It was the same dream of fire and chaos, of a bed yet not burning, oppressive heat pressing against the wall behind it, that greeted Lance in sleep. The same dream, but a variation of it. The essence of it the same, and yet extrapoted on to reveal new details not present in its first iteration.

  There was his sister screaming outside, there was his sister losing the fight, pleading with him to flee through the window onto the roof, promising to get him down once he had won free.

  There was the oak tree with its swing in the front yard, its canopy abze. There were the screaming peacocks running away toward a wrought bronze fence as fire shed at their plumage.

  He wrenched at the window, heat building against his toes, the balls of his feet. It gave. Gave some more. He scrambled through it, his back striking the sill, legs kicking at open air.

  A vice grip cmped down on his calf. The assaint wrenched him back.

  “ANDREA! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” he screamed, tears blurring his vision as he was thrown back into the room, as his tiny body skidded across the floor like a rag doll.

  A Wraith loomed over him amid the fmes, rendered a demon in fire light as the bed finally caught.

  “Somebody help me!” he cried. As the Wraith closed in on him, a weasel cast in silhouette darted out of the smoke fast filling the room, lingered just above them.

  His gaze tched onto the creature, and he cried out to it.

  “Aughere!” He gasped, bolting upright as the dream crashed into dissolution.

  Smoke billowed around him, coming from nowhere he could see. There was no fire in the barracks, not even a candle to produce the cloud. Atop it lounged a weasel all in silhouette with eyes that glowed raw white.

  “Long time no see, friend.” It snickered. “I thought you would never call.”

  He looked to the window. The spider, Lothor, was still there in its web.

  “A silkworm has been here.” The weasel said, following his gaze. “And you, huh? Wouldn’t your mistress be upset if she found you lurking about?”

  “No more than your own.” Lothor grumbled. “Now leave me to myself. And let go the smoke. He will be noticed.”

  “Ah. I suppose you’re right.” The weasel’s gaze shifted to Lance, who watched him intently. “You remember me, don’t you?”

  “As the product of a dream, yes.”

  “Memory. Such a fickle thing. It does like to flee when it is not well tended.” The weasel snickered. “You remember my name, at least. You just uttered it.”

  Aughere. He thought. “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Well…I don’t want to bother you when there is so much fun to be had on the horizon. I’ll leave you with your peace. But call me if you ever feel a need for better company. Or a simple service.”

  “Aughere zente.” Lance breathed.

  “Oh, not that’s not very nice.” The weasel disappeared, along with the gray cloud it had been riding.