Bethany Tailor had failed. She had failed to lead her men—they belonged to the Master now. She had failed to protect the people she had pledged her very self to defend. She had failed to rise among the Enforcers. Now she never would. Failed to claim nobility. To build a lineage. Failed to even catch the eye of the man she most admired.

The irony was not lost to her, amidst the whispers of High Warden Grace—that for all she had done to rise to his attention, it was some commoner frill who had caught his eye.

Now, as she threaded a needle along the seams of some dreary garb—alone, as was fitting—her fingers raw, doing the only work she was ever meant to do, she could hold back her tears no longer.

This was her life now. Beneath notice. Beneath purpose, beneath even a reason to go on. A mere thread—frayed and severed—never to be woven into anything of worth.

She shifted on her stool, whimpering softly as splinters poked through her dress and burrowed deep into thigh. A single candle lit the workshop, its faint glow casting more shadows than light. She laboured in obscurity with only the promise of regrets to warm her bed this night. Every night.

'I deserve this,' she wept, the salt of her tears slipping past her quivering lips. 'I deserve this,' she said again, choking on the lump in her throat. 'This is the fate of those who defy the—' She paused, her sobs rising to a shuddering crescendo. Only in that bleakest corner of despair—where no pride could hide, no hope could speak—could she finally name her folly. '—who defy the Master.'

The tears did not cease. They did not slow. She drowned in them—her only horizon, awash with dejection.

This was her first day.

It was also the second.

And the third.

The fourth. The fifth. The sixth and the seventh.

Four thousand three hundred and eighty-three days passed just the same—time marked by the stains of her tears soaked into the floorboards. The fruit of her labour vanished each night.

'Wake up!'

The voices began in the third year. They had haunted her every night since. After the nightly prayers—renunciations of the frailty of life and reassertions of the Master's way—they would not abate, no matter how she begged them to stop.

'Get up and fight, you stitched-brained baboon!'

She almost recognised them—comrades from a life long past remembering. No doubt, she had failed them too. Their midnight pleas told her that much.

'I've told you already—so long as any of us are anchored to this dream, none of us can leave,' the voice spat, its frustration mounting.

Mad things they would say at night. Sometimes to her—to remind her of her lapses. But most of the time, they quarrelled with each other.

There were two of them—though sometimes three. The third voice was never heard, but often argued against. They spoke of the world beyond the workshop, one plagued with nightmares… and of another beyond that, where strangers needed their aid.

'My good man, I'll say it again—we are aiming to save the Captain, not murder her.'

'Whatever gets me out of here faster,' the other voice muttered.

At first, Bethany wanted nothing more than for the voices to leave—but soon, they became her escape. Their tales echoed scripture: holy chronicles of how the Master had remedied life, halted its spread, and mended the sickness festering in the gash of reality for far too long. But in place of verses exalting His conquest—of the white phoenix slain and her Inheritance plundered—the voices spoke of resistance.

By day, they warred with monsters—terrible things, they were not shy of saying. Creatures of teeth and rot, too dreadful for truth. By their account, they neared death with every sunrise, the beasts of nightmare more potent than they were prepared for.

Yet, despite the unreality of the battles they faced, they seemed delighted to discover it was all somehow real.

'Tell me again—how can that be?'

'It's tied to a Dungeon Cell. One that can only be reached through a dream. Or so my Captive Spirit claims. It can't really be trusted, so take it with an ocean's worth of salt and fishiness.'

'So the Abominations, Dungeon Spawn, and Remnants—'

'All real…'

'Well, I'll be keeping these for myself. This, I'll pass to the Captain when we find where she's held.'

On the sixth year, one of of the voices pronounced his breakthrough—a new Spirit Chain forged, having reached the second Step.

'You think it's possible? Advancing to Champion?'

'In this Cell? Not a chance. We're only halfway here, and it's not the right Cell for either of us.'

One of the Voices wielded the Midnight Urn as his Anchor. By his account, it bound him to the path of the Spiritualist—one far removed from the High Edict that underpinned the wild sands of nightmare. His progress was marked by a growing grasp of the fractured Law of Spiritual Change, and the reforging of its shards into the High Edict of Becoming.

Nightmares and dreams, though kin, belonged to different paths—Misfortune for one, Echoes for the other. Late at night, Bethany thought she had grasped the concept. Then the rules would shift, or seem to. Absolutes dissolved like mist in twilight.

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'A volcanic Dungeon Cell might contain fragments of the Law of Fire—or Earth. And in theory, either might still lead toward Extinction. Or Creation. Or even Becoming. It's possible to Advance within one of those Cells, though less likely than through something more direct. But here? There's no way... Still, remember the salt. Reference on this is questionable.'

'I think I grasp it, my lad—hold on a moment. Captain, wake up! Wake up! Educational, this—awful as it's been.'

The visions began in the ninth year.

Vivid.

Horrifying.

She saw a young man—a boy, really—balanced atop a giant scorpion, his sword contorting mid-swing to deflect its twin stingers. The blade writhed and bent, parrying at each side like a serpent of steel. Another man screamed for aid, clutched in the talons of a vulture. He swung his rapier through empty air, panic carving wild arcs. All the while, hordes of the unliving surged behind them—amber-toothed, rot-limbed things, their jaws snapping, limbs clawing hungrily forward.

In another vision, she saw the two men leap from a jagged ledge into a desert below. The sands rose to meet them like a wave—glass-born eyes blinking open across its crest, chasing them across the barren.

'How long has it been?' the man asked, his white coat stark against the golden sands.

'Longer for her,' the boy replied, the desert wind lashing his raven-black hair. 'The deeper we go into the nightmare deserts, the tighter time winds—at least that's what it said.'

He looked to the sky, though it seemed he were staring Bethany's way. Their eyes locked across realms, and he sighed.

'This would be much simpler if you could just wake up!' he shouted—jolting her from the illusion.

She tumbled from her bed, landing hard on the bedchamber floor. It was day again. She pushed herself upright, then dragged herself into the workshop. Needles, thread, pins, fabric, and shears, she got to work again. And again, the tears were quick to follow.

'I deserve this,' she wept her morning hymn, thread pulled taut, tied off and snipped.

Yet, as she began sewing edge into hem, the tears stopped flowing. She knew at once that it was wrong. Guilt surged like a storm in her tightening chest. Misery was attornment—resistance was sin. That had always been the truth. But for the first time in many years, she asked herself: why?

The phantoms of her visions had rebellion in every breath. They faced peril without hesitation. Without regret.

She had made her mistakes. But so had they. She had watched them do it. One had fallen into a viper's nest. Death had been certain. Until it was not. Flash-pan thinking, he turned the brood on itself, forcing them to strike each other to be the first to claim him. Clambering from the pit, he had pointed skyward—at her—and spoken:

'It's not over until you're dead. Sometimes, not even then. They corrupted your men? Make them pay. They've threatened the people? Rise up and protect them. They brought war to a city? Bring death to them all. Wake up! Get up! Fight!'

The needled slipped from her fingers. It tingled on the ground like the smallest bell, and she rose. Though her mind resisted, her body moved toward the thickset curtain. It was always drawn—day or night. Never once had it let even a sliver of light through.

She had never questioned it. If the Master had wished her to see the sunrise, He would have opened it. That He never had was all the confirmation she needed. His Design was perfect. The cosmos was His to arrange.

But she missed the suns—day and night.

What harm could it do to see them once more? she asked herself. Reaching for the drapes.

'Is that what you desire? To fail yet again?'

The voice was softly spoken, yet it bore an unquestionable weight.

She knew it at once. This was the Master. Dracule Marchand de Sable.

As a Conqueror, He had struck down her Lord—a feat that should not have been possible. Since then, He had ascended even higher in rank. He had drawn their god from the void, and together they had become one—collapsing life into death and bringing peace evermore.

'Sin crouches at the windowpane. It desires you. But I am your Master. Only I may rule over you,' the Master said.

Her fingers slackened on the drapes, her heart plummeting into her gut. She stilled—gaze wet, downcast.

'Why are you doing this?' she asked.

The air thickened. The Master's displeasure pressed in—heavy and humid, seething through the silence. He was not to be questioned. That too was sin.

But then, as though the world exhaled, the pressure eased. His answer came, measured and absolute.

'You did not fight for the dream, so all that remained was the nightmare. That is the lesson. Grasp it, and you may leave.'

Her grip faltered, her hand sliding to the curtain's hem.

It was true. She had not fought to stay in the dream. She had known Havoc could be reckless—impulsive at the worst moments. Her cheeks still flushed at the memory of him snatching her hand, pulling her close. And yet, even with the Master standing there—even then—she had not done enough to stop him.

Wait. Havoc?

She remembered his name. And with it came his voice. The one that had haunted her every night.

'Whose damn dream are you meant to fight for?'

'Too right!' Sedrick chimed in.

'His? He calls himself the Master—he's clearly deranged. An omnicidal lunatic with delusions of godhood. To hell with his dream. He's just another monster for me to put down.'

'Captain. Now. Do it now! Dare to hope—we'll do the rest. In the words of my good chum Havrelius—'

'Don't call me that!'

'Friend or Havrelius—take your pick?'

'Neither!'

'Don't be ridiculous. After all of this, of course we're chums? Well, whatever. As Havoc likes to say, you're still breathing. Hope abounds.'

Her heart raced. Her mind rebelled against her body.

She did it anyway.

Gripping each side, she pulled back the drapes—and light rushed in. An instant later, the window exploded. Glass shards rained down as Sedrick and Havoc crashed through, feet first, into the workshop.

With the day, came the shadow.

Dracule emerged from the scattering darkness, slow to coalesce, as if the light itself resisted him.

'Oh good, you're here,' Havoc said, cloak torn and bloodied, sand spilling from every crease.

'Yes, it is good to see you again. Better still when I offer your Heretic soul unto my god.'

Bethany gazed up at Havoc as he stepped forward, sword in hand, closing the distance with Dracule. Sedrick reached down and helped her to her feet.

'We need to leave. Now,' she said, as the screams from beyond reached her ears.

'Way ahead of you on that one,' Sedrick quipped, silver-grey hair flickering in the updraught.

'No,' Havoc muttered, drawing back his blade, gaze fixed on the demon. 'I meant—beheading you once just wasn't enough.'

He struck.

Dracule's head spun through the air.

The world cracked like brittle clay.

And reality came rushing in.

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