No. Venkat peered through the lone window, which was as translucent as a topaz lover’s tear on this side but opaque golden wall on the other. In contrast to the cramped vault, the vast palace archives beyond buzzed with people: messengers sent by King Vasuki and Queen Naga Yakshi, wealthy patrons impatient to purchase dreams, merchants looking to horn in on the dream trade, would-be suitors and admirers, and scholars combing the stacks for novel ways to strengthen the nagas’ defenses against their ancient enemy, the garudas.

Lord Nayan, a notorious firebrand in his youth, now presided over the archives as their curator and court historian. Nephew to the ferocious, exceedingly poisonous Nagaraja Takshaka, he also held a seat on the royal war council. And he was the only dream broker in all Nagalok.

So of course everyone wanted to get close to him.

That was where Venkat came in. As Nayan’s apprentice, he served as gatekeeper, redirecting and deterring, leaving Nayan free to address his larger duties.

It was a job, Venkat thought, he couldn’t do while waiting here. He didn’t want to give up on Jai, but the archives beckoned.

“So?” a familiar voice demanded, making him jump. “How much?”

He wheeled around to find Jai slouched against the panel in the wall, his impassive, shadow-ringed stare fixed on the fragment in Venkat’s hand. He looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten since his last visit, and his crumpled kurta wore him instead of the other way around.

Relieved that he’d shown up at all, Venkat said gently, “I paid you for this last time.”

Jai scoffed. “Not that one.” He thrust an orange dreamstone vial at Venkat. “This one.”

A new harvest? Curious, Venkat accepted the carnelian vial. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he’d suspected.

He slid the cork out with ease, and the escaping wisps formed a scene in the air, the prelude to a feature film only he could see. Unlike his customers, who fell into them, Venkat observed harvested dreams from the outside.

The dreamer had illustrated her soul mate on a canvas, expertly rendered in oil pastels. But once she set it on her altar, a spell to summon him to her, the pigment peeled off in ribbons until it lay on the floor.

When at last she found him in real life, he didn’t recognize her. Tears dripped down her cheeks, and she threw herself at his feet, intent on convincing him they belonged together. Her raw, naked anguish made Venkat cringe in sympathy, even as he estimated its value. Dreams like this, ripe with naked pining and need, were a naga favorite. Jai had chosen well.