his lips, squashing my words down.
The Commandant’s eyes take on a glassy sheen as he continues. “The mystic’s dream interpretations are too uncanny. His messages from my father…” My mind whirs. Does he mean the old Commandant? Perhaps he’s not dead after all, or else this mystic is pulling off quite the con. “And he foretells a great victory for us, atop the spine of a mighty warbeast. The Barstadt Empire shall tremble and bow under our fearsome gale!”
Is the warbeast some new weapon the Iron Winds has designed? Dreamer curse their allegorical speech for muddling it all up! I want to poke further at that thought, but General Cold Sun steers the conversation, my grip on his consciousness slipping once more. “This mystic is a charlatan, preying on us. I’ve never known you to be one for superstition. It doesn’t behoove your father’s philosophy: man as god, Commandant as controller of the Winds of Fate. Strength and victory above all.”
The Commandant’s hand trembles; his fingers dance across the sharp edge of a tiny ship’s sail. “I fear if we don’t give him what he wants, he will turn the warbeast’s power on us.”
The general’s shoulders tense; I want to learn more about this mystic, but Cold Sun is on the verge of waking. I lift one foot out of the stream in Oneiros, trying to let him settle back into sleep, and let his thoughts wash over my other foot. Barstadters. Agents. Traitors, they say. “And what of our agents within Barstadt City’s walls?”
The Commandant swishes his hand, as if the question was beneath him, but he betrays himself with a glance over his shoulder, toward where the jewel-spangled figure disappeared. “Yes, yes, they will carry out their tasks. You needn’t worry about them.”
But my efforts to ease back from Cold Sun’s consciousness didn’t work. Within Oneiros, the stream is bubbling, rising, heating up, threatening to boil over. I’m out of time.
I try to move Cold Sun’s arms to signal Brandt, but the general’s body fights against me. I’m getting squeezed out as his consciousness tries to return. In Oneiros, steam pours off of the water as it rises from its banks, sharp and acidic against the dark earth. There’s no doubt he can sense me now. I splash back onto the forest floor, but it’s not enough. The stream turns red—molten.
“Commandant—” General Cold Sun speaks freely now. “I fear that I am—We may have been—”
Brandt rushes forward from the shadows, the perfect portrait of the concerned valet. “General, we must return to our carriage. Take you to a physicker.” He casts a glance toward the Commandant. “I’m afraid our fortress has not been spared the latest fever coursing upon the winds.”
Dreamer bless Brandt and his calm, quick mind. Red lava oozes from the stream in Oneiros, turning the trees into columns of fire. The general’s instincts war against mine; even as I fight to stride down the long corridor leading out of the Citadel, he tries to turn the other way. Bile tickles the back of my throat—it’s more his, now—and dimly, I feel Brandt’s hand gripping our elbow.
The Commandant is shouting at us, but I can only hear the shapes of his words, not their substance. We must be violating twelve different social customs right now, but whatever punishment the Commandant has in mind for us is nothing compared to the danger that awaits me in Oneiros if I can’t get back to my body in time.
My vision blurs as if an earthquake is jostling my sight away from the general’s eyes. He’s forcing me out. I’m adrift in Oneiros, bait for the hungering void that I dare not tempt. The Nightmare Wastes feed on fear and doubt; they swallow up souls that are lost from their bodies, and forever trap them in emptiness. I have to cling to the general, keep control of my soul until we reach my body—
Until I can—
Rest your head, and join us in eternal rest …
The Wastes reach out for me like the embrace of