Slate opened their eyes and blinked hard, trying to clear their vision. They blinked again, with no success. The world around them was shadowy and insubstantial, moving, swaying. It made Slate sick. Slate closed their eyes, felt the ground drop from under them. Terrified of the darkness they'd been swallowed by, Slate opened their eyes immediately. They were still standing in the same spot. Jarred by the experience and curious now, Slate stomped their foot. They couldn't feel the connection between themself and the ground. It was unsettling. It was although their tether to the earth had been cut from them, leaving them free to drift and fly where they might. Although they weren't at all sure they liked this feeling, Slate started forward.

Details made themselves clear as Slate progressed. The ground was a muddy brown colour that ascended into cruel spires in places. It was uneven and twisted, forcing Slate to follow the path, surrounded on either side by nothingness. A huge statue loomed ahead of Slate and they stopped, feeling dizzy just looking at it. Its tentacles seemed to move, churning the air like a desperate swimmer. Static flashed across Slate's vision and they forced themself to look down.

"What was I doing here again?" Slate wondered. They tried to think, but memory was so foggy. There was something important they were supposed to do, but the task slipped farther and farther away from memory the more Slate tried to access it. The incorporeal land, the isolation from everything, including feeling, was this death? The idea didn't seem quite right; Slate tried it again. "Am I dead?" They asked loudly.

"No, you aren't dead." The voice made Slate jump nearly out of their skin. Struck by a feeling similar to lightning, heart pounding painfully hard, Slate looked back at the statue reflexively. The noise had come from there. Slate exhaled, seeing the man sitting under the statue. For a moment, they had been afraid that the statue itself was speaking.

"Where am I?" They asked.

"This is your home," the man said gently. Slate blinked and realized that he was right. They were standing in the house they had grown up in before the Circle had taken them. "I'm so glad you've returned to me Slate." Slate closed their eyes, they couldn't quite place this man. They knew him of course, but from where?

"I-I'm sorry I don't remember you," Slate said regretfully.

"Of course you do," the man chided her, "I'm your husband. We've been married for almost two years now." Slate scowled, shaking their head.

"I still don't remember you," Slate protested, more forcefully. The man's shoulders sagged as he looked at the floor.

"You know it really hurts my feelings when you talk to me that way."

"I'm sorry," Slate mumbled, looking at the floor.

"It's alright dear. I still love you. I will love you no matter how you treat me. I can't help myself." Slate felt sick, guilty. They'd been so rude to their husband who only wanted to love them. Their eyes burned. They couldn't accept love from anyone, not even the love of their life, the man who had always been there for them, no matter what. How long had they been pushing him away like this? He was probably ready to leave them for it. But he had said he couldn't so obviously Slate was doing something cruel to keep him here. They should just let him go probably. It was wrong of Slate to make him stay.

"I'm sorry," Slate whispered, looking at the floor. "I- I love you too." Slate's husband gripped their chin, drawing their faces together.

"I know," he said huskily. He pressed his lips to Slate's who melted into his embrace, suddenly exhausted. Slate was still uneasy, but their overwhelming guilt and weariness wasn't to be ignored. "Come to bed little miss, while the children still sleep." Slate's eyes, which had been drifting shut, snapped open, huge and blue in their pale face. They tore away from the person holding them.

"Miss?" Slate asked shrilly, "children? You don't know me at all do you?" Their chest was heaving. "This is a dream isn't it? I know where I am." Their voice was ringing and powerful as they realized the truth. "This is the Fade and you are not my husband. You're a demon and I will not be tempted by you." The house melted around the pair and the Fade, as Slate had first seen it, was visible again. The man however, was nothing of the sort. Slate recognized him as a desire demon, all purple skin and lovely breasts. A demon inclined to present people with their most sincere fantasies and feed off of them as they dreamt. Slate shook, realizing how close they had been to death.

"Another meal lost," the demon scoffed silkily, "it seems I must work on my technique. Very well then mortal, you shall have your life it seems." The demon glared at Slate before vanishing with a flash of light.

Slate could see the edges of the landscape collapsing, falling into nothing, speeding towards them. Slate screamed, to face death after this trial was unjust. They had tried so very hard. Slate thought that they had succeeded. Then the ground had dropped from under them and Slate was plummeting through darkness, still screaming, heart ready to burst. And they were falling… falling… falling… into nothing.

Everything was dark. Slate moaned, flailing at the hands touching them, trying to knock them away. They mumbled incoherently, chest heaving.

"Be calm Slate," a familiar voice, "your trial is done." The voice was fading now. "And when you rise it will be as a mage of the Circle. It is done."

Irving… Slate realized; it was their last thought before sinking into the soft, welcome darkness of sleep.