These past three days have been both slow and fast—an unbalanced rush of quick changes. I've spent three nights at the Moonshin Inn, and the dreams have not changed. The nightmare monster keeps evolving.
On the first night, I decided to face the Wolf, testing one of my experiments to see if I could kill it. The plan backfired. It became one of the shortest nights I've had in the Dreaming. Even with my sharpened sense of hearing, I could do little. The Wolf bit me in two.
Very painful.
The night went like that, and so did the days. My progression as a bleeder, though, went well—I made good progress bleeding two trees. This time when we went to the barn to separate the wooden logs, I decided not to talk with Will or Max. Max, being Max, was strange as always. He didn't speak, only gave me that weird smile.
The second night was the same. Instead of going to the mountain where the Wolf would kill me, or to the frozen wastes where frostbite would eat me alive, I chose to climb down the mountain, past the suffocating fog. A great plan, I thought. But I hadn't known how steep the mountain truly was, nor how real the feeling of falling to my death would be.
The third night was worse. I abandoned the daredevil idea of falling and instead walked the mountain's edge. That was when I found myself eaten alive.
The path came to a halt when I heard something. I tried to control my senses, pushing into Resonance Sight. I had been working on it for the past nights—using it for mere seconds, never more than five. With it, I could discern the world at about fifty percent clarity, as though seeing everything drawn in crude sketches. Sound became shape. The longer I held, the fuller the objects appeared. Resonance Sight was the opposite of Silent Control, where I focused hearing on one single thing. With RS, I opened myself to everything, gaining clarity depending on how long I held it. Five seconds was enough to sketch the world around me like a junior artist crudely sketching forms.
What I saw that night was boundless: a swarm of bats. Not dozens, not hundreds—millions, layered in endless arrays. They followed strange patterns, up, down, forward, crashing as one. And then they came for me.
A dark wave. A living storm.
They tore my flesh apart before I had time to breathe. My senses dulled, my body shredded, my existence split. My consciousness unraveled, and I woke.
That was the third night. It left me with the depression of failure—given the ability to dream, yet unable to progress in the Dreaming exploration. Still, the day was better. After work, I followed Nile through the city. We made progress on how the paths align. I gave him a hint of my ability to hear with greater understanding, and it earned a sliver of approval. Enough to understand I could be useful.
For once, respect had been shown. Almost everywhere, people of all kinds offered kindness, even appreciation, if only with nods. This was mostly true in the inner region of the village.
Over the past three days, work had gone well. I earned three measures of bread grain. I kept them in case I lost all hope of food, but mostly I saved them as tokens of progress.
These weeks felt like a rush of luck. Most of all, I decided to visit the rations at the town's outer region. At first, I went not out of need but curiosity, maybe to ask for some. That was my original idea. But when I saw the difference between myself and the slums, I understood how lucky I was. I had no reason to beg. I was free to move on and let go.
I stood and watched as villagers were given grain. Some carried stamps that earned them more. Most received only four measures—barely enough to last a month.
...
"That's not enough!" a girl with long, light-blue hair shouted.
"Missy, what the hell do you think this is…?"
"Four grain is not enough. I need to stockpile food. Look at my poor uncle!" She pointed at a soldier. "He has no sight. I have to feed him and three of my brothers. This is why I need more."
"Then you should've gotten approval from the Lord. If you don't have a stamp to prove it, there's no grain I can give you, girl."
"Please, sir—"
Bang!
The soldier slapped her across the face. She fell to the ground. "The fuck do you think we are? Shut the hell up and don't beg. Know your place. You should be thankful we're giving you anything at all. If it were up to us, you'd get nothing."
"No, no! You're the reason we barely get food. Before you came, we all ate fine. We had food. But your Alden men took control—took everything—took my food!" She rose to her feet, stomping her words into the dirt.
This girl is crazy, Elliot thought.
"Steven," one of the soldiers growled, "I'm going to make a mess of this girl. Make her bleed to death if she says another word."
"Relax, Nate. Don't go too far. We've done what we came to do."
"You're lucky, girl. Very lucky. Next time I see you, you better pray to your God for peace when I'm around."
The soldiers left, and with them, the crowd of villagers. They scattered back to their broken huts, their hollow shelters of splintered wood and smoke.
The girl, limping slightly, helped the old blind man to his feet. As they walked into the sunlit street, flames of dusk caught her pale hair, and she smiled faintly at him. Together they disappeared into the inner lanes.
There are many here who are barely alive, Elliot thought, because of the soldiers that infest the village of Nathan. I live in a time of war and hunger, a time of uncertainty. I must succeed on this heist.
If I succeed, maybe I can survive not just the winter, but the many nights beyond this place—beyond Alden's grip. Maybe I can reach the great kings who still seek sovereignty, or the captives who whisper of their paradise.
There are many paths. Uncertainty is part of them. But within it, I wish for one thing—that luck is still on my side.
For in four days, the raid will come.