Page 155 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
Alfie saunters in, green eyes flashing with malice. “Your lies were bound to catch up with you, Willow.”
“Did you tell them your lie, too, Alfie?” I shout. “I was Nero’s prisoner. You were his aeronautics captain!”
“Lies!” he bellows. “Everyone knows I’ve been here for years—same as them.”
“I must have sent you here,” I gape, hardly believe it. “Or Titania stole you when she summoned?—”
I cut myself off. There’s no way I can refute his claims without damning the Six, and he knows it. I’m fucked. The other Shadows—Irisa, Heath, and Corey—arrive with a mix of caution and aggression in their eyes. Exhibitors swarm behind them. Having surprised Dahlia with her block, Becky is the only one between me and the mob.
“Let her explain,” she shouts.
“Fuck that.” Irisa spits. “She had her chance.”
“Get out of the way, bitch.” Dahlia rotates her sword. “I’m ready for a little payback.”
I back up until my spine hits the wall, mind reeling as I try to piece together how we got here. One moment, Legion was warning us to be wary of being recorded. The next, we lined up. Resonance stones were pinned to us. Scrolls were placed in our hands, and brands seared into our palms.
Wait.
I glance down at my hands. One grips my sword, and the other is wrapped around the invisible round thing, itching and tingling in my palm. No scroll. I don’t even remember unfurling it and reading it. I look up at the tiered stadium, leaves rustling around the balconies. I should be able to see faces, especially those in the loges. The sun blazes bright and high in the blue sky, but shadows linger everywhere. It’s cold. Freezing. When did the weather shift from brisk and frigid to a beautiful cloudless day? The sun had barely risen.
A cloying, sickly-sweet scent drifts in the air like rotting flowers. Buzzing under my feet.
The puzzle clicks into place.
Through a nightmare dreamscape, they’ll flee. While we watch enthralled with their struggle to break free.
We’re already in a dreamscape—a nightmare.
In both Elphyne and here, water is a magical gateway. I entered the dream when I put my hand in the bowl. I’d wondered how they’d cleared all the bowls so fast. I’m probably slumped on the floor, sleeping with the other exhibitors. The other Shadows pulled out elaborate, magical weapons as their blessings. Our weapons are figments of our imagination, but the injuries inflicted here will be real. I can still die. We all can.
Becky won’t move out of the way. Dahlia lifts her sword, growling, “I warned you.”
“Stop!” I shout. “We’re dreaming. Wake up!”
It’s too late. Swords clash. Pandemonium erupts. I shout for Geraldine and Max to hear me, to believe me, but they’re also fighting. It seems as if disgruntled exhibitors can’t reach me; they’re going for my friends.
But how do we wake with no one standing guard while we’re asleep?
More exhibitors break past Becky and Dahlia’s battle, faces mottled with fury—the ground tilts. The air presses in on me. I can only defend so much one-handedly. It’s either drop the round thing in my palm or die.
The round, invisible thing.
My brain clicks, and I glance down at my seemingly empty palm. I don’t even see the brand, but it stings. It’s there. That’s my way out, my anchor. Peablossom gave something that won’t transcend the dreamscape. Everything else is an illusion so real that it takes form.
Angry exhibitors charge me, but I drop the sword. I focus all my attention on the invisible ball in my hand—feel its round surface, cool and smooth. That’s real. Not this. I glance up as someone swings an ax at me, the blade arcing toward my face, and I crush that object in my fist until the brand burns so painfully I scream.
I wrench awake, lungs heaving, heart galloping. The taste of copper lingers on my tongue, a remnant of the dream or a warning of what’s to come. I’m slumped against the flat rock at the center of the arena, cool wind whipping my face, a small steel ball in my hand.
Shivering, I dust the light snow off myself and climb to my feet. The sun is high in the overcast sky. Time passed swiftly in the dream. Around me, by the central rock, four Shadows sleep. Some have blood pooling in places and welts forming on their skin—their dream injuries made real. Glowing spectral figures battle each other—swords clashing, fists flying, faces contorted with rage and desperation. The one with the ax has already stumbled past me, looking around, stunned.
“Where did she go?” he growls, looking my way.
I tense, but his gaze swings past as if I’m invisible. Not me—the metal ball. Now that I’m awake, it’s keeping me from being dragged back into the dreamscape. Maybe. Hopefully.
Voices swim in and out of earshot on a breeze. Becky—screaming at Dahlia and Irisa as she fights them both off. Blood oozes from a wound on her face. And Geraldine, Max? They’re fighting exhibitors who’ve come for them since I’ve gone. Death by association—their worst fear.
“No,” I breathe and bolt to the House of Shadow’s arena section, swerving around stray arms swinging, ducking under swords. Each near-miss sends a jolt of electricity across my skin. Even with the magic-cutting ball, if one touches me, I still might be dragged back into the dreamscape. Nothing is certain.
