Lennox paused to glance over his shoulder. “She is the key to breaking this dream. Don’t you see it?”

Phelan gazed at Clem. His eyes were dark and filled with longing, and I wondered what thoughts ravaged him as he looked at my phantom.

Clem was silent and pale, rooted to the bloody floor like a statue. The sight of her stillness made me nervous, and I took a step deeper into the dream.

“This is not her, you know,” Lennox taunted, sensing his brother’s attachment, and prepared to pierce Clem’s chest with the tip of his rapier.

“Wait, Lee!” Phelan struggled through the crowd, who began to turn on him. The peaceful guise of the ballroom shattered, and Phelan had no choice but to divert his attention to defend himself.

My father stepped forward, entering the fray. I watched him strike down one of the countess’s victims with a beam of light. He cut the Duke of Seren in half, unrepentant, and Isidore gasped, melting into smoke.

The countess must have been waiting for her brother to be conquered, for she interfered at last, her face flushed from the mortification of watching her dream on display. She ignored the phantom of herself and the teeming violence, and withdrew the dagger from her belt.

“Kill her,” she ordered Lennox, nodding at Clem.

My eyes drifted back to Clem, and my body coiled with energy, preparing to impede the countess should the dream break. I watched this phantom of myself, who continued to stand, docile and gentle, and I wondered if I would go down quietly, if I would do nothing while Lennox attacked me.

Lennox drew back his sword, preparing to strike Clem.

And she waited until he had begun his forward thrust, the rapier glinting in the light. She moved her hand in a terribly familiar way, a movement I had performed many times, and her magic caught the blade before it could pierce her breast. The rapier submitted to her, bending back on itself to sting its wielder, and Lennox went wide-eyed in shock, emitting a scream as his own blade punctured his shoulder.

How pleased I was in that moment.

I stood in the shadows and watched with satisfaction as Clem flicked her fingers and hurled Lennox back. He landed on the floor with a groan, his rapier still lodged in his shoulder, and he mewled in pain, blood soaking his clothes.

The countess turned bug-eyed, glancing between her son and Clem.

“Phelan!” she cried, shrill. “Come and finish this.”

Phelan’s clothes were shredded. There was blood splattered across his waistcoat and hands, although I didn’t believe it was his. His hair was tousled, dark threads of it framing his face. He stopped fighting, and I could tell he was weary by his shoulders, how they curved inward. His old wounds must be hurting him.

“Come here,” the countess said, sharper, and he obeyed.