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None of the Scions were strangers to nightmares—nay, they had all seen too much to sleep soundly. But after returning from the First, Urianger’s dreams took on a recurring shape, returning several times a week without fail.
It always began so sweetly.
He sat on the grassy shore of Longmirror Lake, gazing out over the drowned city it encased. The Everlasting Light bathed Il Mheg in the illusion of an unending sunny day—were it not for the unsettling stillness of a dying world, and the near-total absence of shadow. Here the deadliest magicks in the realm wove themselves through every leaf, every blade of grass—beauty laced with peril by Pixie at every turn.
His dearest comrade had cast off her shoes and stepped into the clear, shallow waters. The hem of her heavy mage’s robes soaked up the ripples, the bright blossoms her entourage in this land of eternal spring. She grinned and pointed, teasing him with a sparkle in her eye.
“One day, I’ll throw you into this lake and make you learn how to swim,” she called playfully, “So we don't have to worry about you drowning all the time.”
He hadn’t noticed it the first few times he had this dream, but that’s when the fog would begin to creep in—subtle, slow, seeping behind her like a ghost, amplifying the harsh glow of the Light that plagued the First.
Urianger would huff a quiet laugh. But in the dream, he never held control. His body moved without his will, a puppet to the nightmare's script. Like being stuck in the passenger seat of his own corporeal form, he looks through his eye sockets as if they were borrowed. His entire body feels heavy and cold. His chest tightens with the knowledge of what is about to come next—yet he is powerless to change it. Panic blooms, only to be amplified by guilt finding its way into his gut.
The fog thickens, impossibly fast, seemingly crossing malms across the water in seconds.
The Warrior placed her hands on her hips, stuck out her tongue, and Urianger laughed again—trapped in the charade of joy, as if blind to the doom behind her.
The mist reached her ankle first. It began to glow—pure, blinding white. She laughed, blissfully unaware. The glow crept upward, wrapping around her body, consuming her inch by inch. Still, she noticed not.
Not until it reached her neck.
Then it happened all at once. Her spine went rigid, her limbs lost to her. Her skin turned pale, her mouth opened in shock, but only a faint squeak escaped. Her eyes flew wide—her pupils gone. Cracks formed across her skin like shattered porcelain, and white liquid spilled forth from her mouth.
The glow erupted from her in a violent flash, throwing Urianger backward. His eyes squeezed shut against the blast. But when he opened them, it was only to see a massive paw descending toward him—impossibly large, impossibly fast.
The claws of the marble Lightwarden—lion-like and terrible—slashed through him, and—
He awoke.
Gasping in the dark, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. Cold. Alone. Breathless. Back in his bed on the Source.