It is not working.
“Where is your Dreamwright now?” she asks.
Varen hesitates, glancing at me for permission.
“Tell her,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than intended. “She is my viyella. She will know what to do with the truth.”
He nods and leads us toward a low stone building near the back of the settlement.
The air inside is cooler, tinged with the metallic scent of ore and old ink.
A woman sits cross-legged on a woven mat, hands hovering over a shallow basin of Ember dust.
She’s younger than I expected, with streaks of color burned into her hair—silver and pale blue.
Her eyes are ringed with shadow.
“Lord Dagan,” she murmurs, voice hoarse. “You honor us.”
“You still weave?” I ask.
She laughs once. It is not a pleasant sound.
“I try. The forges send less ore to the outer villages now. The fires all burn lower. The SoulTakers choke the routes between sanctums. But yes. I still weave. Less dream. More nightmare.”
Alina steps forward. “You’re a Dreamwright?”
“Yes, milady.”
“What exactly does that mean?” she presses. “I’ve heard the term, but?—”
“You are from another world,” the Dreamwright says, looking her over with clear, assessing eyes. “I can smell it on you. Different dust. Different storms.”
“New Jersey,” Alina says wryly. “It’s a real place, I promise.”
The Dreamwright smiles faintly.
“I’m Alina.”
“They call me Masielle. See, we spin the raw ore of the very heart of Nightfall into threads. Into scenes. Into possibility. We send them through the Forge Songs to your world and all others. Dreams of falling, flying, losing teeth, kissing strangers, passing tests, facing fears. Visions of what might be, might never be, might should be. They become stories. Art. Inventions. The courage to leave. The strength to stay.”
Alina’s eyes narrow, fascinated. “You’re telling me Nightfall is literally responsible for imagination.”
“For hope,” Masielle, the Dreamwright says simply. “We are one of many sources. Not the only. But a root system beneath the multiverse. When we fray, so do the things built above us.”
“And the SoulTakers?” Alina asks softly.
“They are unmaking,” I answer before the Dreamwright can. “They feed on terror, despair, the collapse of what should have been. They want the Vein bled dry, and the Forges silenced. No more dreams. Only void.”
Silence stretches.
She has heard some of this before. But hearing and seeing are different things.
Alina’s hands clench at her sides.
I watch her profile—sharp nose, stubborn chin, mouth pressed thin as if something in her is cracking.
The way the villagers’ grief hit my chest like a hammer, I see the cold realization strike hers.
