"Seven months."
That was the first thing Dax said as we sat across from one another. His tone was sharp, measured, his eyes unyielding. "That is the amount of time you have left until the winter solstice. A generous amount, all things considered."
I didn't answer. Plates of food sat untouched before me, but I couldn't bring myself to taste any of it. We were alone, tucked away in one of the clan's private chambers meant for hushed conversations and secrets. My head rested against the back of the chair, a towel draped over my eyes. It didn't silence the flood of information rushing into me, but it narrowed it to a single stream—manageable enough to think.
Dax continued. "With such little time, we must be selective. There are things you will need to learn before entering the Dream Realm. I can prepare you—but I need to know more of your aspect. Share only what you must. Whatever you tell me, it stays between us. My loyalty is to the Immortal Flame clan. You can be assured that nothing will leave this room."
He said it like a vow, and I believed him. Still, secrecy was survival. I chose my words carefully.
"My aspect mirrors my father's," I said at last.
"As his was tied to perception, so is mine. My eyes perceive truths and their connections. Muscle movement, breathing patterns, intention. I can see the flow of battle and the inner workings of the world. How things work—like the making of a communicator. The hidden logic in what others cannot grasp."
Dax froze for a moment. His expression betrayed surprise, though he recovered quickly. "Similar to Broken Sword's… then your capacity will far exceed the norm. You'll learn faster than most. More can be crammed into your training." A rare smile tugged at his mouth.
"But your body lags behind," he went on. "You're small. A sword will be too heavy for you. You'll start with daggers and other short, light weapons that suit your frame. Insight and reaction will be your specialties."
I lowered the towel from my eyes and met his gaze. Ruby light reflected in the dim chamber, the gift and curse of my aspect. "How many soul shards are accessible to us? You told me the more a Sleeper saturates their core, the more strength they gain."
The question broke the brief warmth in his expression. "Few," he admitted. "The clan relied heavily on your father. After his passing, resources have thinned. We're selling what we have left to keep afloat. Soul shards are… scarce."
I felt no disappointment, only calculation. "Then what must I train to survive?"
Dax leaned forward, his voice shifting into command. "The first month and a half, you'll study geography of the Dream Realm. Your body, mind, and soul will be conditioned for wilderness survival. After that, weapons training. If you progress fast enough, you'll enter the academy—to gain battle experience, to measure yourself against others." A wolfish smirk stretched across his lips. "The Dream Realm may not be what kills you. If you slack, I'll hasten the process myself."
I knew it for the bluff it was, but it lit something within me nonetheless.
***
His lessons came hard and fast. At dawn, he buried me under theory: the shifting landscapes of the Dream Realm, the rules of nightmare creatures, the subtle ways one could starve or freeze without ever lifting a blade. He would drill me with questions until my throat ached from answers.
"What kills most Sleepers?" he asked one morning as I struggled to catch my breath.
"The environment," I replied.
His voice snapped back like a whip. "Then how do you plan to survive the first week in a desert? Or an endless sea? Or on a mountain peak where the air itself wants you dead? Where will you sleep, boy, when every shadow hunts you? Who will guard your back?"
My silence was the only answer. And Dax made sure I knew silence equaled death.
***
When the lessons of the mind ended, the blade began.
He handed me two short daggers, their hilts plain, their edges sharp. "Come at me as though to kill. If you don't, you'll never stand a chance." His expression was serious and unyielding.
The clash was pitifully one-sided. His strikes came too fast, his defense was flawless. Each time I lunged, his blade knocked mine away. Each time I tried to hold my ground, his sword struck across my stomach or shoulder with painful precision.
"Keep your shoulders high!" he barked, the flat of his blade smacking me hard enough to sting. "Wrong stance. If your opponent is stronger, why are you trying to win? Survive. Flee. Live to strike another day!"
At times my eyes would flicker with clarity, glimpsing a fraction of his movements before they came, whispering where his blow would land. Once, I even aimed at his throat, certain of my strike—only for his sword to intercept me with ease. "Perceive all you want," Dax growled. "If you can't react ahead of time, you'll lose those precious eyes before you learn their worth."
***
Days blurred into weeks. My eyes grew sharper, their whispers louder. Every shift of Dax's body unfolded to me in truth—muscle, tendon, intention. The world slowed when I willed it, his movements dragged through water. I saw the truth of each form, each technique, every fragment of violence he carried.
And Dax, for all his sternness, acknowledged it.
"You're grasping the essence of combat itself," he told me after one gruelling spar. "Kill or be killed. Someone always dies. You see that truth. That is why you learn faster than others. Your eyes do not simply memorize—they engrave. In days, you master what takes others years. But make no mistake—if you get cocky, if you ever let down your guard, all that mastery will mean nothing."
But mastery was not enough. Not yet. Because seven months would pass faster than I wished, and when the solstice came, I would step into the Dream Realm.
And there, I would remain until I found a gateway.