Power sang and sparked in every cell of his body. The only time he’d ever felt anything even close to the sensations singing through him was when Garuda had him construct the individual sections of the revisioning, but that had only been a crude approximation of this, a thumbnail sketch of what had been honed into brilliance so keen it could cut. No wonder Garuda had hidden the truth from him.

He was inside a prism, with every conceivable hue reflected at him in every possible image. He could smell every aroma, taste every flavor that was or would ever be. He heard every sound, horrific and honeyed both. He felt every texture from rough to soft to slimy and beyond. He swam among all those qualities while also holding them in his hand. He was the dreamsmith, and they were his tools.

Time itself had condensed into shining threads of gold and silver and copper, and Venkat could see how they all wove together. Sometimes they tangled; other times they cut off, but always the cosmic tapestry continued. Not even the knife from the Night Market could sever these threads.

His little tapestry was a trifle compared to that.

The tapestry. Garuda as Nayan might have guided him, but this tapestry was Venkat’s work. Proud as he was of it, he hadn’t forgotten the cost: the poor human children who’d been taken from their world and made into vessels. No matter how much Venkat might miss his family, no matter how much he wanted to have them again, he couldn’t pay that price. Anything bought in purloined youth and burnout could only ever be tainted, no matter how well intentioned.

Some dreams were meant to be pursued, and others were mere mirages. A dreamsmith had to know the difference.

He hunted through the uncountable threads, searching for his mother. His father. His brother and his grandparents.

They manifested before him, their beloved faces alight with compassion. He hugged each of them hard. Even if they were nothing more than dream figments, they felt so real.

“I’m sorry,” he told them, his eyes welling with all the tears he’d stored up. “I wanted to bring you back. But I can’t.”

His grandmother clicked her tongue. “What a horrible business,” she exclaimed. “Don’t you even consider it, my little one. Look forward, not back. You have so much yet to do in this life.”

“Nothing ever ends, only changes shape,” his grandfather reminded him. He began to glitter, and the others emulated him, until they had become distant comets trailing across the universe.

Then they dissipated, as soft and evanescent as dream wisps. Venkat knew that, imaginary or not, he’d never see them again.