"Who the hell are you?"

"Who am I?"

For a heartbeat, I wasn’t sure what to do— instinct and practice tore my gaze from the floor to the door, threw my hands to my sleeves, then my pockets to grasp at Focuses that weren’t there— no smooth, rough gem or filigreed wood underhand. No Focuses to help me defend myself. Next, my gaze swept across the room— tables, mops, brooms, buckets, protruding steel, forgotten wood— something to defend myself with, or somewhere to hide. Distantly, through fear and haze, a flush of chilly clarity sparked in the back of my eyes, before flickering out with hot-knife pain.

My eyes watered, and I whimpered in pain, quickly massaging them. The light became sharp as I stood, and scrambled the chair between myself and whoever was on the other side of the door. My body complained, but the corpse swaying in the corner was a sobering reminder.

The door noiselessly swung open, and on the other side stood a man.

Well— I wasn’t certain if the person was male, but they were tall, wiry and weird. Part of it was their outfit— dark, flowing robes that trailed along the ground, a hood, dark gloves, an ivory bird mask, and another, darker mask beneath the first. It felt… excessive. I wanted to laugh, but the way they moved was odd. They slowly stepped into the room, their clothes billowing slightly— and where their robe sat on their shoulders just didn’t look right. Their movements felt unnatural, like a gas malformed into some rough-approximation of human proportions and movement, then shoved into a robe. Despite the small part of me that wanted to laugh at how stereotypically awful their outfit looked, fear held my tongue. I could tell, even in my addled state, that there was something deeply unsettling about them.

“Good evening,” they stated, lacking any and all inflection. They tilted their head. “You’re unbound.”

I held still, mostly out of fear. Part of me readily accepted the idea that I’d die here, alone and far from anyone who would hear me. Later, I’d justify my hesitation as patience, waiting for some kind of opportunity I knew wouldn’t come.

What are— what— I’m about to die, this is the last face I’ll see— I don’t— What are they— It won’t be someone I hold dear, but this horrible imitation of a person.

Years of half-hearted drills took over; I swallowed down the roiling fear, settled the tension in my shoulders, blinked away the tunnel-visioned stare I’d adopted, unclenched my hands, and stood, shoving away that echoing note of paranoia and worry that sang: You’re going to die here. This was a mistake. You and Arthur are dead. You are alone. Alone, alone.

Shut up and think, I silently chided myself, resisting the urge to reach for my ether. Think. How do you survive— what do they want— what would they do in their situation?

The figure made no move towards me, still standing a decent distance away. I found myself disliking how their mask’s hollow eyes bored into me.

Wrong details, I heard Talon’s stern instruction. Take stock of the situation.

We’d stumbled in on their operations, saw evidence of their men— or people associated with them— clearing away evidence of a… what? Murder? A kidnapping? Then we’d fought them, injured them but still lost. Then, by some miracle, they hadn’t just killed us, and I’d woken up here, bound, gagged, and stripped of weapons.

Wrong details again, a memory of Talon’s old lecture. That’s a flaw of yours, Laurent. You fixate far too much on why and how and circumstances and knowing it rather than purposing it for what really matters. Focus more consistently— why haven’t they killed you yet?

I bristled uneasily, as I always did when Talon sought to personally lecture me. Information? I’m not being questioned. They didn’t even sound particularly surprised when they’d saw I’d escaped.

The figure still hadn’t moved, silently standing beside the closed door like some kind of eerie mannequin.

Ransom? The notion wasn’t horribly far-fetched, despite my proclivities, I was still a noble. Presumably, they didn’t know of my family relations, or were trying to identify me properly. There was a good chance they didn’t recognize me— I certainly hoped so, anyway— I never wore my family’s insignia, I never purposely strayed into the limelight, and I doubted they knew of my academic projects— I seldom interacted with other academics, and due to the nature of my work, they were mostly governmentally privatized.

Anything else? The “how” of how are you not dead yet, maybe?

The former, I came up empty, and the latter— well, I didn’t want to question it too much. In case reality then strode to contradict me.

“You’re awake and unbound,” they said again. They gestured to the chair. “Let us begin.”

“I— what?” I hoarsely muttered. “Begin what?”

“Sit. Sit down, you’ll be more comfortable that way.”

“I’m— I’m okay. I’ll stay standing.” I took a small step back, bringing the chair with me. What did I plan to do with the chair? I had no idea.

"You are uncomfortable,” they continued, still standing stock still. “Sit, you’ll find yourself more relaxed.”

“No— no, I really think I’m okay.” I backed up a little more.

Oh yeah, just don’t comply with the person whose got your life in their hands. Brilliant idea.

“… Please,” they said, slowly sounding it out as if they were unused to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. “Please, sit. I’m not going to harm you.”

“Then what are we beginning?”

“Please.” They gestured to my chair again. “Sit. Think of it as a… a job interview.”

“… Interviewers don’t typically kidnap their prospective employees.”

“The timing was less than convenient, for that, you have my apology. I would’ve contacted you sooner, but prior obligations required my attention.”

“What—“ I scoffed “— you would’ve kidnapped me sooner? How reassuring.”

The part of me that was still scared, that years of drills and instructions and training couldn’t ground out of me, told me to do something— anything. It hissed to grab something— preferably something sharp, or heavy— and smack them over the head with it. It also whispered that I should run, make myself very, very small and hope that they’d ignore me. I ignored that part of me, shoved down the roiling unease that swam in my eyes whenever I looked at them, and fell back on old habits.

Namely: cold arrogance.

They were silent, as if contemplating my fate or something— I don’t know— they were standing perfectly still— they had no discernible change in body language, no rise or fall of their voice— I’m pretty sure they weren’t even breathing, and if they were, then I couldn’t see it.

The edge of a table bumped into my hip, and I stopped, still watching the figure for any signs of movement. I tensed, ready to… ready to do what, exactly?

Any ether I could dredge up would drag with it a bandoleer of knives to rake across my body, and I didn’t exactly have any extra methods of spellcasting. Then there was the problem I wasn’t exactly proficient in fighting— I’d entertained the notion of swordsmanship when I was younger at Arthur’s behest, but I quickly abandoned it in favor of cloistering myself away with all my books. It was tragic, really, that it’d repeatedly come back to bite me, however indirectly.

"And… and if I don’t want to do your… uh—“ my gaze flickered to the swaying corpse “—Job interview?”

They seemed to smile then, despite the fact I couldn’t see their face. “Then, that will be that. I will be displeased, but I’ve lived with displeasure before.”

Or, in the other words, I would die and that would be that.

… Fuck, I silently debated, what can I really do?

Nothing. Nothing was the answer. All I had to really go on was the fact they hadn’t attempted to hurt me yet.

So I sat. I set the chair down, released my knuckle-white grip on it, and slowly, achingly, sat down. I did my best to make myself comfortable; crossing my legs, letting out a slow, torturous exhale, resting a hand in my lap and propping up my head with the other. I did my best to give a smile, to paint a picture of the arrogant, ice-cold heiress that everyone else insisted I was. It’s an ineffectual display— my only audience was that expressionless, gas-person that probably didn’t even care for nobility, but, I didn’t do it for them. It barely helps me, I find my breathing slowing from the fact that breathing any faster would hurt, rather than any actual calmness I do feel— but I feel a little better; the act always helped.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“I’m glad we could come to an understanding,” they said. “Your first question is, who are you?”

I— that… is… really, really mundane. It’s also one I really don’t want to answer. They’re really insistent on this job interview premise.

“I’ll…” I tested, “I’ll tell you if you return the favor.”

Ah, yes, the quivering, fearful part of me mourned, let’s test their patience even more. Wonderful idea Estelle!

They tilted their head. “Why should I do that?”

“This is a job interview, as you say— “ I did my best to keep my voice level and confident, to project the image of a haughty noble, but it came out scratchy instead “— Then why should I take the time to answer your questions? I need to know about you if your offer is worth my time.”

I ignored the corpse swaying in the corner, and the fact I couldn’t exactly leave if I chose not to comply. A part of me hoped they’d entertain me, though reality often disliked doing that.

Then, in a heart-stopping moment, they chuckled. Toneless and lacking any mirth, it was as if they were simply imitating the motions— and poorly at that— they’re shoulders didn’t shake, they’re body didn’t even move— just the echoing note of their quiet, affectionless imitation at laughter.

Then, just as abrupt as it had began, it stopped— cut off without so much as an echoing note. Somewhere, in the far back of my mind, something told me I’d maybe— just maybe— did something I wouldn’t like the consequences of.

“I understand,” they lifelessly said, “it is only fair.”

“I understand, it is only fair,” they lifelessly drawled, before bowing. The movement was too smooth— too practiced. “Mortals call me Dumah, the Angel that presides over the moment between this life and the next.”

There is no way they expect me to believe that.

“Yeah? You answer a lot of prayers too?”

“I have answered your question—“

“Etiquette dictates that both parties answer truthfully.”

“Are you implying I am not?” I’m not sure if I imagined the undertone of threat in their voice.

“… maybe not in your entirety,” I slowly said.

“I assure you, I am what I claim I am.”

That means very little when I don’t have any method to check it.

“Do you want to me scrape and bow before your feet, Dumah?”

“That won’t be needed.”

An echo of Talon’s stern chastisement. You’re getting off track, Laurent.

I very much doubted that this figure before me was Dumah. For one, their figure didn’t match that of the statues present throughout the Churches and clinics. That Dumah had a drawn-back robe, a gentle, androgynous face, and folded hands. This Dumah had a similar robe, and an expressionless, empty bird mask. While I was aware that many interpreted the Angels differently, the chances of the literal Angel Dumah, coming to visit me was minuscule. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly… devout. My residence held no religious paraphernalia, and I’d often eschew the daily prayers the High Cardinal preached. According to them, my soul was a ruinous vacuum of heresy and I’d be facing divine retribution eventually, but I hadn’t faced off with anything too disastrous quite yet.

Except this, an absent thought muttered. It was fruitless, but I squinted, examining ‘Dumah’ for anything else I could’ve. A hint in their body language— maybe. I knew I was searching for something that didn’t exist— but that prickling feeling that I was missing something bubbled up again.

“I have answered in kind— … Etiquette,” ‘Dumah’ droned, tasting the word, “dictates that both parties answer.”

“…” I frowned, tersely replying, “— Laurent. People call me Lady Laurent.”

Not exactly true— they used my first name rather than my family name, as I didn’t hold my mother’s title quite yet— but, I thought it was good enough. After all, ‘Dumah’ had done the same to me, hadn’t they?

“Then— Lady Laurent— your next question—“

“— Ah ah ah,” I quickly interrupted, not entirely sure why they were entertaining me to such a degree, “You asked a question— etiquette dictates that I get to ask one in return.”

‘Dumah’ nodded.

“You called this a job interview— what are you… interviewing me for?”

“An easy question. I am evaluating whether you fit the criteria for a friend’s debt.”

“What debt?”

‘Dumah’ raised a hand, and I frowned. “Etiquette,” they said, the word normal in their mouth again, “dictates that—“

“Yeah— yeah, I know,” I brusquely responded, playing up the arrogant noblewoman. I watched ‘Dumah’ from the corner of my vision, seeing if they’d react. They didn’t.

“How would you describe your relationship with your family?”

My thoughts stumbled. Telling the truth would be the best choice here— but the truth would admit that I was worthless for ransom, a lie is just as bad, as it meant they’d try and fail to ransom me— and then I’d deal with the consequences. Choosing not to answer would be an answer on its own…

‘Dumah’ hadn’t harmed me yet, I wasn’t sure how far I could push it, and I wasn’t particularly confident I should push it, but… I decided not to test it.

“I’m not certain I’d like to answer that question.”

Much to my surprise, ‘Dumah’ simply nodded, hands still at their side. “I understand, that is answer enough.”

My frown grew, and my mouth felt dry. “What’s the debt—“ I caught myself, remembering Talon’s advice— my preoccupation with knowing information that didn’t particularly help me. ‘Dumah’ simply tilted their head, waiting. “Explain your involvement with me here— between that alley and here— in the grand scheme of things— where do you fit in?”

“I don’t. I am impartial.”

“Then you’re—“

“— Etiquette,” they simply said. I shut up, mulling over their response.

Nothing? They aren’t involved— they have to be lying. Unless, spoke a foolish part of my mind, you assume that their earlier answers were truthful— that they are who they claim to be.

I dismissed the possibility. I refused to even address it— my gaze swiveled around, looking for a solution that wasn’t there. I no longer wanted to deal with this person, whatever they were. That’s when it clicked— that nagging feeling slowly blossoming into the inkling of a realization.

The details of the room, of everything, were too clear. An absent hand drifted to my face and confirmed it— no glasses. I was immensely farsighted— which meant I shouldn’t have been able to see everything so clearly. At most, my normal vision would only ever allow for blurs of colors at the distance I was. Even ‘Dumah’, I could see clearly. Certainly— I could see perfectly without my glasses with the help of some spells, but those required conscious efforts to cast— and my current state wouldn’t take too kindly to any manner of spellcasting.

‘Dumah’ said something, but I tuned it out under the weight of a realization: I was in a dream. This was a dream and the person before me was it’s creator.

“You’re a Dreamspinner,” I breathed. ‘Dumah’ tilted their head, then nodded, as if they were satisfied.

‘Dumah’ didn’t say anything next, and my gaze fell to the floor— the footsteps that came through the walls were even. They sounded too even, too perfect to be a person outside. Even considering the ability of a golem— even they had variables— ones that could walk and run and keep guard were never kept on patrol— it was too ether inefficient. If they were a Dreamspinner, and wasn’t lying to me, then escape was feasible.

Dreamspinning wasn’t a common profession, not by a long shot. Out of the tens of thousands of mages— both official and unofficial— in a Tisali, which housed a couple hundred thousand people, only a couple hundred ever chose dreams as their discipline. Even more rare were those who chose to specialize in corporeal Dreamspinning— like me. Often times, many chose to become incorporeal Dreamspinners, as due to the fluctuating nature and environment of dreams, they could find themselves in an actively hostile dream. At which point, them being incorporeal protected them from practically all methods of injury from the dream. Corporeal Dreamspinners didn’t have such a luxury, but were often times many more potent in their changes than their incorporeal counterpart.

Then, that begged the question— were they corporeal? Or incorporeal? Then— their purpose here was to— It doesn’t matter. They haven’t hurt you yet, focus on getting out.

‘Dumah’ didn’t move, as if waiting. “Your answer?”

“I…”

Leave now, or extract more information?

An image of a coffin crept into my head, and I made my decision.

Ether spooled to my will, and I let out a cloudy breath before the world began to fold up around me, like crumpling mirrors. But I felt something else, a wall— something keeping the world from fully folding, keeping me from leaving— the other Dreamspinner’s will, no doubt. I easily surmounted it, descending further and further away.

Then, like a bird into glass, I smacked into a metaphorical wall. My ether fell apart like cracking ice, my escape melted like frost beneath a summer sun, and I fell back down to cruel, cruel reality. I stay grounded in that chair— no sense of dissociating vertigo, no subtle shock of dissonance mixed with the feeling of falling, no condensing stars or collapsing world. The world stayed rigid, wet heat creeping down my back, the corpse dripping all over the floor, the masked figure standing stock still… Ether escaped me, dragging wincing ice-picks into the back of my eyes. And I nearly doubled over, panting for breath and lightheaded.

I realized, through pain haze and panting breath, that I hadn’t overcome my captors will— they had simply let me try and tire myself out against a door they knew I couldn’t open.

“… You drugged me,” I bit out. “To keep me unconscious.”

“No.”

Just then, another fact flew into my head, fueled by adrenaline and pain and exhaustion and anger.

Constructed dreams ended when either the recipient or the Dreamspinner dies— whether that be metaphorical or literal.

I rose, not exactly sure of what I was planning to do— pain, confusion and adrenaline made for a heady mix, no matter the amount of training one goes through— and advanced towards them, dragging the chair with me.

They raised a hand, and for some reason I stopped.

“I am not associated with those outside of this dream.”

“… Then why are you here?”

“Evaluating your qualifications for a debt.”

“… What?”

‘Dumah’ didn’t seek to explain further, instead waving a gloved hand. My vision darkened, folding and I felt the familiar, spiraling vertigo of exiting a dream.