"It's been twitching," Magister Orion announces, his swirling blue-black eyes darkening with concern. "Small movements at first, but increasing in frequency. Whatever slumber holding it may be wearing thin."
Eleanor scribbles frantically in her journal from her spot in the corner, her glasses sliding down her nose. She hasn't stopped taking notes since we allowed her to observe our magical discussion about the dream-eater.
"Can we reinforce the current restraints?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the heaviness settling in my chest. One more crisis. Always one more.
Before he can answer, the tent flap whips open. Lisa strides in, and I nearly drop the pen I'm holding.
She's... different. Transformed, almost. Her usual (of late) nervous energy has been replaced by something steady and almost comfortable. But what really catches my attention is her neck—covered in a constellation of purple-red marks no scarf could possibly hide.
Well. That explains a lot.
