The sky in her dream was black and without stars.
No moon, no wind, no horizon—just shifting folds of void and random biomes where her breath made no echo.
In that chaotic realm of unconsciousness, Kivas stood there, wrapped in the familiar weight of her gear, her soul-bound equipment gleaming faintly through the dark.
The shotgun connected to her MP reservoir like a heartbeat. The Driftwool scarf coiled around her throat in weightless stillness. The Crumbling Judgment sat docked on her shoulder, resting in a reinforced sling of instinct and expectation. The mask dulled every thought not necessary to the moment.
Kivas gazed at her dirty hand, soiled. She was alone, she was fatigued, she was devastated.
And the Nightmares began to appear.
First came the half-skeletal wolves, the glass-jawed Voidlings that she and the others had dispatched with ease when the journey began. They came in packs, scrabbling over the malformed terrain of the dreamscape.
