The table groaned under the weight of silver. Candles flickered. Smoke curled. It was a feast. It was a trap.
Silas stood by the wall. He watched the plates. His hands were still. His jaw was tight. The town had gathered. Every face was familiar. Every smile was a lie. They called him Sarge. They called him hero. They forgot. Or they pretended to.
The food was cold. The wine was dark. The air...
The dream was always the same. It was a corridor of white tile, stretching out into a haze that smelled of bleach and ozone. In the center of the floor, a single fern grew. It was not a common fern. It was vast, its fronds unfurling in slow, rhythmic pulses that seemed to synchronize with the beating of Elias Thorne’s own heart. The leaves were thick, dark green, and wet, dripping with a liquid...
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