Where in the world am I now?

The more Corva realizes that she’s dreaming, the less she has control over her actions in the dream. It’s kind of the opposite of how things have been going with her fits.

There she goes again, using one of Jack’s words. Fits. This is the longest she’s spent time anywhere since Fareburne. Maybe she’s been in Bule too long.

That said, little by little, the more she’s remained in one place and trained, the more she’s gaining control over herself when she’s in that state. But in these dreams, it’s the other way around. She’s a spectator in her own skin. At least, she thinks this is her skin. She’s certainly never worn clothes like this.

For one thing, her midsection is almost entirely exposed, front and back. A length of silk wraps her chest and shoulders before crossing down to wrap her waist. It’s like a scarf that’s making believe it’s a sleeveless shirt and a belt at the same time. The loose, baggy pants she’s wearing have a similar identity crisis; from a distance, they could be mistaken as an ankle-length skirt.

Sure, the clothes are comfortable and she’s deceptively mobile in them, but the patterned silk is way more refined than anything she’s ever come close to, let alone worn. And this getup exposes an awful lot of her skin, which she notes is a lot lighter than she’s used to, like she hasn’t been in the sun for weeks. In any case, this outfit doesn’t offer nearly as much protection from the elements as she would like.

And in these dreams, everything is so big. Impossibly big. She can’t reach things she normally could. Even running or walking from place to place takes more steps than she’d normally need. It’s like she’s been dropped into a world for people twice her size.

Corva feels along the outside of her left calf. Good, at least I still have a knife.

She’s been having this dream—or variations of it—ever since coming to Bule. All of them start differently and she feels like she’s playing the part of a different person in each one.

However, they all end the same.

As best as she can tell in this one, she’s been following Zeke. Only one other time has he appeared to her in a dream. Just like that one, he doesn’t respond when she tries to talk to him.

But where is that little hand-footed beast now?

Corva studies the enormous, cavern-like room in which she’s found herself. With a curved ceiling that arches into the walls, it’s got a dank subterranean feel. Despite shoddy lighting from a few rows of flickering bars of light overhead, there aren’t an abundance of hiding places where Zeke could be.

The most obvious place would be in the wide fissure that runs the length of the room and extends into tunnels on each end. Looking into the creek-like concrete trench, Corva notices there are steel rails running along the bottom.

An underground train route? Those aren’t supposed to be active anymore. Avó said they collapsed early in the war when the mega cities got hit. This is pretty close to how I imagined they’d look, though.

Corva stops herself.

Idiota! Of course it’s like you’d imagine. You’re dreaming!

Getting back to the business of figuring out where Zeke is, she hops down into the trench and looks in each direction. Well, fifty-fifty shot at this. Let’s see what’s to the left.

Corva pivots on the balls of her feet and bolts to her right.

Wait, what? Left! I want to go left!

She strains her mind, vainly grasping for dominance over her own limbs. In previous dreams, she’s been able to regain control by sheer determination, but her willpower simply isn’t enough this time. She’s riding shotgun in her own mind. Even worse, she’s got no idea who’s driving.

Sprinting down the trench, she reaches the tunnel entrance and plunges into the gloom. Her body doesn’t hesitate at all. It moves with a confidence, an assertiveness that she’s not used to. In the darkness of the tunnel, the air is still and silent. There’s hardly an echo for each brief pat of her bare feet on the dusty concrete floor. She marvels at the fact that she hasn’t tripped or fallen or even slowed her dash along the train tracks.

A dim flickering dot shows ahead of Corva and quickly expands, revealing the next stop in the subterranean train route. Suddenly, she’s no longer running; she’s sliding on her feet to a stop nearly twenty meters from the opening. Corva tries to look around but feels her eyes focusing on the ground near the mouth of the tunnel.

I can’t even control my own eyes? Really? Isn’t there a—

Her thoughts are cut short when she realizes what her eyes are focusing on. There’s a small furry creature standing right at the center of the tunnel entrance. It’s backlit, so she can’t catch any details, but the thing seems to be about the right size.

Zeke?

She feels her left arm descend and withdraw the long knife strapped to her calf.

Wait. What?

She resumes her sprint, faster than before, knife arm rising in front of her as she nears the opening.

No! Don’t kill him! I need him!

Her body doesn’t slow down.

Corva tenses her mind. Gotta stop this. She can feel her limbs moving, but nothing changes. Try smaller muscles. Maybe the knife? She focuses all of her energy on her left hand, repeatedly visualizing each finger unwrapping from the knife handle. Come onnnn … open up, you little bastards.

Ting!

Hearing the knife clang on the ground, Corva realizes that her eyelids are clinched shut and she’s no longer running. She’s forced herself back into the driver’s seat. Opening her eyes, it’s apparent that she regained control just in time. She’s within spitting distance of Zeke.

However, it’s not Zeke.

A large white rat—one of the largest she’s ever seen—sits balanced upright on its haunches, staring at her through slitted red eyes. This strange rodent doesn’t appear to be phased in the least that she is two steps away from slicing it in half. Instead, the rat shoots right toward Corva, scurrying between her legs to the space behind her.

Tracking the rat, she spins about. However, there’s no follow-through for her spin. She stops herself mid-movement, mind and body locking tight as horror washes over her like a swarm of ants. She can’t see the rat anymore. There’s something blocking her view. Someone. The same person that shows at the end of all these dreams.

The Reaper.

He towers over her, menacing despite the thinness of his frame. Corva can see the rat’s head peek over his shoulder.

Death’s enormous black wings spread to more than twice his already imposing height as he hunches over, bringing his hooded face within inches of hers.

“Durga.” A single word. A name. The most he’s ever said in a dream. The sound of his voice seeps from the gloomy void of his hood. Somehow, though, that sound has a volume and weight that echoes across the chamber.

Although the hood shadows most of his features, Corva can see his beard move again. It’s as if he’s opening his mouth to say something, then closes it before any more words manage to escape. All that remains is silence. Each ticking second drags behind it the gravity of eons.

“Forgive me.” There’s regret in the old Reaper’s voice. Genuine regret.

Forgive him? For what?

Death lurches up to his full height. From the corner of her eye, she sees his scythe arcing toward her head. In an instant, she can feel each sinewy filament of muscle in her neck tear at the scythe’s jagged edge, every crackle in the bones of her spine, and the cold metal from the flat side of the blade rubbing against the exposed surfaces on either side of the cut. Pain erupts with the blood.