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I sought his dream and stepped into his dreamscape.
Being a dream door, it gave the illusion of swinging open as any other, even though there was no real physical substance to it.
The very feel of the door handle was cold and metallic, slightly grainy against my fingers.
I cracked it open, and the temperature rose instantly, and a rush of hot air greeted me, carrying the musty whiff of fluffy teddy bears and the tang of sticky toys.
Dark, shadowy figures danced on the periphery of my vision.
Sounds of crying, distant flames, and tiny hurried footsteps.
I could feel the weight of a thousand watchful eyes upon me.
At the heart of this dark maelstrom was the figure of an old prisoner, a Griun, tossing and turning in his cot, eyes shut and rolling with despair.
This was Uhah, the oldest prisoner in Ikmal.
I had heard stories about him — tales of a Griun who had been here for as long as anyone could remember, though nobody really knew what his crime had been.
Some said he was dangerous; others claimed he was innocent, a scapegoat for crimes he didn’t commit.
The truth was locked away in the very dreamscape I found myself on the cusp of.
I’d learned some of Uhah’s secrets, but the full truth still escaped me after all this time.
Uhah’s nightmare was a cacophony of emotions.
Fear, sadness, anger, and most of all, regret — they all weaved in and out, creating a tapestry of torment.
Amidst the chaos, there was something else.
A glimmer, a secret, something so potent that the mere hint of it sent shivers down my spine.
It was the key to Uhah’s past, perhaps even the reason for his incarceration, and it was the one thing I hadn’t been able to access.
I pulled the dream door shut.
Not tonight, I decided.
I had moved through it countless times and never gotten to the bottom of it, so why would trying again now make any difference?
I shifted, and Uhah’s cell phased out like an out-of-focus holo-photo before reforming into another location.
The transition was seamless.
One moment I stood in Uhah’s cell, and the next, I was surrounded by the wide-open expanse of the fighting pits.
The arena stretched out, its sand-streaked grounds bathed in the cool glow of the dreamworld’s eternal twilight.
The air was thick with anticipation, but all was silent.
There were no jeering crowds, no shouts of pain or triumph, just an overwhelming sense of calm.
I felt the sand beneath my feet, cool and slightly gritty.
Each grain seemed to tell a story of battles fought, of blood spilled, and of dreams crushed or fulfilled.
The familiar aura of metal and sweat was absent.
