I open my eyes. I find myself in a large, empty hall that looks like it was made almost entirely out of solid stone. Streams of light shine into the room from tall indentations in the stone walls. Within these windows I cannot see the trees or whatever else lies beyond them, only a blindingly bright light. I feel that familiar, hollow breath and partial weightlessness that I immediately recognize as signs that I am dreaming.

As I turn my head, a stone throne appears in the empty space with steps leading up to it. Then, I turn my head again, and the empty space before me is replaced with a long, barren, stone table. I blink my eyes and suddenly there are chairs, ornately carved wood stained dark, this figment of a dream becoming more real with each passing moment.

Soon, there is a quilt-like cloth, and wooden cups, and plates of food upon the table. The sourceless white light becomes black iron window frames, the surrounding stone walls turn to dark logs, the floor to wood and a fine rug. I turn my head toward the throne and realize it is not a throne, but an altar, with candles lit in its corners and bowls of ash and colored powders placed upon it. At the top of the altar stands a stone statue of a human-like creature with the head of a chicken.

Finally, voices echo through the hall. Walking, dark shadows appear like ghosts, then solidify into a crowd of people competing for seats at the table. I sigh at this, preferring the solitude from before, and motion with my hand to will the somnic beings to vanish. But nothing happens. I wince in anger. How could my dream betray me like this? I try again, harder, but the reality refuses to budge. Am I really dreaming at all?

Suddenly, a pair of piercing, inquisitive eyes bores into my awareness and fills my mind with dread.

I turn toward those eyes slowly, reluctantly, and find Kenneth looking at me as he sits at the table. His hands are relaxed onto one another, the plate before him empty and the utensils untouched.

Kenneth's eyes take focus and he smiles.

"The progression of your lucid dreaming abilities has always impressed me," he says, "for a human. But against my void magic, I'm afraid you're no match. I am in control of this dream. This place I've conjured up is taken from a book I read, called, 'Cultures and Customs of Western Minecraftia.' I'll have to find it for you at some point. It's well worth the read. But enough small talk. I think you know exactly why I am here."

In spite of the noise of the crowd converging upon the table, Kenneth's voice is completely clear, and no one seems to pay attention to us.

"I shouldn't have to tell you about the sacredness of the relationship between a master mage and his apprentice. The memory of your doubts of my ability to protect you still hurts me, and it has taken me time to think of a satisfactory way to punish you."

Another punishment? How could the terrible pain of the void not be enough? Even in this dream, I can still feel the pain from the wounds left over from when the caustic voidfire burrowed into my skin, wounds which Kenneth refused to treat.

Kenneth says nothing, even though I know he can read my thoughts. He motions next to him, in the usual manner when he's about to give me one of his lectures, and another empty chair enters my awareness, in front of a clean set of plates and dining utensils. Should I feel excited to uncover more of my master's knowledge? Or afraid of the knowledge I will gain of my own punishment? Not knowing how to refuse, I walk around the table and sit myself beside Kenneth. To my other side, a burly swordfighter seems engaged in some joyful and loud conversation with their peers, yet their presence feels distant.

"I believe I've told you about the basic theory behind qualia at this point. The spellcraft behind those void spells is incredibly elegant, but very difficult to comprehend. I am one of the few to have ever mastered them. But mastery is not the end. I'm sure you've read about the three stages of spellcasting proficiency: perception, comprehension, and mastery. But there's more to the story. In fact, the first stage isn't actually perception; that's a sneaky lie perpetuated by the World Organization of Crafting. The true first stage is faith. But more importantly, there's a fourth stage, a stage beyond casting a spell with a mere thought, called generalization."

What does spell theory have to do with my punishment?

Kenneth grins widely. The intensity of his grin makes me feel slightly sick. But at the same time, there is an enticing passion about it which makes me remember the reason I am here.

Kenneth begins to speak again. "I wish I could explain to you what generalization is, but I'm afraid its textual definition doesn't do it justice. Not all Arch-Magi even know of its existence, and allegedly only High Magi have ever achieved it. But I know better and recognize the artificial skill gap for the psychological crutch it actually is. I have not just mastered the quale spells, but have generalized them. This dream you see before you is proof of that. But the void is capable of so much more. There is another class of spells, even more powerful than the quale spells, which have yet to be written. If I were to generalize them, I would be capable of no less than the ability to control minds. There's just one problem... I can only cast quale spells a few times until my mana pool is completely drained..."

Kenneth smiles dangerously. "So, that punishment you've rightfully been worrying about this whole time? The goal is two-fold. First, to unlock more secrets into the nature of the void. And second, to put you back in your place. Inside the confines of this dream, I am no longer bound by the limitations of my own mana pool. I can cast quale spells to my heart's content. Combine that with my ability to control dreams, and I think you will find the terrible things you encounter and the suffering you feel to be... compellingly real."

A weight drops in my stomach as I realize the sincerity of my master's threat. There is nothing worse than to face a mage who reaps joy when using their magic against you. The pride and joy of his craft, the careful precision with which he performs his research, the full extent of Kenneth's magical efforts, all the characteristics of greatness which I have striven to grow within myself, will all be directed against me. Kenneth will crush my resolve and squeeze me dry with the same thoroughness as one of my own imbuement experiments.

Kenneth snaps his fingers and the world shakes beneath me with such intensity that I fall hard on the floor. Then, the quake abruptly stops, and the sky turns to a smoky twilight, the horizon glowing dimly red. Suddenly, my life as a mage's apprentice is just a distant memory. I try to lift myself up, but my ribcage cries out in pain, and my muscles go limp under the weight of my heavy armor and overwhelming tiredness. I shudder with pain as my lungs expel a blood-flavored cough, and I come to realize the heavy truth that I am a fallen soldier at the edge of death, a discarded body, a failure. I stare hopelessly at the red horizon, from which I can barely hear the faint rumbles of war, and my mind swims with fear and hatred and regret.

Then, I hear the snap of fingers echo, and my mind is yanked from that reality. I am now sitting in the dining hall with Kenneth sitting beside me, my body still sore.

"That was just a warm-up," Kenneth says, "a taste of the war and the horrors of the governments which run it."

I flinch as Kenneth waves his hand in the air, and the dining hall is replaced with a vast ocean under a clear sky. The ocean's surface is so calm that its distant edges look like glass. I am floating weightlessly above it, with a sense of freedom so pure I wish it could never end. But then the sky darkens, stormy black clouds thicken, and iron chain upon iron chain grabs onto my shoulders and slowly drags me down into the water. I look up and see the faint twilight of the water's glassy edge rise away from me. I hold my breath as hard as I can, but I hear my heart beating like a ticking clock, every sound marking one second closer to my death.

Just as I give in to the urge to breathe and water stings my lungs, the entire world is crushed and shoved aside.

I am back home in Maplefall, every detail exactly as I remember it. But then, I open the door to my house and my mother throws a book at my head. She yells at me, telling me to leave and never come back. She hates me for my magic.

The dragon of my dreams is dead, a dragon I grew to see as a friend after so many years. And a coward destroyed the passage to the cavern of dragons out of spite, cursing me to never ride on the back of a dragon ever again.

Dreams of death. Dreams of terrible crimes. Dreams of everything I love taken away from me. Just when I think there is no other way to enhance my suffering, another nightmare begins.

Then, I find myself breathing air. Not the air from a dream, but refreshing, real air. I am standing firmly on my own two feet, at the edge of Kenneth's living room, looking out toward the front door.

I feel an aura of dread brush against my back.

I turn around, and see Kenneth sitting in a chair, his grey hood pulled down to reveal his hair. His hand rests upon a side table with an open book roughly the thickness of a fiction novel. The fingers of this hand are outstretched, as if he just cast a spell and is poised to cast another.

"Have you learned your lesson, Iris?" Kenneth asks.

"To not disobey you?"

Kenneth nods. He reaches for the edge of the book, pulls it closed, and picks up the book by the binding. He turns the book over in his hand, inspecting each of its six sides briefly, before bringing the book down from his face and focusing his inquisitive eyes on me.

"I don't believe you."

"Please, master, no more dreams! Have mercy!" I cry out in desperation.

"Then prove to me you've learned your lesson," Kenneth says. "This world you see before you is a dream. It is the last dream you will have tonight. I have constructed it in such a way that it is indistinguishable from reality, to test your obedience. As your master, I order you to brew a poison potion from scratch and drink it. Follow my order, and the poison will not hurt you. Disobey, and you will feel the same sickness and pain as if you drank the poison in real life."

I glance around the living room of Kenneth's house, and struggle to reconcile it as anything else than reality. Every detail, every item on the mantel above the fireplace, every orientation of the furniture, every book on the back shelf, is in the right place. Why should I deny my own senses and risk my own death? Does it even matter? Dream or reality, Kenneth will find a way to punish me. I have no choice but to obey.

Is that what Kenneth wanted?

I feel ants walk up my spine and reluctantly turn my body toward the kitchen. I collect the ingredients and equipment for the poison potion, start the furnace, and kindle the coals. I heat the water, then stir the incomplete potion while adding ingredients at critical times. I rake the coals back and forth furiously to try and regulate the temperature. As far as unsanctioned crafting goes, potionmaking is as frustrating as I remember. The fact that I am crafting deadly poison for my own consumption only makes it worse.

After stirring the liquid frantically while pouring in the final catalyst from its pouch, the liquid in the potion bottle changes from a murky grey to a translucent dark green. I gesture toward the potion with a beckoning finger and it rises out of the furnace and rests itself upon the counter. A thin stream of steam flows steadily out through the bottle's thin neck. I still remember vividly the alchemical charts which describe this poison. Even the smell of it makes me feel sick.

I feel a presence behind me, and I turn around and see Kenneth.

"You know the price of disobedience." Kenneth states.

I turn around, and reach toward the potion on the counter. I feel the most horrible feeling, merely from the idea that I am grasping this potion in my hands.

Is this the price of obedience, then? Watching my own actions unfold with dread? I cannot accept it.

I purposefully let go of the potion and watch it fall to the floor. The glass shatters, and the potion's liquid burns my legs. I feel that horrible sensation of hopelessness begin to fade. But then I feel a burning feeling in my cheeks and in my neck, a sign of the poison Kenneth said I would be forced to endure. The sickness feels worse with each passing moment. Why could I not just do as Kenneth said? I force my eyes open against the pain, and look toward Kenneth in desperation, begging for mercy, but I see my master stepping away from me.

My eyes then glue shut as my throat overflows with caustic acid. I cannot breathe in enough air to even choke. My entire body becomes weak, my chest overflowing with pain. I grasp my chest. I feel my consciousness fading. The kitchen takes on the semblance of a dream, and then the light around me collapses into blackness.

I gasp and feel two fingers pinching my eyelids open. I am laying down. I see Kenneth's eyes glowing silver from beneath his grey hood. The light in Kenneth's eyes quickly fades. There is a tenseness to his face that is unusual for him.

"The void has affected your body more than I anticipated," Kenneth tells me. "You are in no state to get out of bed. You must rest."

I can still feel the voidfire burns all over me. But this bed feels like a prison.

I push Kenneth away. Kenneth grabs my hand. I pull my arm out of his grasp and get out of bed. I run out my bedroom door, out of the front door. It is cold and dark, but I do not care. I will do whatever it takes to get as far away from this place as possible.

"Your mana pool is empty. The monsters will kill you!" Kenneth states.

I keep running, knowing my survival lies within Kenneth's door, and my hopes and dreams as well. My master is right. He is always right. Just once, I wish my master was wrong.

The light of the cabin is gone. I trip over a fallen branch and graze my hands and knees on wet rocks and dirt. I get up and keep running, my rapid breaths warming my lips briefly as the cold air seeps into the skin of my face.

I dash to the left in panic at the sight of a spider with glowing red eyes clinging to a tree trunk. A zombie reaches for me and I barely feel its hand brush my shirt. I keep running, hearing more footsteps and not daring to look back. But then an arrow pierces my thigh and I fall in pain.

"Sarah!" I scream.

Zombies, skeletons, and a spider close in around me. I look up at them in terror. The zombies smack their lips, gnash their teeth, and gurgle with bloodthirsty eagerness.

But then a skeleton steps in front of the closest zombie and pushes it back. The zombie makes some fluid-clogged breaths in protest, but seems to accept the skeleton's implicit order. The other zombies quiet down and stare at me with a bit less eagerness.

What does the skeleton want? Is she Sarah? Or perhaps a monster showing a rare act of mercy?

The skeleton in front conjures a small, glowing red dagger in its bony hand, as if to answer my question. This skeleton is not here to save me. I have never seen a dagger like that before, but somehow I know exactly what it is for: to infect me.

I scream as loud as I can, and push as hard on my legs as I can despite the pain, but a pair of bony hands push me down by my shoulders from behind, and pin me in place. The skeleton in front of me pulls my left arm away from my side and slices the glowing red dagger across my wrist. I wince in pain. A red glow shines briefly along the path that the dagger left. I dread for when the necrotic poison will flood through my body, but the moment does not come. It seems the magic does not act so quickly.

The skeleton drops my wrist and motions in a wide arc. I feel piercing pain in my arrowless leg as a spider latches onto it with its fangs. I fall onto my side and am dragged on the ground, through a thorny bush, and find my body tumbling against a stone wall, into a cave too dark to see in the dead of night.

I hear the spider crawl away. I lay still and in pain.