Insomnia

29

The dream shifted. Broken buildings that lined a wide, dusty street. Swirling clouds backlit by a dripping orange sunset.

Esme noted there were far too many acolytes in this new dream for them all to have come from her starting group of Omens. She didn't recognize any of the faces from her induction - was she the only one who made it this far?

A quick calculation. If she was the only candidate selected from her group, and there were almost twenty people gathered here, then there must have been at least twenty groups of Omens inducted around the same time as she had been. She needed to get a better feeling for their numbers. If enough of them attacked her en masse before she could even face the Knightmare...

"In this rest we find joy," a man spoke, breaking her from her musings. "In his rest there is peace. There is immortality."

Unlike the golden armored Hypnos or the draconic Pasithea, this herald of Knightmare was more plainly dressed and featured. His skin's natural pallor contrasted sharply with a long black cloak. Slicked back hair and boots. A smooth voice that held a thin edge, like frost on glass.

"You have proven your dedication. You have culled the unworthy."

Eager grins and hushed whispers sprung up around her. A feeling of anticipation. If these people were good enough to successfully trap and torture a Sleepwalker, then she couldn't underestimate them.

He spoke only a few moments longer. "I am Erebus. Best one another in combat. You may begin."

There was a moment of hesitation. Silence. A quiet shuffle of feet.

Fire burst forth on her right, and she ducked to avoid the blast. As the heat seared the air overhead, Esme watched from the ground as her fellow initiates conjured wave after wave of Psionic constructs to attack one another. A storm of whirling spears flew from one woman's hands, rains of acid from another. They tore the street apart with their dueling, stone and dust whirling through the air after each detonation.

A screaming horse charged through the chaos. Its hooves barreled into her stomach. Esme willed her body to turn to steel, and the beast's leg snapped as it made impact. Esme leapt to her feet and banished the whimpering animal.

Clones of Pasithea sprinted forward on all sides– mirages conjured by a Psion weaving a desperate distraction. It was a petty trick. A little Psionic pressure would quickly reveal that they had no conscious minds of their own. They were powerful, but their moves had no artistry. She didn't have the time or the energy to waste dealing with these fools.

Esme synchronized her Tempo with the dream and faded into the air. From her invisible perch, she saw Erebus and the two other Heralds watching the fray, murmuring to themselves. Deliberating who would advance no doubt.

Erebus stopped speaking for a moment, and turned towards her. She increased the scope of her vision – keeping her dream body in place while her eyes shifted closer - and she saw him raise a single eyebrow. Hiding wouldn't be enough to impress him.

Esme stepped into the open. A bubble of calm enveloped her, scattered blasts and leaping arrows falling limp as they came too close. She examined her opponents. They were strong, but so distracted by the test that they didn't attempt anything beyond simple attacks. Her mother had always warned against focusing too much on rules and restrictions when it came to dreaming: Let your enemy shape the arena and you'd already lost.

Those words made her think of the Knightmare. Every machination, every plot and scheme, every step in this endless cat and mouse game. Always another victim with her following just close enough behind to witness him. Always him choosing the battlefield, shaping the rules. She had no choice but to play his games.