“Looks like we’re all trained to run toward the fire, not away from it.”
I sip my tea and let that sink in.
“Must be something in the water.”
“Definitely something in the water,” Jules mutters. “Or the bagels.”
We all hum in agreement.
Bagels are sacred.
Silence falls for a moment—not awkward, just full. Comfortable.
The kind of silence that feels like a blanket instead of a wall.
“So,” I say slowly, “when the men say Nightfall is responsible for all the dreams in the multiverse?”
“It’s literal,” Jules cuts in, no hesitation.
“Dead literal,” Phoebe echoes. “Kael tried to explain it once. Something about purpose. Nightfall exists to fill all worlds and peoples with hope.”
She says it softly, like a memory she’s still turning over in her hands.
“Dream ore from The Ember Vein, to the forges, to the Dreamwrights,” Jules adds. “Dreams, nightmares, wishes, wild ideas—everything that makes people believe there’s more than just the grind. That all flows through here.”
I picture the mine, the heat, the black rock veined with lava-light.
I picture the miners’ faces.
The calluses on their hands.
The way Thorne’s jaw clenched when he talked about the SoulTakers.
“It hits a little different when you’ve been to the camps,” I admit. “I’ve seen the toll it takes. The guys in the tunnels—they’re not abstract people, er, Demons. They’re just people. Tired. Proud. Scared and stubborn and still going back down because the forges won’t burn without them.”
Phoebe nods, eyes soft.
“Kael says The Ember Vein is like the heartbeat of Nightfall. If it stops, everything starts to unravel.”
“And the SoulTakers want that?” I ask, brow furrowing. “They want to stop dreams? For what? That’s like anti-life. Anti-everything.”
“They’re not just raiders,” Jules says quietly. “They’re bringers of unraveling. Their magic feeds on despair, not hope. If the dreams stop flowing, if people stop believing in more, it gives the SoulTakers more ground to stand on.”
“Less imagination,” Phoebe adds. “Less fight. Less try. That’s what they want.”
My stomach turns.
“Great,” I sigh. “So we’re dating the last line of defense between every universe and total creative burnout.”
“Dating?” Jules repeats, grinning. “Honey, you’re bound. Married. Astrally shackled. Join the club.”
Phoebe bumps my shoulder with hers. “Honestly though? Do you feel it? That… thing? Like Nightfall isn’t just where you are, it’s where you’re plugged in?”
I look down at my hands.
I think of the miners. Evonne’s tired-but-bright eyes when we talked about emergency response.
Of Thorne’s people bowing to him, and him hating it—but still burning himself out to keep them safe.
