For as long as he could remember, Solaire had lived on synthpaste and ration packs—government-issued slop meant to keep you alive, not satisfied. Taste was a myth, and flavor was something the elders spoke of like it was magic.
But today was different.
He stood in front of a faded kiosk wedged between two collapsed buildings. Somehow, it still had power. Behind the smudged glass, a vendor leaned forward, his eyes dull but alert.
Solaire pointed. "The bread."
The man spoke. "That'll cost you extra."
Solaire dropped an entire bag of ration chips onto the counter. It clicked softly.
A minute later, he sat on a cracked bench just across the street from the police station. In his lap, a small wax-paper-wrapped loaf of real bread—and two golden packets. Honey. Butter.
He opened the packets with care. The butter spread unevenly; the honey dripped slow and warm over the crust. He took a breath, then a bite.
His eyes widened.
"…So this is what good food tastes like."
It was rich. Sweet. Soft. Complex. A thousand flavors he couldn't name—only feel.
He chewed slowly, relishing and letting the texture and warmth melt into his tongue. It took him minutes to finish. The last bite stayed on his palate like a fading dream.
He folded the wrapper neatly, placed it in the waste bin beside the bench, and crossed the street.
The police station loomed like a bunker. Reinforced walls. Surveillance eyes tracking every move. Turrets recessed into the ceiling. Paranoia turned into architecture.
Inside, a pot-bellied officer sat behind a thick desk, arms crossed, mouth pulled into a permanent sneer. His uniform looked like it hadn't been ironed in a month.
As Solaire stepped in, the man squinted at him, unimpressed.
"What do you want, kid?" he said without moving.
Solaire glanced around. Cameras. Steel plating. Emergency seal mechanisms. The kind of place built not just to protect, but to contain.
"I said speak up," the officer barked. "You lost or something?"
Solaire stepped forward and spoke clearly.
"As required by the Third Special Directive, I'm here to surrender myself. I'm a confirmed carrier of the Nightmare Spell."
For a heartbeat, the air in the room shifted.
The officer sat up straight, the sneer falling off his face. "When did the symptoms start?"
Solaire rubbed the back of his neck. "About a week ago."
"Shit."
The man slammed a red button on the panel beside him. Lights flashed red. Sirens blared.
He was strapped down within minutes.
The chamber was below the station, behind blast-proof doors and thick security seals. A single bed sat in the center of the room, restraints locking his arms and legs. A wide glass wall faced the chamber, behind which shadows moved—observers, or guards, or both.
The bed was too soft. Too warm. It made it harder to stay awake.
A voice came through the speaker.
"What's your name kid?"
Blinking slowly he answered. "Solaire."
He shifted, trying to stay conscious. His eyes were getting heavy.
Through the static, the voice came again. "Tell me. What do you know about the nightmare spell?"
Solaire turned his head slowly toward the glass window.
"Don't you just go to some mystical realm... kill a few beasts… and come back with mind-boggling powers?"
The containment door hissed as it slid open.
A tall man stepped inside, dressed in dark reinforced gear—sleek, weathered, and very much used. He moved with the ease of someone who had survived more than a few nightmares himself.
He pulled a chair close and sat beside the bed, looking at Solaire without expression.
"My name's Lautrec," he said. "I'm an Awakened."
He rested his elbows on his knees and sighed.
"Let's get one thing clear, kid—you're not here to be cured. You're already infected. This room is just to keep the rest of the world safe in case you lose."
He glanced up at the blinking monitors overhead, then back down at Solaire.
"You're lucky you walked in yourself. Most carriers don't. They lose control and end up turning their entire neighborhood into a slaughterhouse. You made it here on foot, lucid—so you've got a shot."
He leaned back slightly, letting his words sink in.
"You don't have much time. The spell's already rooted in your mind. The moment you fall asleep, it's going to drag you under—whether you're ready or not."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking for a second, then continued.
"Inside the Nightmare, you'll face trials. The spell crafts them—completely on its own. It doesn't pull from your past or your emotions. These aren't your memories. They're constructs. Independent. Designed with purpose."
"You'll see monsters, sure. But more often than not, you'll see people. Voices. Scenarios that feel real. And you have to remember—they're not. None of it is. The entire thing is a hallucination created by the spell to test you."
He sat up straighter, voice low but sharp.
"Usually, your first Nightmare is manageable. The spell gives you something within reach. There'll be tools nearby—blades, firearms, improvised weapons—whatever fits your instincts. Your target, your 'trial,' will usually be within sight."
"But don't mistake that for mercy. If you die in there, you don't just vanish. The spell can rupture—tear a gate open right here in this room. And if that happens, I'll be the one to put a blade through your skull before something worse crawls out behind you."
Lautrec stood up, adjusting the strap across his shoulder.
"So make it out. Survive. I don't care how. You're from the outskirts, right? You've had to fight for every scrap, every breath. That's more preparation than most."
He turned toward the door.
"Prove it."
With that, Solaire slipped into a deep slumber.
Everything turned black and a faint voice rang:
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]