I killed her because the Nightmare infected my emotions and took control of me. But even as I allow this thought in, I know I could have stopped myself. I could have stayed my hand and let her live. But I gave in. I gave in and I paid for it. Though no one else saw me this way, I will always know myself as a murderer.

Murder comes from the heart before it comes from the hands.

“Very good.” Luc sinks into a chair. He seems unnerved. “I expected an object—a cage, maybe. Or a whip. Not a living, breathing, nightbeast. How are you so advanced already, Cain?”

Nothing feels advanced to me. I still feel lost in this world, struggling to understand how its nightmist magic works.

“I wanted to be a Draftsman.”

He nods. “You would have been an excellent one. But now you get to do even more than a Draftsman could—instead of creating one world and pressing Play, you get to create as you go. The more you create, the easier it will get. And then you can get more complex. Your nightbeast was still a bit wavery. Commit to its creation. Don’t hold back your emotions.”

“My anger, you mean.”

“The faster you’re able to channel it into a creation, the less hold it will have on you.” He tosses me a small leather pouch. It plops halfway between us, victim of a weak throw. I cross the space and pick it up. The pouch clinks upon my grabbing it. Coins?

“Go treat yourself to something. A new sword, a nice meal . . .”

“A nice meal,” I say flatly. “It’s not like it affects my real body.”

“But your mind processes taste, hunger, satiation. And because food and drink are very much a part of this world, they will affect your Nightmare form the same as if you were in the Old World.”

I’m not ready to celebrate or revel. I still want answers. I need to find the Spores. But I don’t expect them to let me waltz in and ask a few questions. Not after I killed one of their own and not if they know I’m helping Luc.

I leave Luc’s training and venture into the coliseum proper. I take it in a bit more now that I’m not burning to death or overwhelmed with the New World. It still amazes me that this coliseum has an Arena, yet it’s also a city. I gaze at the broad street that forms its circumference, protected by the high walls with locked gates and bars for windows, opened to the sky.

The road is made of cobblestones. Homes are built into the thick walls on each side. They seem to be for the wealthier citizens of Tenebra. The homes we passed on the outside of the coliseum were all abandoned—part of the original dreamscape design, but not safe enough for anyone to dwell in. Is that where the Spores live?

I see very few children. Those I do see band together and play outside the front of a home in small groups of two or three. The adults without children seem weighed down.

No wonder the citizens attend the Arena every day. It’s the only way to know if their child has been rescued. How many of their kids have the Spores kidnapped? And what are they doing with them?

I find myself scanning the streets for brown hair, which is ridiculous because every other person has brown hair. I can’t pinpoint why, but I think it has something to do with the Real World. My thoughts are muddled. I hate this part of Tenebra. Some things come to mind clearly, and others remain behind a misty veil.

I’m looking for a girl, but somehow I don’t know what she really looks like. Why a girl? Why do I care?

I wander down the street labeled forum and am surprised to find shops carved in between homes and into the thick stone wall. No doors, just arches with little decoration aside from different paint colors—brick red, dusty brown, and other ancient-seeming colors. A few have cloth awnings and curtains tied to the side that would do little to deter a thief. I suppose they don’t need to worry about poor weather or bugs. Unless the Spores make them.

My thoughts screech to a halt. If the Spores have enough control over Tenebra to enter and exit at will, wouldn’t they also have control over the creation? Luc considers them enemies. The girl attacked me in the Arena. But if the Spores are so powerful, why don’t they attack with nightmist? Make it darker. Send mammoth dragons. Why didn’t the Spore girl in the Arena try to kill me with a bow and arrow or giant lion? Why come into the Arena herself?

It doesn’t make sense.

I have too many questions and hardly enough answers. And as much as Luc wants me to stay in the coliseum, make a life for myself, stay alive so I can save Galilei, I have my own life to live while I’m in here. I’m a citizen now. And I’m not confident enough in Plan A—saving Luc’s father.

So I’m making sure there’s a Plan B and Plan C.

Luc can’t stop me. He’s not really going to strip me of my citizenship if I exit without a hall pass from him. I didn’t enter another world simply to be controlled and tamed by its Emperor, no matter how much we can help each other.

I wander down the Macella Quarter—the market quarter as Crixus explained—looking for the exit gate. I’ll walk the whole circumference of this place if I have to. The more my feet walk the stone slab streets and my eyes take in rough wood tied together to form stalls and canvas blowing in a wind gust, the easier it is to see this place as real.

The citizens seem to have embraced the ancient Roman attitude. They dress the part, know the words like macella and taberna, and sell goods to add to the world. Plush cushions for lounging on at a meal, leather goods like sandals, bracers, and belts. Nothing is colorful though. It all kind of blends in with the muted tone of this place.

A few stalls sell uncut cloth with some pre-sewn tunics, which reminds me of my Romanesque clothes waiting for me. My noxior clothing attracts plenty of stares and a few whispers of Icarus.

It’s hard to imagine people giving up their way of life in the Real World, but as I look at the tunics, I realize they likely can’t make much else in this Nightmare without the use of a sewing machine.

Hex Galilei must not have been fond of electricity since he sent us all back into ancient times. But at least we don’t have to eat ancient food. The food stalls smell and look incredible, and people swarm them with their coin purses. Do they not realize that this food doesn’t benefit them? No calories, no energy . . . just useless flavor that is nothing more than a trick to the brain.

Yet they pay for it. They eat it.

Isn’t that every dieter’s dream? Eat whatever you want with no consequences? It’s not like people in the Real World used to eat solely out of necessity—it was more of a culture and an addiction than anything else.

I pass a booth with weapons, some smoking with nightmist and others with shining metal. There are several kris daggers—though they’re not double bladed with metal and nightmist—labeled “Icarus’s Spore Dagger.”

Wait, my dagger? They’ve already made duplicates of what I used to kill the Spore girl?

As I stare, someone actually buys one. Another person points at me and whispers. I don’t like being watched, so I detour to the taberna stall and pick up my Roman clothes. I snort as I look them over and almost hand them back to the stall tender. Impractical sandals with leather straps that tie around my ankles and partway up my calves. There’s a sleeveless, knee-length tunic with a belt and then a long draping robe to wear over it if I really want to look stupid.

I pull on the tunic and tuck the noxior garb into a satchel that slings across my shoulder in case I want to fill it with other imaginary items.

Once I look the part, I breathe easier at the lack of stares. I pass a physician’s stall, where several people sit outside on benches, cradling a wounded limb or propping up a cut foot. Interesting. We can be injured in the Nightmare but also healed? How does that translate to our physical bodies?

A small stall tucked back in the shadows pulls me up short. Counseling. I roll my eyes. People really would do anything to make a buck here. What sort of counseling can help anyone trapped in Tenebra? We all know we’re going to die once our physical bodies run out of food.

Perhaps I stand staring too long because a woman steps quietly from the tent. “Want to come in for a rest?” She wears a long plain dress that brushes against the dirt, belted at the waist with a thick piece of cloth. Her hair is platinum white, shaved on one side and swept behind her ear on the other.

The air from inside the tent smells heavily of incense and something a little more foul. “I can sit on the ground just as well for free.” I’m not about to waste my time with some person who preys on people’s heightened despair emotions.

“We don’t charge you to sit and have a breather.”

“And I don’t believe you’re only offering me a breather.”

She shrugs and pours water from a pitcher into a cup, then holds it out to me.

“What’s the use?” I ask. “It’s not like it’ll actually quench my thirst.”

“It will lessen the thirst you feel while you’re here in the Nightmare.”

She’s the first person I’ve talked to who doesn’t immediately call this place Tenebra. I take the cup and down the liquid, enjoying the sensation of quenching my thirst, even if it is a lie.

Only then do I realize how quiet the Macella has become—one of those odd moments where you feel like everyone has just heard your conversation. I turn to see if there’s a cause. Though nothing seems off, a few people begin murmuring, and everyone’s eyes seem to be searching.

Then a brief whiff of hot tar reaches my nose. I’ve smelled it twice before. In the cart from the Tunnel and in the Arena.

A Spore is here.

The people know it. Almost everyone has stilled. Almost. Two forms move, inch by inch. One is covered head to toe in a thick brown robe. A female, judging by her height and build. She grips the hand of a small girl with braided hair wearing noxior attire.

The little girl I saved from the snake.