The King of the Ratel looks at his past selves in fear. I take the threads of the dream in my mind. I have no idea what I’m doing. I am only instinct, a result of Mana-ma’s training.

The knife appears in my hand again, cold and reassuring, but I no longer need it. I send the three simulacra toward Ensi. He backs away, pressing against the chapel wall. He’s gone gray, beads of sweat on his forehead. He glances at me, then away, as if he can’t stand to meet my eyes. He’s not the leader of the Ratel, the man who’s tortured many men and women to death, been responsible for many more. He slides down the wall, landing hard. He’s a frightened man, a broken man, huddled with his arms around his knees, completely unable to face himself.

The three versions of him open their mouths wide. Red light pours from their throats, and then the same green muck emerges. Ensi closes his eyes, scrabbling for his own threads of lucid dreaming. Some of the muck pushes away, but I redouble my efforts.

The child, the Brother, and the King wrap their arms around the true Ensi. The green liquid covers them all, until it forms a perfect sphere. Another bubble of memory, sealing the King of the Ratel within.

The chapel ceases shaking. The lightning fades.

I go to Nazarin. He’s awoken, and watched the whole thing.

“What do we do now?” I ask. “How do we leave?”

“You do it,” Nazarin says. He sits up slowly, coughing. One eye has swollen shut.

“Yes.” I gather the remnants of the shattered dream around us. I press my forehead against his. “Wake up.”

*   *   *

I open my eyes, and then close them immediately against the brightness. Everything hurts. My entire body feels as though it’s been charred. I wheeze, my tired lungs struggling to take in oxygen.

“Nazarin?” I croak.

“Taema.”

I almost cry in relief.

“Is this real?” I’m so afraid that we haven’t escaped. That we’ve been launched into another memory, another subset of Ensi’s mind. I open my eyes again, ignoring the pain of the light.

We’re in the room Ensi took us to after he captured us on the pier. I’m strapped into the Chair, the bindings pressed tight against my arms, my torso, my forehead.

I hear rustling and just manage to turn my head. Nazarin pulls himself upright, struggling from his bonds. He rips the electrodes from his skin. The mechanical sound of his heartbeat on the monitor flatlines. Mine still beeps, steady despite the lingering fear.

I turn my head in the other direction. Ensi is strapped into his own Chair. His body is still alive, but the line on the monitor showing his brain function barely moves at all.

I did that.