Sleep came gently.

Not forced.

Not guarded.

It settled over the hanging tents like a soft veil, smoothing the sharp edges of fear that had carried them through the river. Breath slowed. Muscles loosened. Even the most vigilant minds finally allowed themselves to drift, lulled by the steady certainty that nothing could reach them here.

The web tents swayed faintly with the night wind, suspended between branches like cocoons woven for survival rather than transformation. Below, the river murmured–present, distant, obedient. Above, the forest held its breath.

Golden Berry Beads did their work well.

Yang circulated smoothly, warmth spreading through limbs and chests, dulling exhaustion without clouding awareness. Dreams, when they came, were light and melodious–half-formed images that carried no weight. Familiar voices. Safe places. The kind of sleep earned only after danger has passed.

For the first time since leaving the mainland, no one feared closing their eyes.

Even Hylisi rested.

She slept upright within her hanging tent, back supported by bark and rope, hands folded loosely in her lap. Years of experience had taught her how to rest without surrender, how to remain present even in sleep. Her breathing was shallow but steady, her posture composed.

She had guided countless groups through worse terrain.

She had memorized the rules of this river long before grief etched lines into her face.

And yet–

Even practiced hands grow unfamiliar with old paths when years pass without return.

The forest did not punish her for ignorance.

It simply continued.

Beyond the web's outer perimeter, where the riverbank softened into grass and moss, the ground began to change. What appeared lifeless by day–dark soil pressed flat by time and moisture–stirred silently beneath the moon.

Petals unfurled.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Night Dream flowers bloomed.

They rose in clusters, their stems thin and pale, their blossoms shaped like shallow bells cupping the sky. Each petal shimmered with a faint translucence, veins catching moonlight like silver threads beneath ice. Their color was neither white nor blue, but something between–soft, luminous, unreal.

They did not glow.

They reflected.

Moonlight spilled across the river and spilled back, broken and scattered, and the flowers drank it in, multiplying its presence until the ground itself seemed illuminated from within. What had been shadowed grass became a quiet field of light, stretching along both sides of the riverbank, wide and uninterrupted.

It was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

The flowers bloomed only at night, only in places where death had once lingered long enough to sink into the soil. By dawn, they would wither into nothing more than crushed stems and harmless residue, indistinguishable from ordinary plants.

But until then–

They breathed.

From the heart of each blossom, fine sparks lifted into the air–light blue, almost crystalline, drifting upward like fireflies without heat. The pollen was delicate, weightless, carried easily by the slightest movement of wind.

Mist rose from the forest as well.

Cool.

Fragrant.

Alive.

It slid between trunks and roots, rolling low along the ground before lifting, slow and graceful, toward the riverbank. When it met the pollen, the two merged seamlessly, the mist catching the sparks and spreading them farther than wind alone ever could.

The air sweetened.

A faint, fruity scent threaded itself through the night–subtle enough to be comforting, familiar enough to be ignored. It carried no warning edge, no bitterness. It smelled like ripe orchards remembered from childhood. Like promises that had never been broken.

The web domain did not react.

There was no hostility to detect.

No malice.

No intent.

The Evil Spider remained still, its countless senses registering nothing that qualified as threat. Beasts would not cross the river. Insects avoided the bank. The forest itself remained quiet, respectful of the boundary drawn by something far worse than them.

The pollen drifted higher.

It brushed bark.

Leaves.

Rope.

It reached the hanging tents.

At first, it clung only to cloth and skin, settling like harmless dust. Then, slowly, it seeped through breath–unnoticed, unresisted. Golden Berry Beads adjusted instinctively, compensating, circulating Yang more actively to preserve balance.

The dreams deepened.

Pleasant ones.

Warm ones.

And somewhere beneath the moonlit flowers, the forest watched–not with hunger, not with urgency, but with patience earned over eras.

The scent deepened.

What had been faint sweetness slowly gained body, threading itself more firmly into breath and thought. It did not overwhelm. It invited. Each inhale carried warmth, familiarity, the gentle assurance that nothing needed to be questioned.

Dreams responded first.

Faces appeared with greater clarity. Voices gained texture. The half-formed images allowed by Golden Berry Beads sharpened into scenes–safe places remembered, moments never lost, companions shaped by longing rather than reality.

For many, dream companions emerged.

Not strangers.

Not illusions.

They were loved ones shaped by memory, desire, and unfinished emotion. A hand held without fear. A smile that never faded. A presence that did not judge weakness or failure. The Night Dream flowers did not create fantasies.

They amplified what already lived in the heart.

The fruity scent became an additive.

It did not replace the dream–it enhanced it.

Yang flowed faster.

Golden Berry Beads responded instinctively, accelerating circulation to maintain equilibrium as emotional stimulation rose. Warmth spread deeper into the body, soothing nerves, sharpening sensation. What should have been rest became indulgence–gentle, pleasant, unresisted.

No alarms sounded.

Pleasure rarely triggers caution.

Within the web domain, even the Mythical Ghost Prison Hollow Face Spider shifted. Its immense presence remained anchored, its traps flawless, its vigilance absolute–yet its consciousness drifted inward. The scent touched no hostility, no malice to be rejected.

It slipped past intention.

Within the spider's vast inner domain, order transformed into imagery–perfect prisons reshaped into controlled paradises, where souls were still, compliant, and quiet. Not escape.

Rest.

Yang consumption rose again.

What was finite began to thin.

The Golden Berry Beads did not fail. They performed exactly as designed–replenishing, protecting, sustaining. But pleasant dreams demanded more than fear ever had. Emotional engagement drew twice the energy of vigilance, draining reserves faster than awareness could register.

One by one, defenses softened.

Not broken.

Eroded.

Breath slowed further. Thoughts loosened. The thin line between waking restraint and dreaming indulgence blurred until it vanished entirely.

Only two remained untouched.

Kiaria did not dream.

The red thread bound at his heart remained steady, unmoved by scent or suggestion. His consciousness rested in clarity rather than imagery, awareness hovering in a state neither asleep nor awake. The world did not enter him.

Nor did he enter it.

Beside him, Diala slept peacefully–but empty of vision. No companions formed. No desires answered. The same red thread wrapped around her heart, resonating softly, neutralizing external manipulation before it could take shape.

Their minds were closed.

Not sealed.

Elsewhere, Yang ran dry.

It did not vanish suddenly. It thinned quietly, unnoticed by the one it abandoned first. Among the group, one heart carried more weight than the others–more fear buried beneath hope, more guilt masked by endurance.

The weakest was not the youngest.

Not the least experienced.

It was the one who had never forgiven himself.

As Yang faltered, pleasant imagery fractured. Dream companions wavered, smiles stretching too long, voices echoing a half-second too late. Warmth cooled. The fruity sweetness curdled into something indistinct.

Worry surfaced.

Not fear.

Worry.

A single unanswered thought slipped through: What if this doesn't last?

The dream twisted.

And because all dreams had formed from the same source, because scent and mist had braided their minds together, the fracture did not remain isolated.

Connections tightened.

Without realizing it, others were pulled–not awakened, not warned–dragged gently from their pleasant dreams into something deeper, heavier. Scenes blurred. Safe places collapsed into shared space, stitched together by emotion rather than logic.

No one knew who the host was.

Not even the host.

For the one at the center believed he was still dreaming alone.

The transition was seamless. No rupture. No fall.

One moment, sleep held them gently–warm, indulgent, forgiving. The next, weight returned to the body, thick and resisting, as though the dream itself had gained gravity.

They stood alone.

Each of them.

Mud pressed against boots and bare feet alike, cold and viscous, pulling downward with slow intent. The air was damp, heavy with rot and iron. Fog clung low to the ground, crawling around ankles like something alive, obscuring distance and swallowing sound.

The swamp.

Again.

No one understood how they had returned.

No trees framed the horizon. No river reflected the sky. No web lines marked safety. There was only marshland stretching endlessly in every direction, broken by dark pools that breathed faint ripples across their surfaces.

No voices called out.

No answers came.

Each person believed themselves alone.

They could not see one another. They could not sense presence. Even familiar auras were absent, swallowed by the dream's internal logic. The world acknowledged only the dreamer–and the one figure standing before them.

Their companion.

The one shaped by comfort.

By longing.

By memory.

A woman who smiled without disappointment.

A brother who had never turned away.

A lover whose hand never loosened.

A child who still believed.

They stood just beyond arm's reach, solid and real enough to touch. Their expressions were calm, unaware, almost peaceful. None of them appeared afraid.

That was the first lie.

The second came when the swamp moved.

A ripple passed beneath the surface–wide, slow, deliberate. Mud shifted, parting as something enormous displaced it from below. The ground itself seemed to pulse, as though the land had developed a heartbeat.

A familiar dread stirred in every heart.

Then the blood rose with Blood Worms.

They did not rush.

They circled.

From each dreamer's perspective, the worms ignored them entirely. Their attention fixed on the companion instead–the beloved, the familiar, the one the heart refused to lose.

A scream tore through the fog.

Not from the dreamer.

From the companion.

Hands reached out, pleading, desperate. Mud erupted as massive bodies surged upward, pale flesh split by veins of black and crimson. Jaws opened–not mouths, but circular maws lined with grinding ridges that did not bite so much as erase.

The companion was dragged down.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Fingers slipped from grasp, coated in blood and filth. Faces twisted–not in fear of death, but in confusion, as though they could not understand why this was happening.

"No–!"

Voices broke.

Some ran forward.

Some froze.

Some screamed themselves hoarse.

But no matter what they did, the result was the same.

The swamp claimed what the heart clung to most.

Each dreamer experienced it alone.

Yet all of them were standing in the same place.

The nightmare did not attack them.

It fed beside them.

The worms withdrew beneath the surface, dragging what remained down into the depths. The swamp stilled. Blood dispersed slowly, diluted until only the memory of red remained.

Silence returned.

And then–without warning–the companion reappeared.

Unharmed.

Smiling.

Standing exactly where they had been before.

As if nothing had happened.

That was when despair took root.

Because the dream offered no escape.

Only repetition.

Only the certainty that no matter how fast they ran, how tightly they held on, how desperately they fought–what they loved would always be taken in front of them.

And the swamp would always be hungry.

Far above this false land, in bodies that slept suspended in web and shadow, breath faltered. Hearts tightened. Minds strained against something they could not yet name.

They had entered a nightmare not meant to kill them.

They had entered one designed to break them.

And the worst part–

Not one of them yet realized that this world was not theirs alone.

And among them, one presence remained untouched – not resisting the nightmare, but lying beyond its reach.

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