I was walking through the dark woods. Branches crunched under my feet as I heard crows cawing in the distance. They were telling me to run away, or maybe they were laughing at me, certain that in moments some terrible monster would pounce at me and swallow me whole. The hairs on my body stood on end as I listened to every noise around me, afraid that a painful and terrible death was only footsteps away.
The boy gaped, eyes wide, at the hall ten times as big as his father’s farm. The ceilings, a shade like the sky at midnight, arched above the boy, stretching on and on into an expanding infinity. The walls were painted with script in languages that bent the boys brain, languages humans should not understand. The air smelled of the comfortable cold, crisp and clean and sharp. The boy took a great inhale, basking in the chill after the sweltering heat of the ancient town. Then, there were the dancers. All around the boy, specters swirled in glittering ballgowns and elaborate, blooming suits.
She is begging to me. She is not the first to beg— tears in her eyes, desperation clawing at her throat— and she is most certainly not the last.