(Dylan)
> Dream 2 - Late
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> Dylan sprinted down the hallway, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his legs burning with every step. The bell had already rung. He was late. So late. He’d barely started running, but it felt like he had been at it for hours. His bag thudded heavily against his back, each impact renewing his anxiety.
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> The classroom was just ahead—or it should have been. But as he turned the corner, the hall stretched endlessly, the door he needed disappearing from sight. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn’t close the distance.
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> His lungs burned, and sweat dripped down his forehead. The clock’s ticking grew louder, each second hammering in his ears like a countdown. He wasn’t going to make it. The exam was about to start, and he wasn’t even in the room yet.
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> “Just a few more steps…” he panted, pushing harder. But the hallway seemed to go on forever. Doors zipped past, taunting him, but none were right. None of them were for his classroom.
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> “Wait! I’m almost there!” Dylan shouted.
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> The clock’s ticking grew faster, echoing in his ears like a racing heartbeat. His feet slammed against the ground, but it was as if he were running in place, unable to close the gap. The pressure in his chest tightened.
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> Finally, he saw it—the door to his class. But it was already closing.
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> The teacher started calling out names for attendance. He was so close.
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> They finally reached his name. “Dylan?” the teacher called.
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> “Present!” Dylan gasped, just outside the door. He pushed forward, urging his legs to respond. He lunged, reaching out, but the door clicked shut just as his fingers brushed against the handle.
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> “Dylan…” the teacher called again, the voice distant and muffled.
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> He banged on the door. “I’m here! I’m here!” But no one heard him. He was too late.
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> “Dylan!” The voice grew more urgent as the pounding continued.
Dylan shot up, crashing out of bed. “I’m right here!” he yelled, his heart racing as he blinked in confusion, realizing it wasn’t him knocking.
A quick succession of knocks thumped on his door, and Nathan’s voice came through. “Dylan! We need to talk. What did you do? Why is your name on the list for the trials tomorrow?” His knocking continued relentlessly.
“By the Mother, I’m beginning to wish Dorian was here right now,” Nathan muttered. “Wake up and open the door.”
‘Oh shit,’ Dylan thought. Wincing, he said, “I was planning on telling you.”
“When? After you got back from the trials?”
Dylan got to his feet, putting his hands out. “Let’s just… calm down and talk about this.”
“What’s going on?” Charles’ voice asked from behind the door.
Nathan let out a frustrated sigh, crossing his arms. “Dylan went against medical advice and signed up for the guild trials tomorrow.”
Dylan cringed. He could feel Charles’ silent disappointment through the door. The rugged elf had always been clear about his stance on guilds.
“Charles, why are you here?” Dylan hesitantly walked over to the locked door, debating whether that would be enough to stop the rugged elf. It probably wasn’t.
“I…” Charles’ voice trailed off. “Never mind. It seems you’ve made your decision.”
“Dylan, open the door,” Nathan said.
“I don’t wanna open the door,” Dylan said, his voice tinged with fear.
“Open the door,” Charles said. “I won’t ask twice.”
Dylan unlocked the runelock door. After it finished its sequence, he pulled it open, wearing a guilty expression. Two disappointed-looking elves waited for him on the other side. A black duffle bag sat on the floor beside Charles.
Nathan stood there, glancing between Dylan and Charles. “Why’d you open the door for him?”
Dylan motioned toward Charles. “He scarier.”
Nathan studied Charles for a moment, and the rugged elf shrugged nonchalantly.
Dylan picked at his nails. “Hey, could I borrow fifteen loaves of flak?”
“Borrow?” Charles and Nathan asked in unison.
“Fair point,” Dylan conceded. “May I please have fifteen loaves of flak?”
“That’s the second purpose of my visit,” Charles said, bending down to pick up the duffle bag. “I have to leave for the local Ebonscale Chapter today to make arrangements for Vera.”
Dylan blinked. “Who’s Vera again?”
“She’s my recently liberated companion from Ebonscale,” Charles said.
Dylan scratched his chin, frowning. “So, why are you bringing her back to Ebonscale?”
“It’s complicated,” Charles said. “She’s been court ordered to three months of rehabilitation at Ebonscale. But don’t worry, I won’t let them keep her. I have to head out there now, but I wanted to make sure you have enough flak until I get back. I plan on returning right away. Still, that will take almost a week.”
Nathan, crossing his arms, frowned. “Dylan, I think you should reconsider the Prune Juice.”
Dylan shook his head. “Not this again… Old people drink prune juice, and I’m not old.”
Nathan shot him a flat look, crossing his arms tighter. “Meekan drinks Prune Juice.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes, already committed to his decision. “Alright, so attractive women and old men drink prune juice. Do I look like either of those to you?” He held up his hand. “Wait, don’t answer that. My pride can’t handle it this morning.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Charles ignored Dylan’s antics and turned to Nathan. “Can you arrange for a kitchen to be available with the ingredients on this list for when I get back?”
Nathan took the list and reviewed it, nodding as he scanned the items. He glanced up. “Certainly. How long should I reserve it for?”
“At least a day.”
Nathan met his gaze. “You’ll have everything you need in a week, and the kitchen will be yours for three days.”
“Acceptable.” Charles gave him a curt nod.
“And how much for your services?”
Charles waved a dismissive hand, turning slightly. “Just provide the materials and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“But you’re making flak. You may be the only person on this world with the knowledge to do so. Surely, your time and expertise deserve compensation,” Nathan insisted.
Charles exhaled briefly. “Flak is my family’s recipe, and it’s priceless to me. Provide the kitchen and ingredients, and I’ll make sure Dylan has enough to eat until my next visit.”
Nathan bowed his head in gratitude. “Thank you.”
It made sense that the merchant would need to move on to continue his trade, but it hadn’t been a reality until now. A pang of realization hit Dylan that the rugged elf wouldn’t be here when he returned. “When will you be back?”
Charles’ expression remained stoic. “My route brings me to Dartmouth three times a year. I had hoped to convince you to choose something other than joining a guild. But since that’s no longer an option, I’ve little reason to stay after the flak is done. I won’t be here when you return from your trials. Fare well on them. Goodbye, Dylan. It’s been an interesting experience.”
Dylan’s throat tightened, and his vision blurred with unshed tears. He opened his arms and walked up to an uncomfortable-looking Charles. The rugged elf stood there, arms stiff at his sides, facing forward as he tolerated the chubby man’s hug.
“Thanks, Charles,” Dylan said, stepping back and hastily wiping away a tear with the back of his hand.
Nathan appeared puzzled, like he was working out a problem, before asking, “How did you know where to find us?”
“I ran into Meekan at the entrance as I was arriving. She told me where to find you two. And to bring fifteen loaves of flak.” Charles walked over to Dylan’s bed. He opened the flap and dumped fifteen loaves onto the bed.
Dylan was going to hug Charles again but thought better of it when he caught the rugged elf’s glare.
“Do you have to leave now?” Dylan asked. “Couldn’t you wait until after breakfast?”
“Breakfast was an hour ago,” Nathan said.
“Shit, the armory!” Dylan exclaimed as he took off running down the hall.
“Where are you going?” Nathan called after him.
“I need to get to the armory.” Dylan halted, only to realize he didn’t know where it was. He spun back around, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Could you show me where it is?”
Nathan hesitated for a moment but saw how important this was to Dylan. “Alright.” He gave Charles a quick nod, closed the runelock door, and led Dylan toward the armory. They met Wedge halfway across the back fields, where he greeted them with a raised brow.
“Greetings, Nathan and Dylan,” Wedge said, his deep voice resonating. “I hope your day has been less eventful than mine.”
Dylan exhaled in relief. ‘He doesn’t seem mad that I’m late.’
“Wedge.” Nathan gave the architect a respectful nod.
“I overslept,” Dylan said, offering a weak smile. “Can we still go to the armory?”
“This reflects poorly on your judgment. Do not make promises you cannot keep,” Wedge said sternly. He turned and began walking toward the armory. “Your actions have consequences—not just for yourself, but for others, too. For the rest of my day, I will be running late, causing others to do so as well.”
‘Shit, he’s worse than mad—he’s disappointed,’ Dylan thought, a knot forming in his stomach. He sighed. “I’m sorry. Now I feel bad.”
“I do not accept your apology, and your feelings are irrelevant. Instead, take advantage of this opportunity; use this experience to gain knowledge and learn to do better,” Wedge said.
‘It’s like Mr. Miyagi and the Borg queen had a baby,’ Dylan thought.
“Dylan, I still think you should reconsider and wait until the next trial. You’re just not ready,” Nathan said.
Wedge stopped abruptly, turning back toward them. Nathan and Dylan almost ran into his broad frame.
Wedge’s eyes narrowed on Dylan. “I thought you said Nathan supported you in joining the guild?”
“Technically, he wants me to join the guild,” Dylan said, shifting uncomfortably under Wedge’s gaze. Nathan winced at the implications of lying to Wedge.
“Half-truths, just like Meekan. I am already training one kitsune. I do not want another.” Wedge pointed at Dylan. “You will speak plainly from now on, or you will not speak at all.”
“Dylan’s right.” Nathan raised his hands slightly, trying to defuse the tension. “I want him to join Nightshade. He has a curious mind. It’s his body I’m concerned about.”
Wedge turned to the prismatic elf. “Dylan has chosen his path, and we have three options: stand beside him, stand aside, or stand in his way. I choose to help, as he will need it. What will you do?”
Nathan sighed. “I’ll stop picking option three.”
“Good.” Wedge resumed his march toward the armory.
“I need to find someone to fix your hand before the trial. I’ll catch up with you later,” Nathan said.
Nathan took off, jogging back to the dorms. Dylan’s breath quickened as he hurried to keep up with the power walking architect.
“Do you have any magic abilities?” Wedge asked as they reached the armory doors. They were a double set of runelock doors, but larger. He waited for Dylan’s reply while he opened them.
Dylan had learned his lesson with Charles. “Just one, but I’d rather keep it to myself.”
“Hide your strengths. Good, you are learning.” Wedge nodded, seeming pleased with the answer. “Does your ability replace your need for armor or a weapon?”
He still couldn’t believe how easy it was to just not answer people about his abilities. ‘Maybe having restricted magic wouldn’t be so bad after all?’
“No, but I’ve got this dagger.” He unsheathed the pink crystal dagger from inside his cloak, the blade catching the light as he held it up.
Wedge took it from him, testing the balance. He flipped it by the pommel and caught it after a rotation. Dylan watched in awe as Wedge handled the blade with ease. “Are you proficient with this weapon?”
“No,” Dylan admitted, wishing he could brandish the blade like the big guy.
“Do you know how to wield any weapons?” Wedge spun the dagger, holding it out pommel-first toward Dylan.
Dylan took back his dagger, adjusting his cloak as he slid it into place. “Do you have any guns?”
Wedge raised a stony eyebrow. “You have experience with firearms?”
Dylan nodded. “My dad taught me. Used to take me shooting when I was younger.”
Without another word, Wedge started down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. Dylan followed, wondering where the big guy was taking them.
Wedge stopped at a random, unmarked runelock door. “This is the room. Choose anything that you are familiar with.” He placed his large hand on the stone slab beside the door. Each door had one. The lock clicked open, and Wedge pulled it open for Dylan.
Dylan stepped into a doomsday prepper’s wet dream. On his left were simple ranged weapons and handguns. The middle of the room had rifles and shotguns, while the right side contained firearms that would have been way too heavy for him to carry. The faint smell of oil lingered in the air, and the weapons gleamed under the dim lighting.
“Do they use magic bullets?” Dylan picked up the closest thing in the room to a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun.
“Everything you have access to is mundane. It would have been preferable for you to have been mundane as well. It is usually how I establish a reliable baseline for each guild member. I will make do, however.”
The shotgun had a fabric sleeve along the stock with enough slots to hold five shells. It smelled faintly of oil, and there wasn’t a spot of rust on it. He pressed the action release and pulled the pump back, confirming the chamber was empty and the gun wasn’t loaded. Overall, it was far too light, weighing about half as much as it should have.
“Must be the alloys,” Dylan muttered. “I’d love to know how you make these.”
“Then you should speak with Ni’ot,” Wedge said. “Follow me. You should also carry something for close-quarters combat.” He escorted Dylan out of the room, locking the runelock door behind them.
Dylan held up the shotgun. “Have you seen one of these things in action? Long range or close range, it doesn’t matter, a shotgun will stop anything.”
Wedge gave a rumbling chuckle. “Maybe on Dirt…”
Wedge unlocked the next door in the same fashion as the first, revealing another room filled with blunt melee weapons. He didn’t step aside for Dylan this time. Instead, he went in himself and returned with a simple mace.
“Here.” Wedge handed it to him.
“I’ve never used a mace before,” Dylan said, turning it over in his hands.
“It is not complicated. You simply swing it,” Wedge said. “And there are no edges to hurt yourself on.”
Dylan leaned the shotgun up against the hallway wall. The mace made a soft whoosh, whoosh as he swung it back and forth. Similar to the shotgun, it was balanced and light.
“This mace never needs a reload, never runs out of ammunition, never jams, and will work even if it gets wet. Your firearm is powerful, but it does not hurt to have a backup.”