Sleep took him only when exhaustion finally strangled the fear, even in dreams the jungle did not let him rest.

  It came in flashes, images burned into his mind like embers flaring against dying coals: A battlefield, screaming, fire...Chaos so immense it made the air vibrate with it, the deafening thrum of war drums, and howls...human and not.

  Shapes moved in smoke...steel clashed and bodies fell.

  He was in the middle of it running, dodging, heart pounding like a drum in his ears. A moment, sharp and vivid, made it's way into his mind : a man, towering, cloaked in black armor trimmed with gold, radiating power like a second sun. His eyes glowed golden, bright as molten metal, burning with knowledge, authority… and grief.

  The man grabbed him by the shoulders.

  His mouth moved, words came out, urgent but the dream blurred the meaning, smothered the sound.

  Then, suddenly, clarity:

  “There are more of them than we feared, the tether...and its master are stronger than we believed.”

  “The army is surrounded, torn apart by beasts and the forest itself, vines, roots, creatures, they strike from every shadow.”

  “They can’t reach the source it’s buried too deep, guarded too well.”

  “You must take a small team and try to make it past the hordes, find the source and break the Tether or we’ll be forced to retreat”

  A massive shape crashed into the ground nearby, throwing up a cloud of dust, feathers, and broken earth, it was a creature, part wolf, part owl its broad wings twisted beneath its body, black-fletched arrows jutting from its side. The deep green light in its eyes flickered once… then died. Around him, the world was noise and panic, shouting, steel clashing, beasts screaming through the trees, than black.

  The next thing he saw was himself, with four soldiers trailing behind him at the forest line. Then black. Another flash, and he was deep in the forest only one soldier remained: a female archer. He had the faint feeling he knew her, though his memory wavered...the others must have fallen, sacrificing themselves to push them closer to their goal. Growls echoed all around. They had to find the druid or the tether that provided life to this part of the forest...and finish this quickly.

  Black again.

  He was alone now, but he could hear fighting far behind him, she was still alive, buying him the time needed. The forest thickened ahead, but a strange crimson glow shimmered in the distance, he took a few quiet steps and saw the druid, channeling the power of the forest from an ancient tree into his own corrupted soul, controlling the battle. The druid was surely protected by traps and chants; it would have been too easy to simply plunge a sword into his back...even then, that was no guarantee of death. Druids were powerful shapeshifters, and this one, in particular, seemed even more formidable. So he held his ground, no need to advance. He had a weapon for this exact moment: an enchanted crystal, forged by the army’s artisans that had a very useful ability, it would explode upon contact with any magic releasing it into te wild.

  He tied the crystal to an arrow and aimed at the druid...a moment of tension, then the arrow flew. The druid, however, was faster and dodged. The arrow missed its intended target by a hair’s breadth but struck the ancient tree instead. A large part of its magic was immediately dispersed and a huge explosion erupted in a blinding flash …

  He blinked and then...everything changed.

  The forest and the sounds of the battle vanished. In its place, green mist, thick and wet, curling around his legs like serpents...it swallowed the ground and the sky, sound fell away even the pounding of his own pulse was gone, he knew this was just a dream but he felt more focused now, more conscious, as if the veil between thought and instinct had thinned.

  It was as if the jungle had seeped into his dream, bleeding through the cracks of his mind, taking over quietly, completely.

  He moved forward through shallow water, ankle-deep and cold as ice that rippled with every step there was only fog and silence...Then, in the distance, a glow.

  A small candle flickered atop a tall iron stand.

  Next to it, a figure hunched over an open tome placed on a stone table, robed, hooded and motionless...he felt a chill cutting to his bones and something in his gut clenched. Even in the dream, he felt it, this was wrong.

  But still, he walked forward slowly eyes locked and muscles tense.

  The figure didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as if not alive.

  When he was only a few paces away he stopped, thinking, then he forced the word from his mouth, dry and shaking:

  “...Hello?”

  No response.

  No twitch. No breath. No acknowledgement. It was like speaking to a statue carved from old shadow.

  He let himself breathe, just a little...maybe it was just a vision, a fragment, not a threat.

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  He glanced away, studied the ground, the candle and the strange pages of the book glowing faintly under the flame’s light the runes etched into the parchment were foreign sharp, angular, some curling like hooks, others rigid as blades. He didn’t recognize the language, couldn’t even guess at its origin but the book looked old...very old.

  Its leather cover was cracked and blackened with age, the corners frayed, the spine warped from time and use.

  Whatever it was, it had been carried far and kept close, not meant for him.

  That much, he could feel.

  The robed figure still didn’t move so he allowed himself a breath for a second to inspect the surroundings.

  Then...The candle flickered.

  And a voice slid out like a knife drawn from ice.

  “How is it that you are here…”

  “And in such good shape, too…”

  “Who are you to disturb my dreams, stranger?”

  He took a step back, instincts screaming beneath the fog of the dream, the figure stood utterly still.

  Finally, he found the will to speak, voice low but steady.

  “I have no name to give… not at this moment and I don’t know where here is.”

  The figure remained silent for a second then, a sound...a laugh.

  Not a human one, not joyous or amused, it scraped at the air like bone dragged across glass and froze him in place.

  Slowly, the hooded figure moved, old bones creaked in protest, the sound sharp and dry as he forced himself upright, like branches snapping in winter frost.

  The soldier instinct was screaming at him to try to move, to turn, to run but something deeper than fear locked his body and limbs like they were bound by invisible cords.

  “I see…” the voice said, almost with amusement.

  “You are but a piece… scattered by the wind, with perhaps a shine of something...more.”

  The robed arm lifted reveling a hand, pale and skeletal that emerged from the sleeve.

  Five rings adorned it, glowing faintly in the mist.

  He couldn’t see them all but two caught his eye, clearer than the rest.

  One: gold, with the figure of a griffin roaring out from its face.

  The other: jade green, etched with the sinuous form of a serpent, his serpent, the same that was painted on his armor’s breast...the shock didn’t have time to settle.

  The robed one spoke again:

  "Come, let me take a closer look...

  Then I will know better.

  Perhaps there is indeed something more to you if your survival here is any indication.

  And perhaps, just perhaps, I can give you the answers you so desperately seek."

  Tempting...Almost.

  But that voice…cold and wet like a serpent curling around his spine made every nerve in his body scream: NO.

  He took a cautious step back, eyes still locked on the figure.

  “Thank you,” he said, though his voice betrayed hints of fear. “What should I call you?”

  “Oh... you can call me[....]”

  The words were there, spoken clearly, yet he couldn’t understand them.

  They slipped past meaning, as if the dream itself refused to acknowledge them or refused to let him remember.

  He took another step back, and then another.

  “Oh… where are you going?” the voice slithered.

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  Of course he did, but not this way, not through whatever this creature was.

  Another step.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  The atmosphere turned cold biting, like a wind from deep beneath the earth.

  The hooded figure tilted its head slightly, and its voice came in a hiss, sharp as broken glass:“What can someone like you hope to achieve in this place, when you don’t even know your roots”...a pause. “The jungle will have you… or he will.”

  And then the figure leapt.

  Not like a man, not even like a beast but something wrong, faster than it should be, hungrier than it had any right to be, like ink spilled upon water, he dissolved into the waiting dark.

  The soldier turned and ran every muscle suddenly unlocked, lungs burning, legs pounding across the shifting impossible dreamscape.

  A growl followed, not from a throat but from behind reality itself, guttural and impossible, but somewhere in the distance he saw it.

  Fire.

  Small, flickering, his own campfire.

  He sprinted for it, every step a prayer, the jungle blurring around him, the growl rose to a scream behind him, the world splitting at the seams, and just before the darkness could close its jaws...

  He woke, gasping.

  Rain dripped steadily on the shelter above, tapping like a thousand fingernails.

  His body was soaked in cold sweat, though the shelter had kept the rain at bay.

  The fire, small and weak, but real, crackled beside him, just as it had in the dream.

  His heart thundered in his chest.

  The jungle around him was still.

  But he no longer believed it was empty.