Chapter 6: "Stolen Dreams"

  "There are two kinds of dreams: those that are given... and those that are taken."

  — Graffiti found in the ruins of Veylis' Tower

  Awakening in the Abyss

  Veylis awoke feeling as though she had been buried alive.

  Her lungs burned as if she had inhaled liquid fire. When she finally managed to open her eyes, the pain doubled—not from light, but from its absence. She was submerged in darkness so absolute that, for a terrifying moment, she questioned whether she still had eyes.

  Then the world began to reveal itself.

  First as distorted smudges of color, then taking on impossible shapes. Walls that curved inward and outward simultaneously, like intestines of stone. A floor that rippled beneath her feet, made of something between flesh and marble. And above all, the threads.

  Thousands of luminous threads hung from nothingness, each pulsing with a sickly, dim light. Some glowed in faded gold, others in deep red like congealed blood. Veylis reached out a trembling hand and saw her own arm wrapped in fine silver filaments, as if she had been cocooned in spider silk.

  "You always knew you would come to me," came a voice from all directions at once, wet and hissing. "From the very first dream."

  A figure emerged from the darkness, making Veylis choke on her own breath.

  The Spider-Queen was at once horrifying and hypnotically beautiful. Her upper torso retained traces of elven beauty—polished ebony skin, snow-white hair floating without wind. But below the waist, six segmented black spider legs supported a bulbous, translucent abdomen, inside which humanoid shapes writhed in silent agony. Her face...

  Oh, her face.

  It was Veylis’s own.

  Older, disfigured by scars that formed web-like patterns, but undeniably hers.

  "What... what have you done to me?" Veylis gagged, bile rising in her throat.

  The creature laughed, revealing teeth like thin bone needles.

  "Nothing you didn’t ask for, Prophetess." One of her forelegs touched a nearby thread, which vibrated with a human moan. "You wanted to see the true loom. Here it is."

  Veylis followed the gesture, and her heart stopped.

  The loom was alive.

  Not a construct, but a pulsating organ the size of a cathedral, its "framework" made of fused bones and petrified tendons. The threads were not material—they were veins, extracting something bright and golden from the hundreds of bodies suspended in its web.

  And then she recognized the faces.

  Elves. Humans. Dwarves. All those who had vanished in recent moons. All frozen in expressions of terrified ecstasy as small, black creatures with too many limbs harvested glowing droplets from their temples.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Dreams are just memories from other times," the Spider-Queen whispered, her breath reeking of rancid honey. "And I am reclaiming what is rightfully mine."

  The Blade That Weeps

  The forge was in ruins.

  Gorin struggled to breathe through the thick smoke filling the air, each gasp bringing the metallic taste of blood and something worse—the acrid stench of unraveled minds. His warhammer dripped with a silvery fluid that burned like acid, but he wouldn’t let go. Not now.

  "Thrain!" he called, spitting out a broken tooth. "The south gate is still open!"

  His apprentice didn’t answer. The young dwarf knelt before the nearly completed blade, his burned hands pressed against the steaming metal. Thrain’s eyes—once full of life—were now pools of black ink, reflecting shapes that weren’t in the room.

  "They sing to me, master," he whispered, his voice echoing as if from a deep well. "They say I am the key."

  Gorin had no time to respond.

  The eastern wall exploded in a shower of debris, revealing the tunnel to the deep mines. And what emerged from it made even the hardened smith recoil.

  They were like shadows made flesh—elongated, faceless humanoids with no features, just hollow outlines that devoured the light around them. But worse than their appearance was the sound they made—a low, constant hum that set Gorin’s teeth on edge and made his nose bleed.

  Voids.

  The first attacker moved like spilled liquid, limbs stretching in ways that defied anatomy. Gorin raised his hammer, its familiar weight grounding him.

  "Come on then, bastards!" he roared, striking the first Void with full force.

  The impact was like hitting flowing water—the Void deformed around the hammer, but a silvery mist gushed from the wound. Gorin felt an intense cold crawl up the hammer’s handle, freezing his fingers until flesh fused to metal.

  "Thrain!" he shouted again, backing away as more creatures advanced. "The blade!"

  His apprentice finally moved—but not to flee. With mechanical motions, Thrain grabbed the near-complete sword—and plunged it into his own chest.

  The scream that tore from his lips was not human.

  It was hundreds, perhaps thousands of voices shrieking in unison, a chorus of agony that made even the Voids hesitate. The blade blazed with a white, searing light, sucking the black liquid from Thrain’s eyes, which spread through the metal like ink in water.

  When the light faded, Thrain was dead—but the sword was complete.

  And it was weeping.

  Silver tears ran down the blade’s edge, each containing fragments of memories that did not belong to this world.

  Gorin had no time to process. The Voids recovered and surged forward like a living tide. With one last look at the sword, the old smith gripped his hammer and charged, knowing he wouldn’t return.

  But he would die buying time for someone to take the blade far from here.

  The Council of Masks

  The Chamber of the Eternal Verdict was silent.

  Silaris Vanire watched, paralyzed with terror, as Elyrion removed his ceremonial mask. What lay beneath was not a face, but a void—a head-shaped absence where tiny points of light flickered like distant stars.

  "You always knew," Elyrion said, his voice now metallic, echoing like far-off bells. "In the corners of your mind, where you hid your doubts."

  The other counselors began to convulse, their masks cracking like eggshells. Some tried to flee, others screamed for help, but Silaris stood frozen, feeling something cold trickle from his nose.

  When he wiped it away, he saw it was silver.

  "What... what are we?" he asked, his voice eerily calm.

  Elyrion smiled, revealing teeth too long, too sharp.

  "Jailers. Guardians. And now..." He stretched out a hand that grew too long, fingers splitting like roots. "...dinner."

  The last thing Silaris saw was the chamber unraveling like a bad dream, the walls melting into black mist as indistinct shapes emerged from nothingness.

  And then he began to laugh, because in the end, it was all so hilariously tragic.