“Seeker,” he said, keeping his voice low. She gave no sign of having heard, continuing to utter her whispered pleading, her gaze locked on something in the void ahead. Pilgrim squinted as he drew near, at first seeing nothing but then making out a shape in the air. It was formed of various hues of grey but was not insubstantial like the shades that plagued the Whispering Sands. This was as solid as a living soul could be, a girl of perhaps ten years clad in rags that barely covered her skin. She stared at Seeker with her small face set in a frown of hard accusation. Also, Pilgrim saw as he looked closer, although she stood as if on firm ground, there was only air beneath her bare feet.

“Please…” Seeker said, arms moving in a beckoning gesture. The girl’s frown deepened and she made no move to come closer.

“What is this thing?” Pilgrim asked the voice.

It paused before answering, its tone one of cautious bemusement. Dream wraith. Our barbarian friend must have had a troubled sleep. Wraiths don’t require names to snare their prey, just a wayward dream will do. I must say, my liege, I do wonder why you care so. It’ll lure this one to her death and feast on her despair at the moment of expiry. One less prayer for the Mad God to choose from and you remain blameless in the eyes of our fellow pilgrims.

“Please…” Seeker repeated, rising to her feet and shuffling towards the edge of the walkway, arms outstretched. “I’m sorry…”

“How do I vanquish it?” Pilgrim demanded, reaching to grip the sword’s handle.

Not with me, it replied. It has her on its lure now. Only she can break it. The Mad God must truly have hated his worshippers so, to unleash such horrors upon them.

Watching Seeker’s foot come within an inch of the edge, Pilgrim reached for her arm. “There is nothing…” he began, then reared back as she whirled, her scimitar hissing from its sheath.

“Don’t touch me!” she snarled, lowering herself into a fighting crouch. “You will not keep me from her!” Chena let out a confused growl, shuffling closer to her mistress and whining in plaintive inquisition.

“There is nothing there!” Pilgrim jabbed a finger at the scowling little girl. “This is merely a phantom plucked from your memory.”

“Liar!” She lunged, the scimitar slicing the air an inch from his head. “She is what I came for. The Absolved has already answered my prayer. My daughter is returned. You would stop me to ensure your own prayer is heard. It chooses only one.”

“To pray you must stand before him at the Crescent.” Pilgrim kept his tone one of calm insistence, hands raised and open. “You know this. And you know that ,” he jerked his head at the wraith, “is not your daughter.”