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I wake up between a dead body and a ghost and immediately wish I was either one of them.
"She birthed the Nightmares: living incarnations of Her corruption, physical manifestations of Her wounds, charged with the single task of clearing the Lymanczyc from this realm. But Gaia exists on a system of balances, and where we are poison we must have a cure. Dreams are the answer to this: a people born to save us from ourselves, to act as anchors for our sanity when our power would otherwise tear us apart.
He is a god, and I am nothing, and I can feel my own insignificance all the way down to my wrecked soul.
"He put his claws in the bright child's power and called it protection, and he used that foothold to strangle our brother as soon as they embraced. We tried to warn him, but he did not understand. All masters can control their children, he said to us, but he stopped pretending the first time the master made them dance. We tire of the taste of poison on our teeth when it is not poison of our own choosing."
"Be careful, death Dream. There are rules. Your firsssst sssstep putssss you in play, and you cannot sssstop again until you win or die."
"Hey," I say. My voice hitches, and I clear my throat. "It's going to be all right now." It tastes like a lie even as I say it, because how the hell is any of this supposed to be all right? I'm a Dream who communes with the dead, and she's a child who's a Nightmare. We are children of a dying god and foot soldiers in a war we didn't ask for.
