Dreams and Consequences

In the days following their return from the Litwick Market, life at the Carnival resumed its rhythm. The strongman bent iron into loops, children chased fireflies near the sugar-dust stalls, vendors called to passersby with candied fruit and clockwork trinkets, while jugglers practiced in quiet corners, their pins clicking like distant rain.

Resting in the communal tent, Raven healed by inches, his voice hoarse but steady, and Bex—sharp-tongued as ever—kept a near-constant watch at his side, her presence bristling with a fierce devotion no one questioned.

And beneath that peace, Rainer kept his watch. He patrolled and he prayed, and when the shadows grew long and the music drifted soft through the tents, he danced. Not with the flair of a showman, but with quiet determination—steps practiced beneath Silessa’s watchful eye, movements shaped by memory and hope, each one a whispered promise to the girl with wings.

Then one night, when the moon hung pale and hollow as a memory, Rainer slept uneasily.

His bedroll rustled with each shift of his broad shoulders, and the breath that passed his scaled lips carried the weight of things unresolved and lingering dread. 

Then the shadows deepened.

Dreams do not always begin with logic. This one began with heat.

He stood barefoot in a hall of obsidian glass, every surface reflecting firelight from braziers that floated in the air like watchful eyes. The scent of brimstone clung to the air, too sweet, too sharp. He could hear chains, distant but constant, moving with the slow rhythm of a beast breathing in its sleep.

A woman waited at the end of the hall.

No — not a woman. Something far older. Far crueler.

Glasya.

Daughter of Asmodeus. Lady of the Sixth. Queen of Malbolge.

She reclined on a throne made from mirrors and broken vows, her silhouette veiled in smoke. Her horns curved like a sculptor’s ambition. Her smile could carve kingdoms into ash. Her eyes — bright with amusement and venom — pinned him in place the moment he arrived.

“You prayed,” she said, in a voice of molten silk.

Rainer stood tall despite the weight pressing down on his chest. “It wasn’t for you.”

“No,” she agreed. “That’s what makes it so interesting.”

She rose, barefoot on the obsidian, every step deliberate. Her presence distorted the dreamscape like heat over desert stone. “You dared speak her name. My little pet. My Zybeksiya.”

Rainer didn’t flinch. “She’s more than a punishment.”

“Oh, darling.” Glasya’s smile widened. “She was the punishment. You saw that much. But what makes you think your truth was yours to offer?”

He said nothing.

“You bled it so sweetly,” she continued, circling him now. “A priest’s truth. A holy man’s confession. You named her. You freed her. A single prayer — and a chain snapped.” She leaned in close, breath warm with rot and roses. “But chains are funny things. Break one link, and the weight has to go somewhere.”

She snapped her fingers.

The air split.

Rainer turned — and saw Bex, bound in chains of gold and black iron, suspended like a marionette. Her eyes were wide. Fearful. And for once, not defiant.

Glasya sauntered closer to her creation. “Do you know why I turned her into this?” she asked, tracing a clawed finger along one of the chains. “Because she defied me. Loved where she shouldn’t. Fought when she should have obeyed. So I made her small. Powerless. Ugly.” Her voice curdled with contempt. “And now, because you gave her a name, she begins to believe she’s free.”

Rainer stepped forward. “She is.”

Glasya’s eyes flared. “Not yet.”

She turned toward him again, slower this time. “But you’ve amused me, priest. I like priests who sin in silence and speak in fire. So I’ll offer a gift.”

Her hand cupped under his chin, cold and burning at once. “She will rise, in time. But every step she takes toward herself, you will pay. A piece at a time. Your conviction. Your certainty. Your  loyalty. Bit by bit, broken off and replaced with doubt.”

He clenched his jaw. “Then I’ll pay.”

“You already are,” she whispered, voice suddenly gentle and monstrous all at once. “That’s what the fey meant. ‘Truth is costly, priest.’ And you — sweet, shining, scaled thing — are deep in debt.”

The world cracked around him like glass dropped onto stone. The obsidian floor shattered. The flames screamed. The throne crumbled into screaming mouths.

And Glasya smiled through it all, untouched by the ruin. “When you fall, Rainer,” she purred, “it won’t be the devils or the fey who break you. It will be her.”

Then she was gone.

Rainer awoke — gasping, drenched in sweat, the echo of chains still ringing in his ears.

Across the tent, Bex slept curled by Raven’s side. A faint shimmer of infernal light pulsed in her chest, visible only for a moment, like something long dormant beginning to stir.

Rainer didn’t sleep again that night.

And outside, the Carnival whispered.