The world inside the Dreamgate was not built for comfort.
Beatrice stumbled forward into a realm where the sky was a cold sheet of cracked glass, and the ground pulsed like bruised flesh. The colors bled wrong—pink shadows and blue light. Her breath caught in her throat as the door slammed behind her with a sound like a thousand whispered apologies. She was alone—or rather, she was the only real person here. The moment she moved, the world reacted, groaning awake with a sentient ache.
The air stank of rust and perfume.
Mirrors floated, disjointed, like puzzle pieces that didn't want to belong. Each reflected something slightly different: one showed her as a child, another as a corpse, another as a god. Beatrice turned her face away. The reflections followed anyway, warping and whispering.
"Liar."
"Martyr."
"Whore."
"Monster."
"Shut up," she muttered, clenching her fists.
