The man screamed. He begged, cried, whined, choked, and finally fell silent.

Tenebres tried to look away, but he couldn't. No matter how he turned, his dream moved the strangling limbs of his tentacular horror so that the tableau of the hunter's death stayed directly in front of him, forcing him to relive that horrible moment.

In the dream, there was none of the cold vindication that had kept Tenebres from giving his enemies any mercy on that night, weeks before. There was only horror and remorse at his own actions.

And then, as it always did, the dream started over again. Again, the hunter was there, again, the tentacles wrapped around him. Again, Tenebres was forced to watch.

"Kill," his voice commanded, his lips moving without his volition, the memory of his murderous order as hard and cold as a frozen lake.

Again, the tentacles did as commanded, constricting the helpless man's life away, and again, Tenebres stared, unable to look away from what his powers had wrought. Unable to forget what he had done on the night that he finally gave into the Void's hunger.

Then the image melted away, and Tenebres prepared himself for it to replay again. But this time was different. This time the tentacles reformed around him, effortlessly binding his arms and legs, locking him in place, holding him aloft easily.

"Kill," his cold voice said, echoing through the endless black Void of the dream, but this time, it didn't emerge from his own lips. It came from somewhere else–and when the tentacles obeyed the order, they wrapped around his chest and neck, tightening gradually but inevitably, choking the air and life out of him, making him feel what he had done to those men…

This is what I deserve, Tenebres decided, feeling his lungs start to burn with breathless agony.

"Don't be ridiculous," another voice said.

What?

There. Just beyond the reach of the tentacles, standing in the black void like it was solid ground, there was a figure, cloaked from head-to-toe in swathes of rich black cloth that somehow failed to hide the delicate curves of their body.

They lifted a pale hand, their skin a bleached out shade of gray-brown, and then Tenebres sat up in bed, gasping for air.

He looked around, panic singing through his body while he tried desperately to suck in the air his lungs were screaming for.

His bedroom was dark and empty. There was no Allana in bed next to him, but that was far from unusual. As far as he could tell, Allana never slept fully through the night.

"What was that?" he asked, his voice still breathless and tight in his own ears.

The nightmare was nothing new. He had been plagued by that dream, and a few similar ones, nearly every night since the Battle of Keystone. But at the end… It wasn't just the figure that had apparently intruded on his dream. The pain felt so real, so intense. Like it had been happening in truth.

Trembling, Tenebres flicked open his attributes, confirming that none of them were drained, as they would be from an invocation.

But if that was the case… Why did his neck hurt so much?

#

"Dreams," the Mendicant mused aloud. The healer carefully slid a finger along Tenebres's bruised neck, but even that was enough to make the boy flinch. "And you're sure one of your fiends didn't get invoked by accident?"

"Definitely not," Tenebres confirmed.

"Well, that's certainly odd," the healer admitted. They were in a younger body today, that of a brawny man on the edge of full adulthood, their eyes too deep and knowing for their face. They ran another finger along Tenebres's neck, and this time, there wasn't even a sting. The Mendicant had healed the bruise without so much as a tingle.

"But not impossible?"

The Mendicant huffed a breath, the sound made mocking by their body. They moved to a chair, giving Tenebres some space, while he stayed sitting on the exam table in one of the Mendicant's treatment rooms. Already, there were less and less infected with each passing day, and more and more, the sage had been letting the weaker Apothic Order mages take the lead, allowing them valuable experience.

"There's no such thing as impossible with magic. Improbable, perhaps, but where dreams are concerned…" The sage shook their head. "Certainly not impossible."

Tenebres turned to face them, feeling his brow furrow. "Wait. What do you mean by that?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you saying my dreams are magical, somehow?"

"Ah. Yes. Your dreams, my dreams. Near everyone's, really, though it's rare for one to get deep enough to manifest physically like this."

Tenebres moved his mouth silently, getting more confused by the moment. "But… What? How?"

The Mendicant shrugged their brawny shoulders. "It's far from my field of study," they explained, "but my understanding of the theory is that dreams can allow a soul more fundamental access to the fabric of magic, without the limitations imposed by the waking mind. But it's a tenuous and difficult to control connection, such that it's nearly impossible to manipulate in any meaningful way."

Tenebres frowned. Dreams as a form of magic… that was certainly not something he'd ever heard of. But if that was the case… could his dream have formed a temporary connection to the Void, then? A connection that hadn't required his Void Invocation ability?

But if that was the case… who was it that had stopped the dream before it could kill him?

"Don't be ridiculous," they had instructed him, just as his thoughts had turned dark and self-recriminating. Whoever it was… they had known his thoughts.

Then…

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"What I'm more concerned about is these dreams themselves," the Mendicant said. Their body had changed again, while Tenebres was lost in his thoughts, the powerful young man replaced by an older woman, just on the far end of active maturity.

But their eyes were the same as ever: deep and colorless as a bottomless well.

Tenebres shrugged, trying to play off the healer's concerns. "They're not a big deal," he explained. "I've been having them ever since the Battle."

The Mendicant frowned in understanding, nodding gently. "Yes, I remember. Some of the conspirators tried to kidnap you, and succeeded in capturing Cadence. You stopped them from taking you."

"And then I killed them. Five men died that night, all of them victims of me–and of the Void."

"And it haunts your dreams?"

"Of course it does. Why wouldn't it?"

The Mendicant spread their weathered, long-fingered hands. "They tried to kidnap you," they repeated frankly, as if that was explanation enough. "I understand you have some trauma surrounding just such a thing–and even if you didn't, I doubt anyone could blame you for responding to such an attempt with lethal force."

"I can," Tenebres said.

"Why?"

Tenebres glared at the sage, but they sat in place, their gaze unflinching. "Because…" Tenebres paused, fumbling for words. "Because it's my responsibility."

The Mendicant didn't so much as blink. "Go on."

"This gift… I know how dangerous it could be. That's why I make such an effort to keep it contained. But that night… I just didn't care. I used it, happily, with no second thoughts. I sacrificed Fest with one ability, and used the power his death gave me to unleash monsters on the other hunters–men who were all but helpless against them."

Tenebres shook his head, and he felt tears trying to force their way past his bloodshot eyes. "It was wrong," he declared. "I went too far–and if nightmares are my cost to pay, to remember what happens when I lose control, then I consider it a fair price."

The Mendicant's mild frown deepened as Tenebres went on, and when he finished, they sat back, their matronly face managing almost motherly disapproval.

It was enough that Tenebres couldn't help but think of his own mother, chiding him for some forgotten, childish mistake he had made, years ago. And that only reminded him that this wasn't the first time he had lost control.

He lost the fight to hold back the tears.

"I assume your friend Olivia described to you my part in the Battle of Keystone?"

Tenebres swallowed, his throat tied, but he managed a shaky nod.

"Good. Then you know what it's like when I am forced to turn my powers on others." They paused, and Tenebres couldn't help but think it sounded like they were overcome with a little remorse of their own. "I am a healer. My calling is to help, to save, to cure. But, at times, that calling brings me against those who feel the need to harm, to kill, to inflict. And when that happens… There is only one option left to me.

"In the Battle of Keystone, I killed dozens. Fourteen humans, four ogres, and forty-six gnolls. None of them were able to so much as approach me before they died. I, a healer, slaughtered them like animals, as that was the only way to save my patients. And, as I suspect you know, few of them had the mercy of a clean death. Rarely does my magic permit me the chance to grant a painless demise. Yet I did it anyway, and I did it without a shred of doubt in my soul."

Tenebres managed to look up, to see the solemn, silent pain etched into the Mendicant's face. "What are you saying?"

"You've been granted a power beyond that of most Apprentices, Tenebres, but believe me when I say that this is a lesson near all gifted must one day learn: that our gifts grant us great and terrible power, and that it is our duty, as humans of conscience and morality, to find the appropriate lines in the use of that power. I can't tell you where that line is, nor can anyone else–but you should be sure that the deaths you served those men were well-deserved, by any measure."

"So what? I just shouldn't care about killing anyone who gets in my way?"

"Of course not. To feel regret is only natural. To wish that the deaths of those men weren't needed is only right. To long for a world where such justice need not be meted out is just. But to torture yourself for turning the powers afforded to you on those who would kill, kidnap, destroy, and mislead? Down that way lies a fate far darker than what any mere gift can produce."

#

That night, the dreams continued, as they always did.

It was the anthroslime, this time. The lead hunter bore down on the figure he took to be Tenebres, only for his sword to pass harmlessly through the loose goo of the fiendish doppelganger. He tried to pull his sword back, only for the slime to come with it, embracing him in slender arms of viscous green liquid.

"Kill," Tenebres's voice commanded.

Then the hissing started, and the man's flesh began melting.

Tenebres watched the man's futile efforts to free himself. In real life, it had taken Tenebres's own magic, as well as the attacks of his spark imp, to keep the hunter immobilized for long enough for the anthroslime's acid to dissolve him, but the dream simplified things; the man instead helpless to resist as the slime ate through skin, flesh, and bone.

Then, as always, the dream repeated itself: the man once again whole and healthy, charging at the decoy. But this time, Tenebres focused, and the entire world seemed to jolt for an instant–and then the image of the man froze in place.

Tenebres's perspective shifted, bringing him closer to the man and letting him look at him more closely. As if in reaction to his focus, the image rippled, details filling out to better match his memory. His eyes were direct, hot with hate and murderous intent. The other hunters, who he supposedly led, had been seized by the horror behind him, but he hadn't paused to consider helping them. His sword likely would have made short work of the lesser fiend's tentacles, yet he had charged Tenebres straight away, intent on killing him.

His clothing was scuffed, and there was a fresh bruise along his jaw, under his right cheek. Cadence must've gotten a hit in as she was dragged off.

She had fought.

Would Cadence have hesitated to kill this man, in that moment?

Probably not.

But they would have regretted it after. They were a good person, at the end of the day.

And now… Tenebres was regretting it.

Did that make him a good person?

"Of course it does."

His perspective shifted again, and he saw that figure, standing behind the frozen hunter. The cloaked figure was looking around the still tableau with apparent interest.

"The Mendicant was right," the figure said. "As best as I can tell, at least. It's okay to feel guilty–but this was necessary, even if it wasn't right. And you can't let the nightmares keep doing this to you."

Tenebres nodded, and he had a body again, his perspective no longer nebulous. "I know," he admitted. "But it's harder than it sounds."

"Isn't that the truth," the figure said, their voice wry.

Tenebres narrowed his eyes, looking at the figure more closely. Just as the hunter had, they seemed to come into focus, details filling out their body. Their cloak became more ornate, but less concealing, the shadows less complete. Tenebres could see the tip of a fine, angular chin emerge from the cowl; could see exquisite travelling clothes where the cloak hung open.

"Who are you?" Tenebres asked. "How do you know all of this?"

The figure laughed, the sound hauntingly familiar, and they–he–reached a slender hand up to push back the hood of his cloak.

He was fine featured, but his large red eyes and full lips softened his heart-shaped face, lending it a slender androgyny. Intricate, swirling scars ran up his neck from underneath his clothing, marring one cheek and laying a savage aspect over his otherwise cute face. His stark white hair was long and fluffy, going all the way down to his left shoulder–but on the right side, it was shaved off, leaving behind only a spare white fuzz up to the crown of his head.

Tenebres smiled at himself, and asked, "How do you think?"

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