“Congratulations on binding a slave.”

“No. Go away.” I put my face in my hands. “Why are you bothering me? I specifically did not say [dream]. Go away.”

An androgynous face stares at me from across the table. Where his or her eyes should be are instead gaping holes filled with pools of infinite darkness. I could drown inside them if I was small enough to fit. Interlacing their fingers, they lean forward. The motion causes the robe of blood to ripple like a disturbed pond.

“Who are you?” I moan. I am sitting in the chair opposite, still naked.

“I am Carmine.” No tone or inflection. “The form you saw earlier, the pale man, was a form you accepted. This is not my true form, but it is truer to what I represent. This representative avatar is called an Incarnation.”

I digest this. The avatar waits.

“Why me?” I cross my arms. My brow creases. “Out of all the people in the world, why me? Am I the chosen one?”

The avatar snorts.

“I require one who can read Eldar. Mages train for a lifetime to reach your level of competency. In your world, scholars become fluent sooner. Five individuals studying the Dead Ones’ languages. One is a lunatic, one is dead, one has bars across the sun, one is a child, and the last is a fool.” Carmine gestures.

“Why not the child?”

“Too young.”

“The madman?”

“Madwoman. Our goals are not aligned.”

“The one in prison?”

“Weaker than you. He does not dream.”

“Why am I the fool?”

“I offer my gifts, you spurn them. I open a door to freedom, and you surrender. You do not fight.”

I blink. I take a deep breath and let it out.

“There is no ‘chosen one.’ Such things exist in Dream and are rather numerous,” they add. “Here, in Reality, we use the tools available. No matter how distasteful, you are the best available.”

“Ouch,” I slouch in the chair. “Long journal entry about that tonight.”

“Why do you resist?” True emotion enters his or her voice. Their face changes, becoming angry. “I offer your dreams. Freedom. Why do you refuse? Is it recalcitrance? Do you prefer death? Do you know why you’re still alive?”

“I assumed it was because you were intervening.” I drop my eyes to the robe of blood. It doesn’t leave wet marks.

“The reason I am here is to intervene. You are alive because your government sees you as a resource. One faction wishes to train mages. One faction wishes you to translate more artifacts. And another faction believes everyone’s problems would end if you die.”

“Oh. Well. It sounds like the third guys know what’s up.”

“Indeed.” Carmine glares. “Your time has expired. On the morrow, you will die. I have attempted to provide an out, and you refused to take it. The Plumbeous Pilgrim does not allow Incarnations to harm his world. Can you begin to understand the tax I paid?”

I don’t need to say anything. Carmine is complaining, and all I need to do is sit here and take it. I wish there was a volume button or knob I could turn in this minor dreamscape-thing. After a little while of him shrieking and me staring at the table, he pauses.

“Do you have nothing to say?”

“I’d like to take your class.” I raise my head. I force myself to look into those eyes. I stare into the abyss contained behind a fleshy mask. I have the sense I’m standing on the edge of the Sears Tower staring at the people far below. The floor is slippery like the surface of a frozen lake. An unnatural compulsion to jump is at my elbow, urging.

“You wish to become a [Consumer]?” Carmine whispers. “Why?”

My mouth opens but no sound comes out. This is it. This is that thirty-second elevator pitch my professors talked about. Short, sweet—stop thinking and start talking.

“Short version? I was wrong. I had to experience it for myself. I’m sorry I couldn’t accept your reality when you thrust it on me. I had to experience living without it for a while before realizing I wanted it.

“Make me a consumer. Whatever your class is, whatever it does, I’ll do it. Get me out of this world. Teach me some basic spells, and I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Whatever I ask?”

Even without Dangersense, alarm bells are blaring. I realize I’m staring at a being older and more powerful than anyone I’ve ever met. More of a threat than any president or senator, more dangerous than any adventurer or hunter, and older than half the nations in my world. This, this ‘Carmine King,’ is a true, real alien. A tangible yet supernatural creature who can enter dreams at will and warp reality. I have a moment of uncanny prescience and backtrack.

“What is it exactly that you want me to do?”

“On the morrow, gas will enter your chamber and kill you. The cell you are in will become your tomb. As I free you from your tomb, so too you must free me from mine. This is the price you will pay. To pay it, you must obey. I will grant you the boons you require, but my influence is limited. If you obey, then so I shall grant your dreams. We will both be free. You may have anything you wish: arcane power, wealth, women,” he hesitates. “Immortality. Free me from my Tomb, and you will have all you desire and more. And I will walk the worlds as I did before.

“Okay.” I run my tongue over my teeth. “Let me unpack that.”

“Do we have an accord?” Carmine extends a hand. Slim silver chains burrow through his flesh like worms.

Tombs and boons. I’m going to die, and this is my ticket to freedom. I latch onto that and recognize this is the moment of truth. He’s waiting. No time to think—do.

“We do.” I extend my hand and clasp his. “We have an accord.”

Carmine’s grip tightens like the bite of a snake. Two pinpricks of pain lance up my arm. I don’t pull away. The alien’s face is not sadistic, but neither does he pity.

Something moves under my skin. The pain spreads up my arm like heat. Venom courses through my arteries. If I had plaque buildup, it’s gone now. No danger of heart attacks while the venom purges.

Notifications appear and disappear. The text warps as if the system can’t process what’s happening. In my peripheral vision, I see my health rising.

My entire body is on fire. It feels like I’ve touched a hot iron with my hand. I did that once. Not fun. But now the pain is in me. It pulses in time to my heartbeat. The rapid thumping is like thunder in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut. I vibrate with suppressed emotion. But I do not scream. This time, I do not pull away. Carmine’s grip is unyielding.

You have made a deal with the Carmine King. By accepting his Class, you have chosen to internalize the monster that was laid upon you by the Horror Ranks. Or perhaps the monster was always there, and you have chosen to accept it. Your Horror Ranks have been removed. You have chosen a Monster Class. Monster Class: [Consumer] selected.

[Consumer] Abilities added. [Patron’s Favor] and [Bonus Vigor] added. Your Vigor has been increased by five points. Fifty base health added.

Level 1 Skill, [Retractable Claws] added.

“Upon taking my Class, many consumers receive a Mouth Skill variation to aid their feeding. Because you require weapons, I have assigned the basic Hand Skill. It will grow more powerful as it is used. I recommend taking your [Scholar] class again and [Quick Study] as soon as you are able. The experience boosts will apply and stack.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say between clenched teeth. Sweat runs down my face.

“I do not recommend taking the [Arcanist] subclass again. Your prowess exceeds the skills available at low levels. You will not unlock powerful skills until Level 5. Finally, the [Armorless] and [Weaponless] conditions are too crippling.

“Increase your prowess as much as possible while keeping your overall level low. This is what I recommend.”

“Great. Can you make it stop hurting?”

Carmine’s grip tightens, almost breaking my bones. Starting at the places furthest from my hand, the searing sensations recede like the tide. The heat rises along my legs and sides, gathers in my chest, and extracts out from my arm like a parasite. I don’t feel any different, but a glance in my peripheral vision is revealing.

My health bar is a third larger.

“You will feel a new sensation in your fingers.” Carmine releases me. “Try curving them.”

I examine my hands but see no change. I flatten them, then curl them like I’m cupping a ball.

“My fingernails tingle.”

“Your claws are controlled by your will. If you wish for them to extend, they will. Over time, this will become second nature. You will not realize you are doing it.”

“That could be problematic.” I imagine my claws extending. My fingernails grow an inch. They don’t look like animal claws or stylistic fantasy nails. Those are usually black and jagged or broken if the nail has an edge. My claws look like regular fingernails.

“The initial maximum length is three inches. Retract them, now.”

I imagine them going back into my fingers. The strange tingle returns as they activate. I keep my knuckles bent. If they’re fingernails, they shouldn’t be able to retract with a bent knuckle. Wolverine’s claws were stored along his forearms. They required his hand to be aligned before they could move.

My claws do not. They do not retract along my bones or inside my body. Whatever space they disappear into, it’s not part of me. The entrance to that space is where my fingernails grow from. Whatever it is, they seem to extend and retract from nothing. They are a true Skill. A real superpower granted by magic from an alien.

“Are you a god?” I raise my eyes to Carmine’s.

“Such as that, I have been called. I do not consider it. Mortals are as mayflies. Their opinions are as the wind. Everchanging.”

“Okay. Now what?” I keep extending and retracting my claws. The sensation is an adjustment.

“Given you have sworn to assist, I will tax myself once more. It will not happen a third time. Are you paying attention?”

“I am.” I stop flexing and sit up.

“I will cause another quake. Escape. Return to your dark city. There is a dwelling for [Drinkers] known as The Midnight Sun. The [Lord] in charge is a follower of mine. Do everything he says.”

“Does he have a name? Where can I find him?”

“I do not know.” Carmine shrugs. “My servants deal with him. [Consumers] are my Class. There is overlap, but the two are distinct. You will find him…” Carmine closes his eyes and tips his head back.

I look at my hands. I have a new tattoo. A black chain encircles one wrist. Dangling from it are two charms. The first is a heart with a cord wrapped around it. Engraved on the heart are two words. Cassandra Archstar. The second charm is a pair of lungs. I have another chain tattoo on my other wrist.

I flex. My fingernails extend to three inches. Smooth, unbroken, pink along the nail bed, and white as they grow. But dull, unsharpened.

“…bathing in the black sun, surrounded by cows. He has connections to the underworld. His alias is Iceman. Does that mean anything to you?”

“I never paid attention to politics.” I shake my head. “The whole city could burn for all I cared. I had my research and my fiction.”

“Mmm.” Carmine opens his eyes. An abyss of shadow stares at me. Something dark is in there, way down at the bottom. It’s that presence I see. “Repeat my instructions back to me.”

“Escape the prison by running. Return to Chicago. I must look for a [Lord] and [Drinker] who ‘bathes in a black sun surrounded by cattle.’ He owns a house called The Midnight Sun, a bar. I must do everything he says. Then, somehow, I’ll get to the Docklands.”

“Good. Doorways open and close across all worlds. This [Drinker], this ‘Iceman,’ knows of a reliable one. He will trade service for safe passage. But he is not to be trusted. Be cautious.”

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“Duly noted. And Cassandra Archstar?”

“Who? Oh, your bound soul.” Carmine pauses. “Your adventures in Dream may continue. But be cautious. You are known as a ‘soul-binder’ in that world. They may believe you are dead, or they may not. Concerning her, I will recommend avoiding her. Some bound souls decide suicide is better than servitude, and plot to kill their binder. Until you are high level you may not survive. Thus, be extremely selective about which souls you bind. They cannot be unbound.”

“Is there a benefit to the bound soul?”

“Their experience gain is increased by twenty percent. Many mortals cease leveling once they reach level six. Some believe this to be a soft cap, others believe their so-called challenge rating is too high. The truth is that most become complacent. They become careless, or they join large parties. The latter results in less experience gained. Class levels require much more experience beyond level five. Overall level, more.”

“I understand.” I dip my chin. “Thank you, sir.”

“After I get you out, I will be too weak to assist you further. I am unlocking the System’s information pertaining to your class. As you consume your people’s staples, you will level. With each level, you will unlock new Monster Skills. Each will permanently modify your body. I am restricting you from taking the Lifeblood Mage class because the ritual to free me is arcane. You must increase your Arcane Prowess.

“Once you reach level 5 you may choose a specialized form of your class. I recommend deciding before you reach level 2. Many of the more powerful Classes require specific Skills. In addition, some require you to select an Aspect, which forces a great, permanent change.

“One final thing.” Carmine leans forward. “Somewhere in Dream, there is an item that allows for a total reset of your status. It will remove all classes, levels, skills, prowess, and anything else related to the System. Some use it as a form of redemption for their Horror Ranks.”

“You’re telling me not to go looking for it or use it if I find one.”

“Hmph, you are a quick study. The item may remove your class, but all Monster Skills will remain. It is the price of becoming a Monster. It leaves scars. Be extremely selective with your chosen skills. And do not use the item until after you have freed me. Again, you require at least six levels in my class before you can survive without assistance on the world I am imprisoned.”

“I understand. I will remember. Can I go now?”

“You may. Good luck.”

Exhaustion takes hold. I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Which is weird because I’m already asleep. It’s sleep-ception. My dreams turn to normal things like appearing in my laboratory naked. Or having a female student request my help with tutoring. In reality, I was an easy prof. In my classes, every student passed.

The ground begins shaking. I let my dreams continue uninterrupted. They are pleasant, and that’s something I’ve not had. Pleasant, normal neurons firing pleasant, normal events. Wait, didn’t Carmine say he’d cause an earthquake?

I open my eyes. The opaque door to my capsule sits askance. I crawl over to it. Through a hole in the corner, air. I put my eye to it and see motion. People moving, screaming. Uniforms pass.

Now is as good a time as any. I open the status screen and make some selections.

You have selected the [Scholar] class. You have gained the abilities [Academic Discourse] and [Analyze]. You have gained the conditions [Pedantic] and [Skimmed It]. You have selected the Scholar Secret [Quick Study].

I extend my claws. The first inch of each fingernail smooshes together into a vertical wall that extends the remaining two inches. The underside of that wall is the real claw. Not sharp yet, but I can fix that. When I retract my claws, the nail flattens. The keratin is some kind of magical, amorphous substance. It moves one way when extending and in reverse when retracting. Strange and weird, but I can manage.

I extend my claws to their full three inches. Ten little soldiers stand at attention. I draw my hand back and drive it forward. Five magical fingernails hit the plastic screen and sink into it. I draw them down in a raking motion. The plastic resists my cutting.

I start at the top between the steel. My claws aren’t sharp enough to cut metal yet. Using my thumb, I make a single straight line from top to bottom. I force both hands into the crack and pull, bending the plastic out. I peer through the gap. A shape blocks the light.

“Stop that,” a deep voice says. “We’re going to let you out. Get back. If you attack or use any spells, we’ll kill you.”

The opaque screen changes to a mirror. I see myself reflected in it. Gray eyes, a frame thin from hunger, sallow skin. I’ve looked better. I scoot to the far wall and cross my legs. Nothing happens for a long moment. Then the mirror slides into the ceiling. I blink at the brightness shining on me. As my eyes adjust, a pair of jeans and a belt are tossed.

“Put these on.” There’s a stain on them I don’t like, but I’m not in a position to complain.

“We’re going for a walk.” Shotguns point in my direction, but at the floor of the capsule. I notice their fingers are off the triggers. “Come on out of there. If you attack or use magic, we will kill you.”

I crawl out of the capsule and put both feet on the concrete floor. The temperature is icy but bearable. I turn as expected and present my wrists. Cold steel manacles snap on. A pair of hands grip me by the arms. I’m lifted and set on my feet, behind someone brawny. Pressure between my shoulders forces me forward. I start walking.

“Where are we going?”

“There is no need to speak.”

One guard in front, one at each side. At least one behind. I look around with interest. Great cracks run down the walls that are still standing. The floor is warped. There isn’t much of a ceiling remaining.

We skirt a pile of glass shards shoved against one wall. I am mindful of where I place my feet. On my other side are the cells. Each is a sheet of plastic embedded with steel bars. All of them are vacant.

I open my mouth and suck in a breath. The guard on my right gives me a sharp look. I don’t talk.

We pass through a barred doorway. It may have been barred at one time, but the door lies on the ground. I step over sharp rocks. The hallways outside the capsule wing are in worse shape. The earthquake did a number on these cells. The bars are all there, but the stone is destroyed.

As I said earlier, my plastic box was inside a living rock cavern. But living rock is the kind of stone that exists far underground, the roots of mountains supporting the world. Having a space like that in a manmade structure—it was all imported. And now, it’s all broken.

There are no prisoners or guards here. If there was a riot, it’s over. If there was an escape attempt, it worked.

The entire complex is as silent as the grave. I was never in tune with this place long enough to develop a sense of whether it should be this quiet during normal operation. At the least, I’d have expected the air conditioning to click. In the crazies’ wing, people would be screaming. But I hear nothing. The building is empty of people and sound. Except for our footsteps, that is.

I remember I have [Analysis] again and use it, then cancel it. It’s not magic, is it? I look sideways. Both guards glance at me but say nothing. I look at their weapons. Shiny black barrels, twelve-gauge. I’m not sure what the exact model is, but they look nice. Cassandra would know.

I look at the front man’s back. He wears a gray uniform. Gray pants, gray overcoat, black belt, dark pants. I look sideways. I don’t see any patches. Neither of the guards wears an identifying badge or anything. That’s not good. Am I being executed?

Do or do not. There is no try. Too bad the idiot who said that never had to choose this. If use my skill, I’ll learn all sorts of things about these people. All my questions could be answered. However, none of my questions could be answered.

And worse, knowing their classes will make it harder for me to pretend I don’t know. That was something those adventures practiced. ‘I’m a knife-maiden. I’m a ninja. I’m a legendary hunter.’ Lol, no dude. She’s an assassin, he’s an assassin, and you’re a hunter. Not even a specialized hunter.

Did I walk into the guild of adventurers or the guild of hunters? Everyone there wanted to kill something. And I was the fool who wanted to be one of them. I still can’t believe I wanted to join them. I wanted to be an adventurer. In a normal game-world or tabletop, that would be cool. The Isekai genre is overrun right now. But that was a world where the chance of death was high.

The system in that world did not allow for medically accurate injuries. I’m somewhat certain it was because the Spiral Knights immigrated. Their system doesn’t have a hospital. They have health bars and vita capsules. If that world’s system changed to accommodate the Spiral Knights, I wonder if that’s how Cassandra was able to bring a firearm in. How did the world change to make that accommodation?

Fantasy with firearms. Now that’s a scary scenario. I still can’t believe I ever thought becoming an adventurer was a good idea. If I had to fight people like Tolvern or Cassandra for a living, what would I do? What would anyone do? Player-versus-player combat is common in fantasy role-playing games. It is also common in modern shooting games. But when someone mixes the two, then what happens?

I shake my head. Math. Headaches. How did the Spiral Knight system change to accommodate real-world firearms? How did the fantasy world? I’m surprised I saw as many mages and fighters as I did. Given the existence of a Sig Sauer, I’m surprised I didn’t see more arquebuses or clockwork rifles.

We reach the front of the complex. Debris litters the floor. I step over the sharp bits and try to keep the balls of my feet on the dullest pieces. The guards respond by lifting me clear. I hang between them in the air as we pass through the portal into the open air. They set me down on the gravel outside. Facemasks are produced.

“Don’t move.”

I remain still. One guard always keeps their hands on me, while the others don gas masks. Each has an air filter screwed to the base. Their existence reminds me of where we are. I look up. A brown haze coats the sky like an oily film. The wind blows it in my face, making me cough.

“Don’t move.” One of the guards produces a gas mask. I close my eyes as the rubber descends over my face. The guard fiddles with it, making sure the seal is tight before stepping back. I open my eyes. I see two brown, normal-looking eyes staring back at me. Almost on reflex, I cast [Analysis].

??? [Ashen Arbiter]. ???

Nothing but the class. I blink. Well, that’s a name to remember. Arbiter. That’s… a type of judge, right? I gulp. I’m going to be executed. I fight the urge to summon bugs and control my breathing. Nothing going on. These guys walked me out of a destroyed prison like it was no big deal. Not suspicious at all.

I sort of wish I didn’t use the skill. Or have it. They say ignorance is bliss, but sometimes being ignorant means that one doesn’t have to worry about some things. Do I try to escape? No, that’s not an option. I’ll get shot before I can get the spell off. I can’t run either. There’s nowhere to go, and I can’t use my hands. But I can see.

The guard screws an air filter into my mask. Filtered, not fresh air, enters my lungs. It is not quite as difficult as drawing air through a straw, but it is not easy either. It feels like breathing through a face mask. One where the material sticks to my nose. I can’t open my mouth because then I’m swallowing cotton, but at least this rubber thing has space to talk.

“Nod if you are comfortable.”

I nod.

“You will follow. There is no need to talk.”

I follow them down the gravel drive. I take mincing steps, but the guards ignore me. I’m pushed and pulled along without regard for my poor feet. We reach what used to be an elegant wrought-iron fence, no doubt electrified. The gate hangs by one hinge. The stone columns that make up the archway are cracked, one toppled.

The road is curved. I get the sense it runs around the complex outside the fence. The guards march across it to another fence. This one has a warning sign on it with the symbols for electricity. The guard unlocks the employee entrance with a key and pushes it open. The aluminum frame protests the movement. Rust flakes off as if the opening doesn’t get regular maintenance. I let the guards manhandle me through. They don’t bother closing.

Through my mask, I see a line of pine trees. The thick, sharp needles are close enough to provide a natural barrier. The guards don’t stop. The one in front raises his arms. The guards step closer. The formation cinches as we enter the trees. I bow my head and let the men do the work of moving branches.

Needles and branches scrape my exposed chest, but no blood is drawn. I’m still under the system, and I will be for the rest of my life. The branches chip a few points off my health, but not as much as the gravel. It hurts, but there is no physical damage. I hear the guards mumble curses.

The trees break. I see a man-made shore covered with sharp gravel. Pine trees line the narrow beach. A little way down a great crevice splits the land as if a giant took an axe and cleaved the island. I hear a distant rumble of thunder, but not from overhead. Down the beach a little way, a small boat awaits.

The guards push me toward it. Because they don’t unlock my wrists, I clamber in with their help. Three of them push the boat into the water. They climb in. The wind picks up, making me shiver. The temperature is dropping. It wasn’t warm when they arrested me, but it was tolerable. The windy city’s winter is here.

The guards set up a pair of oars. One of the guards produces a slim bit of wood. In a move that feels at once echoing and prophetic, he taps the side of the boat. It isn’t a pink umbrella, but the oars begin moving.

“You can talk now.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

Three guards face me. Two sit behind. It’s hard to read their faces with the gas masks. I try, but I can’t.

“No.” Brief pause. “Look.”

I crane my head. What I took to be thunder are large sections of the island sinking into the lake.

“It was the epicenter of an earthquake, unlike anything the Midwest has ever seen.”

“Are the people all right?”

“Many prisoners and guards died. The city suffers. Tens of thousands of homes have no power or running water. Many have suffered.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We do not wish to hear your apologies.”

I flinch as if struck.

“Thank you for saving me,” I offer.

“Were it not for the Gray Pilgrim, we would have let you rot. The earthquake did not damage your cell. Do you know why?”

Uh oh. I keep my eyes on the horizon. There are no waves on Lake Michigan. There are few gulls and little life. Behind us, the man-made island crumbles. I guess I am the last to leave.

“Nope.”

“Neither do we.” The conversation lapses.

I watch the spikes of the Sears Tower come into focus. The lakeshore skyline is dull. As the sun sinks, the lights come on. The city shouts for joy with light. Even with the circumstances and frigid air, I can’t help smiling.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“The official story is that you died.”

I look at the guard speaking.

“The FBI seized your dissertation. It is classified. The Governor signed your pardon; with the understanding that you will never use magic again. If you cast a single spell,” the guard’s voice sharpens. “We will arrest and execute you. There will be no trial. No witnesses. No jury of your twelve to set you free. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are being watched. It was our opinion that you should have died. But our superior intervened. We do not know why. You will have a second chance. Stay out of trouble, rebuild your life, and we will leave you alone. But if you cross the line, we will end you.”

I nod. It appears these ‘Ashen Arbiters’ are deciding my fate based on my character. The circumstances surrounding my imprisonment—I can’t count on that. I have no idea how much they know. Whatever they know, they must be basing their future decision on my future conduct.

I like second chances. But I don’t see how I’m going to make it through this one.

“Do I… do I get any money or help?”

“No.” The guy who seems to be in charge shakes his head. “When prisoners finish their time, they receive the items they came in with. Yours were confiscated. We have provided you with pants. We did not have to. Where you go from here is up to you. You have complete freedom.”

“But no money, clothing, or shelter. No food or water. Can I go home? What about my job?”

“Your landlord canceled your lease. You are homeless. Your university terminated your contract. You have pants. Be thankful we considered your modesty.”

Disappointing. I am starting from the bottom. My stomach rumbles. I want to ask for food, but my pride won’t take it. Then I remember my situation. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“No, we are not going to buy you a hotdog.” The guard speaks as if he’s reading my mind. “There are several restaurants near here and many dumpsters. Have fun.”

The boat rocks against the beach. The guards and I get out. They take off my handcuffs and back away. I rub my wrists. The skin is raw where the cuffs bit me. Or it would be if I wasn’t under the system. Instead, I have a few points missing from my health.

“Gray eyes,” one of the [Arbiters] murmurs.

“What?” I say.

“You have gray eyes.” He tilts his head. “They’re pretty, professor. When the Black Robes arrested you, you were wearing a gray suit.”

“It’s my favorite color.”

“Gray eyes. A gray professor. Plumbeous professor. That’s what you were when we found you.” He takes a step back. “What will you become?”

The beach is empty. Trash litters the sand. I stare up at The Drake’s façade. I always wanted to stay there.

“This is where we part ways.” The guard says. No—the judge. Judges, plural, because there are five. Five masked faces regard me. “Remember. No magic.”

“There is a tier zero spell called dream. I’ve been casting it every day and walking around a dreamworld. It’s a dream, but it must be a real place because I’ve been able to do things I shouldn’t do in a dream. I’ve met people. Can I keep casting that?”

“No.”

“That one spell, and no others?” I plead. “It doesn’t hurt anyone. I don’t hurt anyone when I’m there. It’s the only time I’m alive. It’s all I’ve got. Without it, I have—”

I bite off what I was about to say. I curl my fingers. I will the claws to retract before they’re seen.

“No magic. No exceptions.” The judges back away. “Good night.”

They walk to a respectable distance. I stare around the towering buildings. The haze hangs low, choking. Smart people wear full face masks like mine. The not-as-smart wear surgical masks that do nothing to filter air.

I guess they didn’t quite leave me with nothing. I still have the mask and one filter. that’s better than nothing. My goal is to find this mysterious ‘dwelling’ hosted or owned by a guy called ‘Iceman.’ I have no guidance beyond that. No money or real clothing. No food or shelter. No income, and no friends with whom I can couch-surf.

Winter is here. Already, the first flakes fall. I am alone and aimless. But for the first time in years, I am free. I pick a direction and start walking.