art of food?”
“I’m just interested in the act of creating things, is all,” I said, bristling.
And it was true.
I wanted to be free from the Realm, but part of me also wanted to learn more about it. What it meant, how it worked—how to move within it and become powerful enough to withstand a demon’s attack. Dreaming had proven itself to be a double-edged sword of beauty and pain, reality and illusion, and I couldn’t deny that parts of it were fascinating. If that meant cooperating with the Shadow Bringer, then so be it.
I just prayed that Somnus had a greater plan behind offering him his freedom.
“Are you, now?” With a slight furrow to his brow, the Bringer grabbed my empty cup. “Perhaps I’ll attempt to explain. But I’m expecting something edible.”
I couldn’t help it. I almost smiled.
He must really miss food—even though he’s trying to hide it.
“Then I’ll make you the finest wine in all the world.”
He arched an eyebrow, nearly smiling. “We will see.”
The Shadow Bringer explained the process with a surprising amount of care, detailing the importance of past experiences and memories when creating something in the Realm. Even if the creation was a new object or special ability—something like wings or erupting fire from one’s fingertips—it was always drawn from memory.
But when honed correctly, imagination could be even stronger.
A dreamer with a strong imagination could craft extraordinary, lifelike creations, drawing from thoughts as powerful as memory itself. Untamed, however, imagination held risk. An imagined sword might erupt into a serpent. Or a candle. An inferno, even.
As I concentrated on the glass in front of me, I leaned into both techniques, remembering a summer drink of plum juice and crushed rose petals, but also imagining what it might feel like to taste liquid silk. The glass filled slowly as I decided upon the right color, finally settling on a shimmering, purpled ruby.
I drew the glass to my lips, expecting something dreadful.
At the first sip, it tasted wild. Fragrant rose, oak, and plum. It wasn’t wine, exactly, but it wasn’t juice, either. And the texture was exactly as I had imagined—softer than silk upon the tongue, it slid down my throat like a caress, tingling as it moved. The Bringer must have noticed the delight in my expression—or the rapidly dwindling liquid in my cup—because he snatched it from my fingertips, looking quite smug as he brought it to his lips.
“Hey, I wasn’t—”
The Bringer gave a throaty, contented sigh as he finished the drink, likely not intending for the sound to be heard. His eyes flicked up, a command plainly written there. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to not taste food or drink for five-hundred years. Was it really possible to forget something as basic as taste ?
Based on the Bringer’s euphoric expression, it seemed so.
“Fine, fine—I’ll fill it again. Just—stop staring at me like that. I have to concentrate.”
This went on for some time. I would imagine some new drink or food, and we’d partake in it together, the Bringer in a constant state of muted awe as he remembered what was lost. And he loved it all—bitterness, acidity, sweetness—and demanded more, tempting me to try new and outrageous creations from my own imagination. Milk in the form of a cake. A crunchy peach. A sugared flower, its petals dusted in a honeyed perfume.
We were in the middle of trying an edible moon, its glowing surface made of lemon and airy, cake-like dough, when the inn erupted in a cheer. I nearly fell out of my chair at the sound, so used to the quiet hum of the inn’s chatter.
“Too much wine?” he asked, leaning forward to steady me.
“Of course not,” I snapped, unwilling to admit that I did, in fact, feel a bit lightheaded. An imagined feeling, but one I couldn’t quite shake.
“You—here.” He swept a finger underneath my lip, brushing off a stray droplet. “As I said before, imagination reigns supreme in the Realm.” He examined his thumb, now slightly damp, then licked it. “Experiences feel real here. Sometimes more so than they do in reality.”
“Well, I feel more like a ghost, considering we don’t exist to anyone here.” Alarmingly, I could sense a flush rising on my skin; I hoped it wasn’t visible. “What about our creations?” I eyed the half-eaten moon, wondering what would happen if I threw it across the room. “The people here can’t see us, but can they see what we’ve made?”
“Likely. But they’re too hollow to care. The original dreamer, however, may notice. If the governing Weaver wills it to be so, that is.”
“The dreamer…” I mused, scrutinizing the faces around us.
None seemed aware that we—or the heaping plates around us—existed. And if the dreamer was a past version of the Bringer, no one looked even remotely like him. Not that anyone could, exactly. Not with his otherworldly features and moon-white hair. And was his face a little flushed from the wine, or was I imagining that, too?
Definitely my imagination.
I stood up, pointedly ignoring my dizziness, and attempted to see what the crowd was staring at. How much time had we mindlessly wasted? Had we missed something important—some clue about the next part of the dream?
From between the crowded bodies I spotted a raven-haired boy, his eyes warm with the inn’s light. He waved a ribbon overhead, its length glistening like scales, and began to recite some kind of wild, theatrical tale as the crowd looked on, mesmerized by his every word. I leaned in closer, trying to make out what he was saying.
“Come back,” the Shadow Bringer protested, vaporizing a few plates to make room for more. A thread of shadow—just a shiver of his power—snaked out and grabbed the back of my dress. “Next I will try a vegetable. A carrot, perhaps.”
“We just ate a moon , and you want a carrot ?” I asked, laughing. The Bringer returned my mirth, a crooked half-smile on his lips. I dragged a hand through his thread of shadow, snapping it. “I’m trying to listen to that boy. Maybe he’s important to the dream.”
“I do not care about some pointless child.”
Maker, he sounded like a child.
“Well maybe you should, considering we have no other leads to go on.”
The boy raised his voice, almost as if he knew the Shadow Bringer was ignoring him, and continued on with his story, flinging up his ribbons in a dramatic sweep. When they stretched to the rafters they turned into a trio of serpents, writhing their gilded bodies as they soared overhead.
This caught the Shadow Bringer’s attention.
“—and I battled them all!” The boy shouted, wielding an imaginary sword as he pretended to fight the serpents. “They threatened our lives. They wanted to drag Istralla into the sea!” He ducked as one of the serpents dipped lower; the crowd backed away, muttering in astonishment.
“That boy—is he the dreamer?”
The Bringer muttered something noncommittal.
“But do not fear. I vanquished the demons! So you are safe now—you owe your safety to me,” the boy declared, grinning with all the pride in the world. And he bowed low, the hem of his oversized cloak touching the floorboards. “Now,” he continued, straightening himself, “My winnings, please.”
The crowd didn’t move; they were too preoccupied with eyeing the flying serpents.
“Oh. Uh. Sorry,” the boy said sheepishly, turning the serpents back into ribbons with a wave of his hand. “I had them under my control, you know.”
The Bringer returned to drinking his wine, no longer interested. “Greedy child. Desperate to rid the poor of their coin, even while dreaming.”
It wasn’t coin that the boy was after, though.
As he moved about the inn, he collected donations of food and drink, using his cloak as a makeshift pack to carry it all. He arranged his growing collection as he went, ensuring that nothing spilled. Loaves of bread, a small sack of potatoes, three bottles of milk—he took it all, thanking each patron with a beaming smile. When he made it to the back of the room, nearing where the Bringer and I sat in our shadowed corner, his eyes lit up.
“Now what is this ?” the boy wondered aloud, bounding over to our outlandish plates and scooping up the half-eaten moon. He was a striking boy: fine, noble features and black hair curling to his shoulders. “A ball of cake or something? Huh.”
“Ridiculous child,” the Bringer scoffed, making the moon disappear with a quick wave. “These creations are not for you.”
“Was that really necessary?” I whisper-shouted. Even though it was clear the boy couldn’t hear or see us, I still felt like he could. “He could be the dreamer.”
The boy stared at his empty hands.
“It is already happening,” he muttered, his airy voice brimming with great sorrow. “I must hurry—no time to waste.”
He snatched two of our plates, tucking them into his cloak and hurrying away before the Bringer could react. Halfway through the crowd, the boy turned around, rushing back to our table to snatch a cinnamon cake from under the Bringer’s nose.
“Why you—” the Bringer started, grabbing the boy by the wrist. It was useless, though—the boy couldn’t be held. As if he had grasped smoke or water, the Bringer’s hand merely slipped away.
But not before the boy glanced up and showed us his eyes.
Expressive and framed in dark lashes, the beginnings of small, silvery shadows danced within their depths. I didn’t have to guess; I knew immediately who that boy was.
And, based on his stunned expression, so did the Shadow Bringer.
