The water was a sheet of black glass, reflecting nothing but the suffocating darkness of a starless sky.
Solace sat alone in a small wooden rowboat. The only source of light was a single, flickering lantern hanging from a rusted iron arch at the bow, casting long, swaying shadows across the water. The silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, hollow splash of his oars.
He wasn't empty-handed. Resting in the center of the boat, taking up almost all the available space, was a heavy, solid yellow coffin.
Solace didn't know who or what was inside it. He only knew, with the unquestioning certainty that it was his absolute duty to deliver it. The weight of the coffin seemed to press down not just on the wooden planks of the boat, but on his very soul. It was a burden he had carried for what felt like an eternity.
Out of the endless, still ink of the ocean, a shape began to form.
It was a rocky islet, rising abruptly from the dark water like a monument to silence. The island was dominated by a dense, suffocating grove of tall, dark cypress trees—the ancient sentinels of mourning and cemeteries. They stood clustered together, surrounded by steep, precipitous cliffs of pale stone that offered no quarter.
As Solace rowed closer, the center of the island revealed a rough horseshoe shape, creating a natural, shadowed harbor for a small boat. Carved directly into the sheer rock faces were dark, rectangular openings, sepulchral portals, and windowless tombs, staring blankly out at the sea. The entire place felt impossibly remote, an otherworldly sanctuary completely inaccessible to the living. It was the physical embodiment of death itself.
Solace pulled on the oars, his muscles screaming. He needed to reach the harbor. He needed to deliver the yellow coffin.
But no matter how hard he pulled, the island remained distant. The dark water seemed to stretch, expanding the space between his boat and the rocky shore. He rowed until his palms blistered and bled, until his lungs burned, panic rising in his throat as the heavy yellow coffin threatened to sink the small vessel entirely. He was stuck in a purgatory of effort, forever reaching for a shore that pushed him away.
And then a blinding, silent flash of white.
The world shattered and instantly reformed.
Solace was no longer in the boat. He was lying on his back on the cold, hard stones of the island's shore. The smell of ancient dust and cypress needles filled the air.
He sat up slowly, looking out at the water. The small rowboat was smashed into a dozen splintered pieces against the rocks.
He frantically searched for his cargo. The yellow coffin. It was gone. Instead, beside him were two things: one was an old book, whose cover had a picture of a king holding his sword, and he wore a simple yet beautiful crown. He had a red halo above his head that contained three stars shimmering. All these things were painted in bright yellow.
The second thing beside him was a small black spider.
The harbor was empty. The sepulchral portals were silent. The delivery was complete.
Solace fell to his knees on the rocky shore. He expected to feel dread, or the hollow ache of loss, but instead, a profound, overwhelming wave of warmth washed over him. The crushing weight that had been compressing his chest simply evaporated.
Tears began to well in his eyes, spilling over his lashes and tracking down his face. They were not tears of sadness. They were tears of absolute peace. Of pure, unadulterated accomplishment. The dream was over.
Solace gasped, his eyes flying open.
The dark cypress trees and the black ocean vanished, replaced instantly by the sterile white ceiling of the Theron Academy medical ward. The silence of the dream was replaced by the low, steady hum of essence-monitors and the faint scent of antiseptic herbs.
It was late at night. Only a sliver of pale moonlight filtered through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the room.
Instantly, the reality of his physical body crashed into him. His right hand throbbed with a dull, sickening ache, wrapped heavily in bandages. His ribs felt like they were made of cracked glass, making every shallow breath a chore.
He shifted slightly, and a sudden movement beside him made his heart spike with residual panic.
"Careful," a voice rasped.
Solace flinched, his head snapping to the side. Sitting in a chair pulled close to his bed was Phoebe Frostbane. She looked almost as battered as he felt, her arm in a sling and a faint bruise coloring her pale cheek from their match earlier that day. She had clearly fallen asleep in the uncomfortable chair, her head jerking up the moment Solace gasped.
For a second, Solace's mind scrambled, caught halfway between the Isle of the Dead and the hospital room. He panicked, his breath catching as he tried to push himself up on his good elbow. "W-where... the match... Michael..."
"It's over," Phoebe said quickly, her icy demeanor softened by exhaustion. She leaned forward, pressing a cool hand against his uninjured shoulder to keep him from sitting up. "You won, Solace. You're in the top five. Michael is in a coma two doors down."
Solace stopped fighting. He let his head fall back against the pillow, the monitors beside him slowing their frantic beeping.
Phoebe watched him in the dim light, her brow furrowing slightly. She tilted her head, her sharp, perceptive eyes locking onto his face.
"Are you in pain?" she asked bluntly. "Should I get the healer?"
"No," Solace croaked, his throat dry as sandpaper. "No, I'm... I'm okay."
"Then why are you crying?"
Solace blinked, thoroughly confused. Crying? He wasn't crying. The pain was bad, but he had endured worse just hours ago.
He slowly raised his left hand, the one that wasn't wrapped in thick gauze, and brought trembling fingers to his face.
His cheeks were entirely wet. He touched the corner of his eye and felt the distinct, warm trail of a teardrop slipping down his skin. The tears from the dream had followed him into the waking world.
He stared at the moisture on his fingertips in the moonlight, the profound sense of accomplishment from the rocky shore still glowing faintly in his chest.