Sleep came quick. The exhaustion from battle, from cracked bone and bruised pride, dragged Avin's eyelids down like weights. And as his body in this strange world rested, Clive's consciousness stirred.
Dreams for Clive were never normal anymore. They weren't half-remembered flashes of nonsense or bizarre carnival-scapes. No, his dreams had become doorways — windows into the strange overlap between himself and Avin.
And tonight, as his mind slipped into the haze, he realized he wasn't alone inside his own skull.
The blur sharpened, and suddenly he was standing upright. Not as Avin. Not in the cold grandeur of castles or holy swords.
But back in his world.
Or at least, Avin in his body — bumbling through it like a king dropped naked into a supermarket.
Clive hovered unseen, a ghost with front-row seats to the disaster.
