“So what do I do while I’m in Tenebra? Buy some land? Build a house?” Already I miss my truck and tiny house. Whatever I build here will likely be carefully controlled since the dreamscape is only so big. I doubt they’ll let me build anything on wheels.
“You don’t build. Not with your talent.”
“Talent?”
“With nightmist . . . you create.” He gestures to my kris dagger.
“So far I’ve made wings that disappear after a few seconds, a half-constructed spear, a dagger, and a chain rope. You think nightmist can make a house?”
Luc spreads his arms. “How do you think this coliseum was built?”
I look at the stone and only now realize what my mind has been neglecting. Nothing in Tenebra is actually tangible except in our minds. The foundation had been laid by the Draftsman who created the original virus, yet Luc figured out the loopholes of this ever-growing and ever-spreading virus. Nightmist and nightbeasts are all new. All created by the mind.
If he was able to figure out how to create when he’s not the Draftsman, then I can too. “If this coliseum was made by someone’s mind, what happens if that person dies?” If I build my own house, will it disappear if I get killed?
“It depends on their roots.” Luc lifts his boot, and thick roots retract from the floor of the room into his boot like snakes. “The more you ground yourself in Tenebra, the more permanent your creations are.”
I’m tempted to lift my own foot to see if I have any roots, but I’m not sure I want to know. I don’t want tentacles attaching my body to this place.
Luc sets his foot back down, and though I don’t see the roots grow into the floor, I hear the hiss and crackle of their movement.
“But you’re not going to start with a house, Cain. First you need to create defenses. You may have left the Arena after killing a Spore, but those were acts of heightened emotion. You need to be able to create and defend yourself in calmer moments too. Like right now.”
“How do I learn that?” Crixus only ever handed me a spear, unlocked the Arena gate, and told me to deny my anger.
“Simple.” Luc lifts his hands, and the room dissolves around us. “I’m going to train you.”
A saber-toothed tiger paces in front of me.
Luc’s version of training me is to put me in another arena—his own created one that’s smaller and located in his atrium atop a coliseum tower.
Instead of fighting other noxiors or Spores, I’m up against his creations.
“He won’t attack until I tell him,” Luc says, standing across from me.
“How comforting.” I don’t really feel like fighting, especially not after the last battle. But I’m going to have to learn eventually.
I spare a moment to consider Crixus’s tips on creating, tips that conflict with Luc’s methods. I’ve never seen Crixus create anything, yet Luc does so with ease and never seems to lose emotional control.
I chose my instructor by his example.
Luc’s tiger arose from a swirl of sand. It isn’t a pet that will come and go or be chained up. It’s at the whim of Luc’s nightmist control. He just as easily could have created ten tigers, or one giant tiger twenty feet high. Is he the one who creates the nightbeasts that enter the Arena? The snake that devoured the noxior? The bull I killed?
The tiger growls.
“He’s hungry,” Luc remarks. “Just because I created him doesn’t mean I can fully control him. Just like you can create a child, but they have their own will and personality. You can only hope they obey you.”
“Have a lot of children, do you?” I keep my eyes on the tiger. Luc is the same age as me. I suppose he could have kids, but it’s not like he’s lived long enough to raise any.
He smirks. “What do you want to create?”
“Ideally, a stick of gum.”
Luc snickers. “Focus.”
“On what? You haven’t done anything other than pitted me against a tiger.” My irritation grows. Maybe it really is because of the lack of chewing gum.
“You’re getting angry.”
“Do you blame me?” I say tersely.
“Channel that anger into a word. Anger makes you want to do something. Destroy. Hit. Strike. Your choice here is to make something that will allow you to do those things.”
Pressure builds in my fists when he mentions hitting. I’ve punched plenty of walls before and learned a painful lesson with a wrapped hand, bleeding knuckles, a furious brother.
Nole hated displays of anger. He always talked about self-control. I was never any good at it. I tried to be, to make him proud. Whenever he lost his temper, he immediately apologized afterward. I tended to stomp away and stew in my bitterness.
“Humble human nature tells you to fight the anger,” Luc is saying.
I want him to stop talking, but I don’t know if that’s just irritation.
“Suppression is unnatural. Your body feels anger for a reason, so you need to give it a target. Instead of choosing a target that already exists, make one.”
I try to direct the waves swelling in my mind. He says I’m feeling anger for a reason, but that reason is that emotions in Tenebra are heightened. It’s this place. It’s Tenebra’s fault.
Saliva slips down the fangs of the tiger and drips on the floor.
