It had become a routine at this point—Flua-Sahng bade her mysterious farewell to Proto, and he awoke to dreamy strains of retro game music, inspiring some last drowsy reflections on past and future, before the bustle of a new day swept him away.

  So when Proto instead found himself standing in a gloomy cavern, it took him a moment to make sense of it. He blinked a few times, as though to clear the bleariness confusing his eyes. But the subterranean gloam remained.

  His first thought was, Back to sleepwalking! And I thought waking in a station wagon was bad!

  His second thought was, Or I’m still dreaming. After visiting well over a hundred dreams recently, he’d almost forgotten he could have his own dreams.

  The latter seemed more plausible. That would explain, for example, why he could see in a cave with no apparent light source. It also would explain how he’d never heard of this remarkable natural wonder.

  For the stony ceiling was arched and gothic, almost like a cathedral. Stalactites hung in sparkling limestone clusters. Hundreds of holes honeycombed the walls. Shadows obscured where they led. Across the cavern sprawled a purplish lake. It lay still, save for some flits of movement revealed by tiny circular shimmers.

  A woman’s voice echoed into his hearing. A moment later, she advanced into sight dozens of yards away, and the chamber’s light shifted. He suddenly saw the light did have a source—she was holding it aloft. It shone like a star.

  Squinting through the glare, Proto studied her blonde pallor and fine features, and he observed that she looked strangely like Ausrine. She was wearing a white robe with golden accents.

  Another voice replied, this time a man’s. He and others stepped into view.

  Proto instinctively started to approach them and formulate a story of why he was there. The habits of a dream visitor had been deeply ingrained during his time at Somnus’ Palace.

  Then, he remembered he was the dreamer. He suddenly wondered if approaching this group was really what he was meant to do. He got the sense they were busy with their own affairs.

  Also, they were armed—and not with guns and badges.

  One of them, with Legolas-like hair hanging down his back, was wearing a tabard with a crown and fist over a green-fringed flame upon the front. In his hands was a gigantic poleax.

  Beside him was . . . a dwarf? No, a dwarfess. Long russet hair was hanging over her grimy hauberk. She was wielding a heavy-headed hammer two-handed.

  Interesting dream, Proto. Been playing Baldur’s Gate? he mused.

  Next came a younger man with tannish blond hair and fingerless gloves. He apparently wasn’t armed. But he did have an empty scabbard at his waist, and a huge flask in his hand. The thing looked like it could hold a fifth of whisky.

  And then there was the girl. She looked exactly like Mercune—sunset hair, shamrock gaze, freckle-dusted face and all—except her rainbow-colored shirt had a rather more medieval cut.

  You visit her dream, then you dream of her, huh? If Himari and Helen were here, they’d be having a field day.

  This band of five medieval wanderers entered the cavern warily, continuing to chat as they did so.

  “Well. Hope ye like the scenery,” the dwarfess was saying. She and the poleax guy exchanged some words that Proto couldn’t make out. Then, she continued: “These tunnels have a way of loopin’ back toward other tunnels; like ye see with rivers upon the surface, winding into each other.”

  Of course the dwarfess has a Scottish accent! Proto shook his head at his dreaming mind’s clichés.

  At least these wanderers didn’t seem dangerous—or at least, didn’t seem hostile. He was on the verge of approaching them when a finger tapped his shoulder.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” a man murmured politely behind him.

  Proto nearly jumped and impaled himself on a stalactite.

  Instead, he took a deep breath, let it out, and turned around.

  Behind him stood a mustachioed man in a three-piece suit and a Velma-looking woman in a sweater—Wentsworth and Uberta, his former companions from Somnus’ Palace.

  They were visiting his dream.

  Proto was on the verge of throwing out his arms and crying, “Whoa! What’s up, my friends!” when he remembered these were not his former companions. They were his future companions. From their perspective, he was just a random dreamer.

  It seemed odd to think that Proto’s own dreams had visitors. But why not? Somnus’ crew visited everyone. There was nothing peculiar about two visitors visiting him.

  Except . . . that wasn’t quite right, was it? Uberta was a visitor, but Wentsworth was a shadowseer like Dahlia. It wasn’t clear why he was here. Still, Proto supposed that Dahlia had visited some dreams with him, so this wasn’t unprecedented.

  Speaking of which, if Dahlia was a shadowseer, how could she visit dreams? Like that time they visited Yemos’ dream together.

  “You can’t be one of Somnus’ visitors and one of my seers at the same time. You could thwart Fate!” Flua-Sahng had told him. Was that just wrong? Or was Dahlia thwarting Fate?

  But the Queen of Heaven was rarely wrong and always chose her words carefully. “One of my seers.” Maybe that explained it. Dahlia was one of Somnus’ seers, a shadowseer—not one of Flua-Sahng’s seers.

  “Yes, we mean you no harm,” the stocky woman in the turtleneck sweater meanwhile was assuring him. “We’re lost like you. At least, I assume you’re lost, right?”

  Proto recalled something Mercune had told him when they first met: “I’ve had a few other ‘visitors’ like you. They sneak into my dreams and try to fit in, and I play along like I don’t know what they’re doing. It’s kind of fun freaking them out!”

  Proto wasn’t sure why—maybe the gravity of saving the future was weighing on him, and he needed some levity—but he decided it’d be fun to do the same.

  All this ran through his head within a second of recognizing his old colleagues.

  The next second, he gasped in feigned shock, taking two steps backward and raising his hands defensively, clenching them to fists. He made some mist swirl up from the ground, rapidly reaching chest level.

  “It’s okay!” winced Uberta, holding a calming hand toward him. “We didn’t mean to startle you.” She scowled at Wentsworth. He shrugged slightly in apology.

  “Yes, perhaps we can help each other,” said Wentsworth. “As she said, we also seem to have lost our way.”

  “Right, three heads are better than two! We can find a way out together,” suggested Uberta. She glanced nervously at the mists swirling about her sweatered frame.

  Proto felt sympathetic. Here they were, doing Somnus’ bidding, out to “make the world a fairer place, one dream at a time.” And he was messing with them for kicks!

  That wasn’t enough to make him stop. But he’d be nice about it.

  “What makes you think I’m lost?” he responded. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  His two colleagues traded a glance in surprise. But instead of looking disconcerted, they seemed excited.

  “That’s . . . interesting. Why is that?” asked Wentsworth carefully.

  Proto had no idea why the mustachioed man was taking that tone, or why he was curling his mustache around his finger. But he’d always been a bit quirky.

  It’s not just that Wentsworth loved H.P. Lovecraft and Cthulhu stories. Who doesn’t? But if you talked with him long enough, you’d get the sense it wasn’t just fantasy for him. It was his inspiration. It was his worldview. It was—well, not his religion. But it filled the void where his religion would be.

  And there it bided darkly in the gloam, slouching toward its destined end, reaching out with tentacles of influence to twist the future toward the end of all things . . . !

  . . . Nah. This was just a nice man with a nice mustache. Proto’s imagination was just re-writing him as something more fascinatingly sinister, as Helen and Himari had done with him.

  Still, Proto would have fun with this. “Why I’m here, you mean? Isn’t it obvious?” he replied. “This place is glorious.”

  Wentsworth blinked and paused before replying, again seeming to consider his words carefully.

  Proto continued instead. “Can’t you feel the eldritch energy of this place? Can’t you feel it shaping how all things manifest here? This vaulted roof? This glimmering purple lake? It’s perfect: terrific and terrible, awesome and awful.”

  Wentsworth exchanged another glance with Uberta. She looked unsure, but he seemed downright exuberant.

  “Yes! Horribly beautiful, beautifully horrid. Yes, I feel the same way,” the suited man affirmed eagerly. “And so does my colleague here, though she’s loth to say it.”

  “What?” She gave him an anxious frown. “Um, I’m mostly focused on getting out of here, Wentsworth!”

  Proto had to suppress a laugh. “Speaking of which, how could you two see in the dark here? I mean, that robed lady over there has a light.” He waved toward the cavern, where the band of wanderers were now arrayed before the purple lake. “But where’s your light?”

  “Oh! Our light.” Uberta blinked uncertainly at Wentsworth, then got an eager glow in her eyes. “I, uh, have a flashlight. I just turned it off when I heard voices.” She hefted a big old-fashioned flashlight into view from behind her.

  “Wow! Where were you hiding that thing?” Proto asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

  “Oh, um. You didn’t see this?” Uberta turned sideways and pointed out . . . a holster on her belt. A flashlight holster.

  Sheesh, she’s not as good at this as Astrid.

  “Always got a trick up her sleeve!” mused Wentsworth. “Or belt, I suppose.” He patted her on the shoulder.

  Meanwhile, the five adventuring wanderers now were pitching camp around the purplish lake.

  The girl who looked like Mercune wrinkled her nose at the water. “I don’t even want to say what this stuff smells like!”

  “Aye, smells like someone didn’t wash as well as her mother told her to,” the dwarfess grinned, gulping some down. “But sure beats dyin’ o’ thirst!”

  “They’re drinking it? Heavens below!” muttered Wentsworth, shaking his head. “And they call us heathens.”

  Uberta cleared her throat and widened her eyes at him.

  The mustachioed man ignored her. “Can they not sense eldritch glory, emanating from it? From them—?”

  The sweatered woman cleared her throat more loudly, cutting him off.

  “You two know that band of adventurers over there?” asked Proto.

  “No. But we should go talk to them, don’t you think?” suggested Uberta. “See if they can help us?”

  “Well, hold on now,” enjoined Wentsworth, holding a palm out toward her. “That poleax-hefting fellow looks a bit dangerous, don’t you think?”

  Uberta eyed him sidelong, looking mildly vexed.

  Then, she nodded in concerned agreement. “Good point. Should we watch them for a while, see if they seem friendly?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” shrugged Wentsworth. “They’re getting along nicely without us, yes?”

  Uberta’s brow furrowed further. She opened her mouth to reply, but Proto broke in first.

  “It’s also a little odd, don’t you think,” he observed, “that you’re in a sweater, you’re in a suit, and I’m in a tracksuit—but they’re in medieval armor. Doesn’t that seem odd?

  Uberta glanced at her Velma-like garb and went wide-eyed, seemingly at a loss. “Maybe they’re . . . coming from a cosplay convention?”

  Proto nodded sagely. “They usually are, aren’t they?”

  “Well, that doesn’t seem very dangerous then,” declared Uberta. “Let’s go over and say hi—”

  “No, no,” interrupted Wentsworth, dismissing this with an imperious wave. “They’re having fun. We’ll leave them be.

  Uberta spun to him. “I’m in charge, and you’re only here because you promised me . . . !” She trailed off, glancing at Proto.

  “I know, I know,” smiled Wentsworth affably, raising a placating hand. “But let me have my small victories, won’t you?”

  The sweatered woman sighed and glanced roofward.

  “I think you’re right though,” Proto remarked to Wentsworth, eager to see how far he could push this. “I think they’re going the wrong way. I sense something that way.” He thumbed behind him. “Something . . . eldritch.”

  Wentsworth’s eyes widened excitedly, and he glanced at Uberta. “Yes. Yes, I do too, now that you mention it!”

  Uberta studied them uncertainly. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “That dismal majesty . . . that dreadful mystery . . . ” mused Proto, managing to keep his face straight.

  “Yes!” exclaimed the suited man.

  “Wentsworth—” admonished Uberta.

  “Now, now, hold a moment,” waved the suited man without looking at her, his gaze fixed on Proto. “You . . . sense there’s more here, don’t you? Something much greater than what lurks within yon birthing pool?” He held his hand out toward the purple lake.

  “Wentsworth!” The wide-eyed woman clutched her sweater.

  “It’s quite all right!” assured Wentsworth, a faraway rapture on his face. “I saw it in the shadows. This one is special.”

  She glanced at Proto anxiously. “What are you sayi—

  “There’s no more need for pretense,” waved Wentsworth dismissively. “He can feel it. He’s like us. How else would his dreaming Spirit have found its way to this place? The holy of holies? The resting place of . . . Him.”

  Uberta glanced fearfully at Proto, then stomped a foot down. “That’s it, Wentsworth! I’m the visitor—!”

  “This goes beyond such things,” declaimed Wentsworth. “You may be the higher of us, when visiting a dream for Somnus. But I am the higher in a higher order—His order—and it’s at His behest we’re here.”

  The woman cringed at that last bit. “What if it’s just a coincidence though!”

  Wentsworth dismissed this with a grand wave. “Never mistake Lady Luck for mere chance! Don’t check the price tag on a gift from Fate!”

  “What does that even mean?” cried Uberta, throwing up her hands.

  Proto, meanwhile, was even more confused than she was. Part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of all this. But part of him wanted even more to play this out and see what happened.

  “It means,” replied Wentsworth somberly, “that we must take him there. To meet . . . Him.”

  “No . . . ” Uberta’s eyes were wide.

  “Yes!” affirmed Wentsworth. “He’s one of us. This thing was meant to be. We must say yes to what we can’t deny. What can’t be overpowered must be embraced.”

  “Sheesh, you’re creepy!” she cried. “But, Heavens below, I can’t resist it. Alright! Let’s go then.”

  Proto was an experienced gamer. He always liked it when you picked a series of weird conversation options, and you ended up unlocking some bizarre side quest. But it was a rare day indeed when this happened in his own life. Once again, it felt very Baldur’s Gate. He felt excited.

  Wentsworth and Uberta had started walking back into the tunnel he’d come from, away from the cavern with the purplish lake.

  Before following them, Proto took one last look at the wanderers arrayed around the water—and blinked.

  A line of barefoot, robed figures was processing into the room, each holding a sinuous staff of silvery black. On either side of them walked hunched and hulking figures wielding tridents and wearing only loincloths. Their rubbery flesh was splotchy blue and purple, grey and green, and embroidered with bulging veins.

  And then there were their heads. Something was wrong with them—the shape, the texture, everything. It was dim, and they were faraway and facing sidelong. Yet they looked strangely . . . squid-like?

  “Come!” called Wentsworth from ahead.

  Proto supposed there was no point dwelling on those creatures, whatever they were. After all, they were just products of his dreaming subconscious, right?

  He followed Wentsworth and Uberta into the shadow.

  Well, it was shadowy. But that was maybe misleading, since the walls were also pinkish-orange and gleaming with the glow of Uberta’s heavy-duty flashlight. Moisture dribbled down the flowstone, which was smooth, save for some faint rippling ridges. One might mistake this tunnel for a giant esophagus.

  When they reached a fork in the tunnel, Uberta paused and glanced at Wentsworth. “Are you sure about this . . . ?”

  “As sure as destiny and doomsday,” replied the mustachioed man firmly.

  “Alright. Alright.” The sweatered woman sounded uncertain.

  Not for the first time today, Proto sensed he’d stumbled on something big, beyond his understanding, and probably irrelevant. Still, whatever he’d get out of all this, he may as well accept it. As they say, “Don’t check the price tag on a gift from Fate!”

  Proto’s two colleagues led him toward the fork. When they took the dark path leading downward, he was not the slightest bit surprised.

  “So, where are we headed?” asked the Visitor-turned-Seer.

  “Worry not, all will be made clear!” enjoined Wentsworth. “Or at least, you’ll see clearly the mad impenetrability of all things.”

  That didn’t really help Proto. But it did reaffirm his suspicion that this was something big and probably irrelevant.

  “So, what brought you and Uberta here anyway?” he asked Wentsworth casually.

  “Hm, let’s just say it—” Wentsworth cut off, turning and peering at Proto. “Forgive me, but . . . I don’t recall either of us saying Uberta’s name.”

  Uh oh.

  First, Proto scrolled back through his memories since arriving here, searching for a reference to Uberta’s name. But he couldn’t find any.

  Next, he considered bluffing—assuring Wentsworth that he’d spoken Uberta’s name and just forgotten it. But now they both were staring at him, looking quite sure that wasn’t the case.

  Proto searched for some good explanation to minimize the significance of this. But he couldn’t think of anything. She’s a Lost Spirit who was never born. How the Hell would I know her name?

  That left option four: If you can’t minimize, maximize. If you can’t go small, go big.

  Proto smiled knowingly. “No, you didn’t mention Uberta. Very observant. But at this point, you’ve likely sensed that I’m not just any dreamer, yes?”