Surfacing.

Peyter is here, close. Peyter is often close. As though even when they are drowning in the dream, they are still aware of each other. Samir’s mind is clear enough to feel guilt. Peyter wouldn’t be here if not for him.

That’s all he gets before he’s drowning again.

#

Surfacing.

Sun on his face. He’s outside. He can hear—just barely, but it’s there—the sounds of a city, awake and alive. It’s not far. People are not far. If Samir could just…make a noise. If he could convince his mouth to open, his lungs to push the air, his throat to craft the sound.

His own body is alien. A thing that no longer belongs to him, no longer obeys him.

His own body has become his prison.

With that thought, he’s pulled back down.

#

Surfacing.

“We lost another one. In the same place. There’s a flaw in the ritual, I’m sure.” Samir knows that voice. It is her voice.

The voice that answers is less familiar. Samir has heard it before, but he can’t remember when. “It’s a poor crafter who blames her tools.”

“I’m not blaming anything. I want to fix it.”

Shuffling, movement. If Samir could only see. His eyes are open. He knows that. But they do not work.

“Look at that one.” The voice he cannot place. “Does it seem like he’s…waking up?”

“Now who’s blaming the tools?” Sidaine is dismissive. “They’re all locked in the dream. Don’t be so paranoid.”

Trapped, yes, Samir is trapped. He fights. He fights. But there is no escape. Not here.

He dives.