“The never-ending war began before the world was fully created. Two combatants, Maker and Unmaker, fought over the shape of life on Severia. When it came to yielding control over their creation, they clashed until Unmaker lay trapped in the core.

A quarter of its intended size, Severia is home to a single massive continent. Oceans end with a crash against a faintly shimmering barrier–the realms of dream and magic creating a protective globe around our unfinished home.

One day the war might end. The world might be finished.

But until then, battles rage.”

–from the legends of the Horned Cove kilkinteth

Prologue -- Dreams

The final war began with dreams.

Gailinn appeared in a world of bubbles. Each was a dreaming mind.

They formed and popped by the thousands every second around Spire, the first tree, which was as solid and grand in this realm as any other. Though it grew in the center of a great city, none of the structure or artifice existed in the realm of dreams. Gailinn admired the way Severia’s races coexisted with the tree in the physical realm, covering every surface with wood and stone-sculpted buildings.

But she also relished opportunities to see Spire in its natural state. It hung in white space amid an ocean of slumbering minds beyond comparison. Dreams gathered around gnarled roots. Its leaves cradled bubbles like beads of dew. Other dreams nestled between deep grooves in the bark of its trunk.

“It wasn’t nearly so large the last time I saw it,” Lan-tenth said with evident wonder. The grocklin hung in the space next to Gailinn, moving his paws as if wading water. His bushy tail constantly twitched, and sleek mahogany fur covered the squat rodent. “My family's nest hung from that branch.”

“If your mother had known how much trouble you’d cause,” Gailinn said, “she’d have hung you by your tail from that branch until you squealed for mercy.”

“Perhaps,” Lan-tenth said. “Being the youngest of the litter, I always got into trouble. And got away with all of it.” He stared at her with his glassy round eyes, and it was nearly impossible to imagine punishing him.

“A flaw unaffected by several centuries,” Gailinn said with a smile.

She swam away from Spire, each stroke of her arms carrying her past clusters of dreams. Gailinn could have changed her appearance, could have traded her midnight hair for a fiery red to match her spirit. She could have been a wisp, trilling with erratic movement from one bubble to the next. But she held to her human form--hair loose across the shoulders of her canary yellow cloak, dress of purest white, and feet bare.

Though only recently introduced to this realm and its ways, Lan-tenth easily followed her. Arms and legs splayed, he whipped his tail back and forth to propel himself along. Gailinn suppressed a smile lest she wound the grocklin’s sensitive pride.

It didn’t take long to reach their destination. One stroke of Gailinn’s arms carried her past a town’s worth of dreams, then a slumbering city, a group of travelers camping for the night, and a hive of kilkinteth. She hesitated at the first bubble she sought. It belonged to a mountain hob plagued by a recurring nightmare.

“Having second thoughts about this plan of yours?” Lan-tenth asked.

“Entering another’s dream is a task to be undertaken with tact and respect,” she reminded him. “Minds are private places–sanctuaries to be relied upon.”

“It’s such a roundabout way of possibly achieving your goals. We both enjoy a bit of absurdity but job interviews? Unmaker assaults their dreams…”

Lan-tenth launched into one of his usual rants, but it was background noise as Gailinn considered the title he had used. Unmaker. He’d never used that title for her enemy. The grocklins of his time had feared Earthshaker, the title she’d always heard from him. Until now. She’d not yet taught the grocklin how to view or enter dreams, but it seemed he’d learned on his own. So much for tonight’s lesson.

What else had he learned? Whose dreams had he entered? How much had he dared to meddle? After all, it was what he was best at.

Lan-tenth’s tirade was reaching its climax as she turned her attention back to him.

“Meanwhile, you seek to battle him with–”

“Not here,” she warned, cutting him off before he spoke an iota of their plans. “Even imprisoned, he has influence in this realm.” Not even Gailinn dared use her ancient enemy’s true name.

Krachnis.

He made outlandish promises to the weak, offering anything to gain a foothold in their minds. All around her, dreams were invaded and base desires amplified. Most of those affected would be no different upon waking, but a few would remember the thrill of an adulterous encounter, the rush of adrenaline as they drove a sword or spear through a hated foe, and the satisfaction every time they looked upon ill-gotten wealth.

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Gailinn could have done the same. She could have poured encouragement into their sleeping minds, prompting them to live better lives. Such manipulation was well within her power, but she had promised herself to interfere as little as possible. All the dreamers were rough, unfinished works with sharp angles and pocked surfaces. She loved them for their contradictions and weaknesses even as her enemy exploited them.

Lan-tenth glanced around, but seeing no signs of Krachnis’ power, he continued, albeit in a softer voice. “Besides, I’ve seen how difficult it is for you to communicate through dreams. They are too fluid and easily forgotten. When the dreamers wake, most will continue their lives, forgetting the strange woman who visited their dreams.”

She arched an eyebrow at the word “strange”, but Lan-tenth didn’t notice. All his focus was conveniently on the hob’s dream between them.

“If it works?” she asked.

Some would remember. They would pack a few belongings and set out on journeys, drawn to meetings by desires they couldn’t explain. They would march to war, unaware of the strange battles they would be fighting. And of the greater battle still to come.

“Then I’ll kiss the first hob I meet,” he said.

“Speaking of which,” Gailinn said. She took a deep breath and carefully entered the first dream through its tender membrane as if sliding slowly into a hot bath.

First Dream

Lan-tenth swam amidst the bubbles for a moment, glancing in at the other hobs’ dreams and marveling at how much the hobs had changed since he’d first known them.

Focused on developing their intellects and skills, the hobs’ appearances didn’t change in dreams as much as other races. They had squat noses like flattened potatoes, broad chins, and deep-set eyes of every imaginable color. Hair covered their foreheads down to the eyebrows which were only distinguishable because they were coarser and thicker, drooping down the sides of their faces next to conical ears, kinked in the middle like bowing supplicants. Mountain hobs were tall and powerful, their forest kin slightly smaller, and the swamp hobs were nearly the size of humans.

The shapers among them dreamed of stone or wood melting beneath their fingers. The most skilled drew inspiration from their dreams, imagining great works on par with the sweeping bridges of Core’s air district or art so realistic it came to life after the final touches. Lesser skilled shapers accomplished feats while asleep they would never duplicate while awake. But the joy of creation would burn in their breasts, still smoldering when they awoke.

Most of all, hobs dreamed of bridges as varied as shells on a beach. Some swept across the sky in impossible arcs. A few were shrouded in shadow beneath the ground. Many were quiet, tucked into corners of the world where all knew the hobs by their names, trusted them, and respected them.

Lan was proud of the part he’d played in their shaping abilities, unintentional though it may have been. Their fascination with bridges was another matter entirely, one he would never truly understand. He’d read books on the subject, volumes large enough that he required both paws and considerable effort to turn a page, but they’d mostly lulled him into many an afternoon nap.

With a bemused shake of his head, he peered into the dream Gailinn had entered. The hob upon which so many plans centered, Gailinn’s and Lan’s own, EchoingKnock dreamed of a bridge that had passed into legend.

Gailinn hovered in Knock’s dream, shrouded by a tuft of cloud, and watched a familiar battle. Endless waves of slag hounds galloped across Shrivemount Bridge. Rocks rained from a sky dark with wings, broken by the flash of descending talons. Lycanthropes howled with bloodlust, fighting to be heard over the deafening clang of the Untamed’s weapons clanging together as they marched. Every foul beast from the Ashen Lands seemed gathered, awaiting passage.

Each of the creatures provided sufficient nightmares for dreamers throughout the Radiance. To have them all gathered made Lan-tenth recoil.

“It’s a dream,” he reminded himself. With a deep breath, he pressed his face against the bubble.

The golem towered over everything. A twisted form the size of a mountain, its appendages expressed a threat in each undulation. No weapon could cut its amorphous body which flowed like molten iron, rearranging its parts into claws, barbs, and gnashing teeth quicker than thought.

Against such varied threats stood EchoingKnock. When he tried to flee, the bridge stretched to an impossible length. Or he shrank to the size of a pebble. His enemies moved with preternatural speed, and the golem expanded even further beyond its dream-enhanced size. With a heart wrenching cry, Knock collapsed the bridge–his bridge–and fell.

With a startled squeak, Lan began to enter the dream, forgetting none of it was real. He only thought of somehow saving the hob. Before he could, Gailinn was there to catch Knock. Though he was easily four times her size, she grabbed a hold of his hand and halted his fall with the gentlest of pulls. Before she could carry him to safety, he vanished from her arms. Knock stood back on the bridge as the nightmare reset itself, readying to torment him anew.

“Well, that won’t do,” she said. For a second Gailinn searched the sky, and when her gaze met his, she asked, “Are you watching Lan?”

He nodded, not sure if she could see the movement.

Exerting control over the dream, Gailinn banished the foul creatures when they were only a few strides from Knock. It wasn’t as dramatic as Lan had hoped. They didn’t melt into puddles or explode into bursts of light. The entire army simply faded.

Her course was set now. If Gailinn lingered too long, Krachnis would sense her power and pay more heed to the dreams she touched. She disappeared, and Lan cast his eyes about for a second before she reappeared on Shrivemount Bridge in front of Knock.

“I apologize for intruding,” she said, speaking the common tongue. “There are bridges in need of a hob’s care. Too many of your kind have retreated to your dens, abandoning the Radiance to other races. As if your time had come and gone. It hasn’t. Meet me in the forest clearing south of Tailso in three days' time.”

Knock looked thoroughly confused, a dozen questions poised on the tip of his tongue. There would be time for them later, if he accepted her invitation. For now, Lan knew she wanted him to be curious.

“Don’t forget,” she said. “South of Tailso. Three days.”

Gailinn slipped from the bubble beside Lan, but he didn’t pull away from the dream. Holding his breath, he watched Knock for some sign this inane plan might actually work.

When the nightmare didn’t resume, the hob stood alone on his bridge. With hesitant steps, he approached the railing and slid his hand along the smooth surface. Though still very much asleep, Knock seemed to come awake, moving urgently, touching the unbroken expanse of stone beneath his feet. Without much grace, he stretched out on his back, pressing the great weight of his body against the bridge.

Unless Lan was mistaken, the hob was repeating the same phrase over and over again.

“Thank you.”

Unless Lan was further mistaken, he had his sign.

“Forget what I said.” Lan turned toward Gailinn, who regarded him with a question in the crook of one eyebrow. “If this works, I’ll kiss every hob on Severia. Twice!”