- Chapter 025 -

  What If You Were Wrong?

  The walk back down the mountain path was silent, empty. The bravado, the cold, sharp anger he had wielded like a weapon against the armored giant, had evaporated the moment they turned the corner, leaving him once again hollowed out. He was running on the phantom weight of despair, his legs moving on an autopilot he was no longer consciously directing. Taz had vanished back into the thin mountain air, but the feeling of being watched remained, a permanent and questionably welcome companion.

  The display of "office power," as he'd thought of it, had been a bluff, a gambit born from absolute certainty that he had nothing left to lose. It had worked, but the victory was empty. He had won a confrontation, David besting Goliath, but he was still an anomaly in a world that wasn't his.

  They were nearly back to the well tended street of Silver-Vein Terrace when Dawn finally broke the silence, her voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the quiet.

  "What was that?"

  Mark didn't look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead, on the dark slate roof of his temporary home peeking through the trees. "A calculated outcome," he said, his voice flat and detached, the project manager holding himself steady. "He was a tool sent to apply pressure. If he'd broken me, his Guildmaster would have broken him far worse. It's a risk they weren't willing to take."

  He heard her take a sharp breath, her steps faltering for a moment. "What if you were wrong?" she asked, and for the first time, he heard a note of genuine, unvarnished worry in her voice. "People like him don't think. They just act. He could have crushed your skull before a second thought entered his head."

  Mark stopped walking. He looked past the elegant houses, past the bustling town in the valley below, to the colossal, silent peaks on the horizon. The mountains didn't care. They were a constant, a simple fact.

  He finally turned to face her, the hollowed-out emptiness in his eyes more profound than any anger he could muster. "Wrong about what, Dawn?" he asked, the question devoid of his earlier sarcasm.

  He let out a long, deep breath that tasted of pine and defeat. "Your Gods gave me a house I don't deserve, a training schedule I can barely survive, and a vague quest to a sealed city full of answers I might not be able to understand."

  He met her worried gaze, and for the first time since the café, he let the mask fall away completely.

  "What if I was wrong?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "What's the worst that could have happened? I'd be dead. What, exactly, am I doing here that I would be missing out on?"

  Dawn stared at him, her sharp, perceptive eyes losing their analytical edge, replaced by a look of profound and unwelcome concern.

  "That's not a healthy way to look at life, Mark," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "That's a good way to get yourself killed."

  He didn't reply at first. Her concern was a variable he hadn't accounted for, and he had no file for it. He just turned and started walking again, the rhythm of his footsteps a dull, steady beat against the silence. They walked the rest of the way to his street without a word, the grand, empty houses of Silver-Vein Terrace looming ahead of them.

  As they reached his doorstep, he finally spoke, his voice a low monotone as he stared at the ornate bronze lock on his door. "What if they find out I'm not useful?" he asked, not looking at her. "Why would the Masons' Guild have a use for someone like me? I can't build. I can't cut stone. What do they want?"

  Dawn was silent for a long moment. He could feel her struggling beside him, the hunter searching for a target she couldn't see, a trail that left no tracks. "They... maybe they need..." She trailed off, the words failing her. She let out a frustrated breath. "How would I know?"

  Mark let out a humorless chuckle, the sound flat and dead in the crisp air. He finally turned to face her, the hollowed-out emptiness back in his eyes.

  He already knew the answer. It was the same answer it had always been, in every office, on every project, in every world.

  "It's not about what I can do for them," he explained, his voice the weary tone of a man explaining a bitter, fundamental truth. "They don't care about me."

  He gestured vaguely at the sky, at the mountains, at the entire impossible world around them. "They want to know why your so-called gods are interested. They see a connection, a resource they can exploit."

  He met her gaze, his own expression a mask of pure, desolate irony. "And I don't even know why."

  He turned the key in the lock, the simple mechanical sound a welcome anchor to reality. The door swung open, revealing the quiet, sunlit space of the house. It was a sanctuary, but it felt more like a prison.

  “I’m going to see what survived the earlier incident,” he said, his voice flat. He gestured vaguely inside. “You can come in, or not. I need to eat.”

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  He stepped across the threshold, not waiting to see if she would follow. He walked straight to the kitchen area, the full weight of the day’s events settling on him like a shroud. He heard the door click shut behind him. She had followed.

  From the cooler he pulled the items, assessing the damage like a logistics manager reviewing a compromised shipment. The meat and flour were fine. The tea, thankfully, was safe, if now cold. The eggs had been a complete loss, and half the vegetables were bruised or mangled. It was a pathetic inventory, but it was his.

  “You need to find some friends,” Dawn said from behind him, her voice startlingly close. “People to work through these… issues with. Doing it alone isn’t a good strategy.”

  A dry, bitter laugh escaped Mark’s lips as he rinsed a slightly squashed, potato-like vegetable under the tap. The irony was suffocating.

  “Funny you should mention that,” he said, not turning from his work. A sliver of his old, weary humor began to surface, a familiar defense mechanism. “Back home, a man in my position who suddenly had three different women constantly following him around would be considered a great success. The envy of the whole office.”

  He began chopping the vegetable with a steady, rhythmic motion, the simple task a focus in the chaos of his mind.

  “Here,” he continued, his voice laced with a dark amusement, “I get a medic who keeps diagnosing my impossible existence, a dream scavenger who thinks my mind is a public library, and a professional stalker whose nightmare cat enjoys appearing from nowhere. It’s a different kind of success, I suppose. Probably not bragging level attention.”

  He heard her shift her weight, the creak of her leather armor the only sound for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was a deadpan, literal correction that completely missed the point of his cynical joke.

  “Taz isn’t a woman,” she stated simply, as if clarifying a detail in a mission report.

  Mark stopped chopping. He rested his hands on the edge of the counter, the knife still in his grip, and let out a long, slow breath. The humor evaporated, leaving only the hard truth of the matter.

  “No,” he said quietly, finally turning to look at her. “He’s not.” He acknowledged the creature's raw, terrifying beauty. “He’s an amazing, impossible creature, Dawn. I can see that.”

  He met her gaze, his own eyes reflecting the memory of the forest, of blood and fire and cold, glowing eyes.

  “He’s also the reason I choose not to dream,” he finished, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “That first night in the forest… watching him with the… sprite. That’s what’s waiting for me when I close my eyes. That or the haunting streets of home, the ghosts of those I left behind a thousand years ago…”

  After a moment of silence, Dawn inquired, “How can someone choose not to dream? I know some people can’t, but choosing?”

  Through the chopping he gave a moment, picking his reply for her report he mused, “Knowing that line, before you dream, I choose not to, for weeks the darkness has been a comfort.” He grabbed another vegetable, this one looking more like a pear, “It’s something I can control in a landslide that wants to bury me.”

  The silence hung heavy in the room, thick with the weight of his confession. He watched Dawn process the information, her hunter's mind trying to categorize a wound it couldn't see, a threat it couldn't track. He turned back to the counter, the simple, methodical task of cooking a welcome shield against her analytical gaze.

  He worked on autopilot, his hands moving through the familiar motions of preparation while his mind remained a quiet, empty space. When he was done, he brought three plates to the small table where Dawn now sat, watching him with a new, unreadable expression. He placed one in front of her, one at his own seat, and the third that was considerably less set for presentation in the middle of the table.

  Dawn looked from the plates to him, her brow furrowed in confusion. "There are three," she stated, the simple observation a question in itself.

  "I assumed he eats, unless this doesn't match his diet?" Mark replied, his voice flat.

  Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock breaking through her composure. She looked from the plate of meat and vegetables to the door, and then back to Mark. "No one's ever... thought to offer Taz," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She stood, and for a moment, he saw not the professional scout or the wary stalker, but a person genuinely touched by a small, unexpected kindness.

  "Thank you," she said quietly. She took the third plate, and without another word, slipped over to the front door, opening it just enough to slide the dish outside before closing it again with a soft click. When she returned to the table, her demeanor was softer, the hard edges of her professional guard momentarily lowered.

  They ate in a new kind of silence for a few minutes, not the tense, awkward quiet of before, but something more thoughtful. It was Dawn who broke it, her curiosity apparently overriding her caution.

  "How?" she asked, setting her fork down. "It can't be that simple to choose not to dream?"

  Mark finished chewing a piece of the surprisingly sweet, nutty vegetable before answering. It felt strange to be the expert on something, to be the one explaining a fundamental concept to a native of this magical world.

  "It's a skill," he explained, the words feeling odd and inadequate. "Something you can learn, with practice. Discipline, I suppose. You learn to clear your mind, to find a single point of focus as you fall asleep. You don't let the dream happen to you." He looked at her, trying to articulate a concept that had no equivalent here. "You learn to recognize that you're dreaming, and once you do that, you can start to shape the narrative. Build the world yourself. We call it a lucid dream."

  The look Mark received said it all, her reply confirmed it, “I think we’ve all had those, when you know you're dreaming, I find them creepy.”

  So he tried again, “I taught myself how to dream in a lucid state, think about it like day dreaming while being asleep.” Taking a moment to eat another mouthful, “I can’t always start a lucid dream, I’m no guru. But I know the feeling well enough to stop the narrative from forming, to stop the ghosts.”

  Dawn stared at him, her expression a mixture of skepticism and grudging fascination. She shook her head slightly, the idea clearly not fitting into any framework she understood.

  "That's just… nonsense," she said, though the dismissal lacked its earlier conviction. She picked up her fork again, poking at a piece of meat. A thought seemed to connect in her mind, a stray piece of data suddenly finding its place. She looked up at him, her eyes sharp and analytical once more.

  "Is that why Tori won't shut up about you?"