A few days passed without ceremony.

  John learned faster than he should have.

  What began as clumsy intention sharpened into repetition, then discipline. He practiced until thought blurred into instinct—until creation felt less like asking and more like remembering. Objects formed when he focused. Wounds sealed when he willed it. Not instantly, not easily—but enough to matter.

  Too much, maybe.

  Alora didn’t progress at all.

  She tried. She really did. Quiet focus, stubborn repetition, doubt smothered under determination—but nothing answered her. The world remained still around her hands. Silent. Unmoved.

  John barely noticed.

  He worked day and night. When exhaustion took him, it was shallow and brief. When hunger came, he ignored it. Cuts accumulated—thin slices across his forearms, abrasions on his knuckles, bruises blooming and fading as he learned how to wait them out and pull himself back together with time and focus. It hurt. He didn’t complain.

  Linda never commented on how hard John was pushing himself. She didn’t need to see it.

  She seemed to know anyway.

  Sometimes she would pause mid-sentence, her head tilting slightly, as if listening to something deeper than sound. Other times she would gently suggest food or rest at moments that felt too precise to be coincidence. She showed them the surrounding land—the creek that sang over smooth stones, the places where the light lingered warm against the skin, the way the forest breathed if you listened closely enough. She cooked. She laughed. She grounded them.

  There were no nightmares here. No threats. No monsters in the dark.

  Chad drifted in and out like a shadow that had other places to be. When he watched, his gaze lingered on John—measuring, weighing—and then he would leave again. No praise. No correction. Just absence.

  Today, John was out beyond the cabin, past the gentle slope of the field, near the tree line where the grass thinned and the earth grew uneven.

  His clothes were filthy. Dirt streaked his sleeves and knees, dried blood dark at the cuffs. Sweat clung to his hair, his breath shallow and uneven. He stood with his feet planted, shoulders tight, jaw clenched—hands trembling faintly as the ground beneath him shuddered, then settled.

  He released the pressure with a sharp exhale.

  That one took more out of him than he expected.

  Behind him, the cabin door opened.

  Alora stepped outside and let herself pause for a moment.

  The sun warmed her skin. Birds chirped somewhere high in the trees. The wind brushed past her gently, carrying the scent of grass and earth. It should have been peaceful.

  Instead, she felt it immediately—the strain in the air, like a wire pulled too tight.

  John stood rigid in the distance.

  She started toward him anyway.

  Each step closer made the feeling worse. The tension thickened, heavy and quiet, pressing against her chest. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was resistance. Like walking toward someone who had already decided they didn’t want company.

  “John,” she called softly.

  He stiffened.

  Not turning. Not relaxing. Just enough of a reaction to tell her he’d heard.

  She slowed, uncertainty creeping in. He’d already seen her—she could tell by the way his shoulders shifted, by the way the space around him seemed to pull inward, defensive.

  “Hey,” she tried again, closer now. “You’ve been out here all morning.”

  No answer.

  She stopped a few steps behind him. Up close, the damage was clearer—the cuts he hadn’t fully erased yet, the exhaustion etched deep into his face, the subtle sway of someone standing on willpower alone.

  “You need to take a break,” she said, gently. “You’re past your limit.”

  Silence.

  The wind rustled the grass between them. Birds kept singing, blissfully unaware.

  John’s hands curled into fists.

  The tension didn’t snap.

  It waited.

  “I don’t think there is a way out,” John said suddenly.

  The words came out sharp—too sharp—like they’d been waiting for an excuse.

  Alora looked at him, concern flashing across her face. “Don’t say that.”

  John didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere beyond the trees, jaw tight. “If we were able to get in here, then there has to be a way out.”

  “There should be,” she said quickly, stepping closer. “But this place is getting to you. I can tell. And when it does—” her voice softened, “—it affects me too, you know.”

  He didn’t respond. Just shook his head slightly.

  “I shouldn’t have agreed to go to the park,” he murmured.

  That made her stop.

  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “What the hell, John? You think I knew?”

  He answered too fast. “No. I don’t. It’s just—”

  He exhaled sharply. “It’s your fault.”

  The words hung there, unfinished but complete all the same.

  John turned toward her, realizing too late.

  Alora’s chin trembled. Her brows knit together, eyes glassy—holding back days of fear, exhaustion, and things she hadn’t let herself say. She swallowed hard.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. I’m sorry I ruined your day.”

  Her voice broke on the last word.

  She turned before he could answer and started toward the woods.

  “Alora—” John said, panic edging into his voice. “Alora, wait.”

  She didn’t.

  She walked deeper between the trees, each step heavier than the last, the forest closing around her. The birds were quieter here. The light thinner. And with every step, the weight in her chest grew—alone, shattered, and helpless in a world that refused to listen to her no matter how hard she tried.

  Behind her, John stood frozen, regret written plainly across his face, already knowing he’d crossed a line he couldn’t just walk back over.

  John closed his eyes.

  He knelt in the grass, hands lowering without thinking. Warmth spread across his palms—steady, real, impossible to ignore.

  When he opened his eyes, the dog that stood before him was small, no bigger than a young pup, with soft white fur broken by warm patches of tan along its face and back. One ear tipped slightly forward while the other folded just a bit, giving it an endearingly uneven look, as if it hadn’t quite decided how it was supposed to exist yet.

  A thin stripe of white ran clean down the center of its face, splitting the tan like a quiet path, ending at a dark, wet nose that twitched curiously as it took in the world for the first time. Its eyes were wide and dark—gentle, alert, and impossibly trusting—reflecting light in a way that made John’s chest tighten.

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  The dog tilted its head at him, tongue lolling out in an awkward, happy grin, breath quick and warm. Its tail wagged with hesitant enthusiasm, brushing the air like it was afraid too much joy might break something.

  It didn’t feel like a weapon.

  It didn’t feel like a mistake.

  It felt… kind.

  Alive in the simplest way.

  The tulip slipped from John’s fingers and fell into the grass beside the pup. The dog noticed immediately, sniffed it once, then sat down beside it as if the two belonged together.

  John swallowed hard.

  This wasn’t something he had made.

  This was something he had meant..

  John couldn’t help but smile at the dog’s fascination with the flower.

  “You like the tulip?” he asked quietly.

  The dog sniffed it again, tail thumping against the ground like it had just discovered the greatest treasure in the world.

  “Hopefully you aren’t the only one,” John added under his breath.

  He sighed, bending down to pick the flower back up, then turned and continued deeper into the woods. The dog followed close at his heel, trotting happily as if it had always belonged there.

  It didn’t take long to find her.

  Alora sat near the base of a tree, arms crossed tightly, her face buried against them. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed, trying—and failing—to keep the sound contained.

  John slowed his steps.

  He didn’t want to startle her.

  “Hey… Alora,” he said softly, stopping a few feet away. “It’s me. I’m really sorry. You were right. This place—it’s gotten to me.”

  He reached out, tentative, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

  She spun around instantly and pulled him into a hug.

  Hard.

  The suddenness stole his breath. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, like she was afraid letting go would make him disappear. John froze, heart hammering in his chest.

  This wasn’t a hug he recognized.

  This wasn’t casual. This wasn’t polite.

  She squeezed him tighter, and something in him broke open.

  Instinctively—without thinking—he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He felt her warmth, the rise and fall of her breath, the way she fit against him like she’d always belonged there.

  John had never really been close to anyone before.

  This wasn’t like Linda’s embrace—gentle, comforting, distant in a way that felt wise and unfamiliar. This was different. This was personal. He’d known Alora for years, and yet they’d never crossed this line.

  This felt like being wanted.

  Like being someone’s whole world.

  A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

  “All we have is each other,” he said, voice unsteady but sincere. “And I promise—I will never turn against you like that again. Not ever.”

  Alora’s grip loosened just enough for her to look up at him. A small, fragile smile formed through the tears, relief softening her features.

  “Thank you, John,” she whispered.

  They pulled back slightly, though their arms stayed loosely around one another.

  John cleared his throat, suddenly remembering. “Uh… hey. I know things have been stressful, and I thought maybe I could—well—make something that might help.”

  They both glanced down.

  The dog sat patiently beside them, tail wagging. Without being told, it sprang to its feet and let out a few happy, clumsy barks.

  Alora laughed softly, wiping at her eyes, then knelt down and reached for it. “Oh my god,” she said, smiling wide. “I actually love this dog.”

  John swallowed, then held out the white tulip, his hand shaking just a little. “For you. Forgive me, Alora.”

  Her smile didn’t fade. If anything, it softened.

  “No one has ever given me flowers before,” she said quietly.

  She glanced back at the dog. “So… what’s our friend’s name?”

  John blinked. “I—I don’t know. But she really seems to like the tulip.”

  Alora laughed, scooping the dog into her arms. “Then Tulip it is.”

  The dog wagged her tail furiously, as if she approved of the decision.

  John watched them both, heart still racing, and for the first time in a long while, the weight in his chest felt just a little lighter.

  A voice cut through the air.

  “A conjuror of beasts, I see.”

  It was close. Too close.

  John and Alora both turned.

  Alora’s eyes widened instantly.

  John’s reaction was different.

  He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Instead, a slow, almost reckless grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—something sharp and challenging settling into his expression. He’d been training for days. Pushing limits. And he hadn’t tested himself against anyone yet.

  The man approaching them was big—broad shoulders packed into tight, reinforced armor that left little doubt about its purpose. Muscle showed through every movement. A dark scarf draped around his neck and lower face, hanging loose in a way that reminded John uncomfortably of Chad.

  “Who are you?” John demanded.

  The man stopped a few paces away.

  “I am Captain Rook,” he said, voice firm and practiced. “Protector of these woods from the nightmares that dare cross them.”

  His eyes flicked briefly to the dog in Alora’s arms.

  “Now state your name and business, outlander,” he continued. “Or pay for trespass.”

  John stepped forward without hesitation, placing himself between Rook and Alora. His arm extended slightly—shielding both her and Tulip.

  “I’m John,” he said flatly. “And you need to lighten up.”

  Rook’s hand moved.

  Steel flashed.

  John reacted on instinct, feet shifting as he summoned the hasta into his grip, the obsidian tip forming with a sharp shimmer of light.

  Rook’s eyes gleamed.

  “Ah,” he said. “A dreamer.”

  He adjusted his stance, studying John with sudden interest. “I’ve been preparing for your kind.”

  John felt it then—the certainty that this wasn’t going to end with words. He didn’t even know if he wanted it to.

  He lunged.

  The strike was fast. Clean. Deadly.

  Rook moved faster.

  He pulled his right leg back just enough for the spearhead to miss by inches, spun smoothly on his heel, and drove the pommel of his blade into the back of John’s head.

  The world tilted.

  John dropped to one knee, vision flashing white as the ground rushed up to meet him.

  Rook stepped away immediately, already done with him, and turned his attention to Alora.

  She gasped as John went down, clutching Tulip tightly against her chest. Rook’s gaze bore into her—heavy, assessing.

  “What do you even want?” she shouted, fear and anger bleeding together.

  Rook smirked. “Peace,” he said. “For my people. And I’m tired of fighting off you nightmares.”

  Alora blinked, confused. “We’re not—”

  John staggered back to his feet, rubbing the back of his head, rage flaring. “We are not nightmares, you idiot!”

  Alora spun on him. “John—”

  Rook’s expression hardened. “Deception,” he muttered. “Expected.”

  He charged.

  Alora reacted instantly, turning her body and wrapping her arms around Tulip, bracing herself.

  Then—

  “That’s enough.”

  The command was calm. Absolute.

  Rook skidded to a stop.

  Chad stepped out from between the trees, his presence settling the air like a weight.

  Rook straightened immediately. “Sir. I encountered these two—and the beast—in the woods. I was uncertain of their allegiance.”

  Chad’s gaze moved to Alora. To Tulip. Then to John, who finally managed to stand fully upright, jaw clenched, pride bruised harder than his skull.

  “These,” Chad said evenly, “are our guests, Captain Rook.”

  The tension didn’t disappear.

  But it froze—sharp and waiting.

  “John. Alora,” Chad said calmly. “This is Captain Rook. Out here, he is what we call my champion.”

  Rook inclined his head slightly. “I apologize. I hadn’t yet been informed you were present in these woods.”

  John blinked. “Champion?”

  Chad smiled at that. It was subtle, but unmistakable — the kind of smile that came from finally getting to teach something he cared about.

  “Let’s head back to Linda’s,” he said. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  No one argued.

  They turned toward the cabin, moving through the field at an easy pace. Alora instinctively quickened her steps until she was walking beside John. Behind them, Rook shifted to Chad’s flank without being told, positioning himself just slightly behind and to the side — disciplined, deliberate. Formation, not habit.

  Chad spoke as they walked.

  “You see, in this world, those of us who are half dreamer possess a unique ability,” he began. “We can create one living being — a companion, a guardian — nearly as powerful as we are.”

  John’s attention sharpened.

  “And it is always,” Chad continued, “the first one.”

  Rook said nothing.

  “I’ve been watching you train, John. From time to time,” Chad added casually. “When you’re ready, I can help guide you through creating yours. That part matters more than you realize.”

  They reached the open field behind the cabin and slowed to a stop.

  “You only get one chance,” Chad said, turning to face him now. “There won’t be another. I was… fortunate with mine. I didn’t know then that there would never be a second.”

  His gaze shifted briefly to Rook. Then back to John.

  “Captain Rook will assist you with your training,” Chad said. “He knows the dream world better than anyone I trust. He’ll help bring you up to speed.”

  John straightened, surprised but not unwilling.

  “As for me,” Chad went on, already stepping back, “I need to conduct some reconnaissance.”

  Alora felt the moment coming before the words landed.

  “And me?” she asked, even though she already knew she wouldn’t like the answer.

  Chad looked at her evenly.

  “I see you already have a companion to keep you company.”

  Alora stared at him.

  “Oh. Wow,” she said flatly. “That’s… comforting.”

  Tulip wagged her tail, entirely missing the tension.

  John slowed his steps and looked directly at Chad.

  “I can’t help but notice something,” he said. “You keep calling this the dream world.”

  “Yeah,” Alora added. “Wouldn’t this just be… normal for you?”

  Chad let out a slow breath, the kind that came from answering a question he didn’t think really mattered — or didn’t want to matter.

  “I’m using the term for your sake,” he said evenly. “I’m aware of the world you come from, even if I’ve never been there myself.” He hesitated. Just briefly. “My mentor had. He told me stories.”

  He paused, gaze forward.

  “I don’t want to complicate things more than necessary. So for now, that’s how I’ll word it.”

  They reached Linda’s cabin as the sun dipped low toward the horizon. The sky had shifted into something unreal — three moons hanging closer together now, their pale light overlapping, each still separated by its own strange distance. Beautiful. Unsettling.

  John stopped.

  He tilted his head back, eyes tracing their slow alignment, something tightening quietly in his chest as if the sky itself was trying to tell him something he wasn’t ready to hear.

  Ahead of him, the others continued inside.

  Linda’s voice carried out through the open door, bright and welcoming. “Rook! It’s been too long,” she called warmly. There was genuine happiness in her tone — familiarity. History.

  Alora lingered at the doorway, Tulip tucked gently in her arms. She glanced back at John, saw the way he stood frozen beneath the moons, and chose not to say anything.

  Not tonight.

  She stepped inside instead, letting the door remain open just a little longer before the light swallowed her too.

  John stayed where he was, staring up at the sky, the dream world pressing down quietly — patiently — as if it knew he’d look eventually.