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the storm. I began to roar as I ripped the arm fully from its
socket, forcing the massive limb further down its throat.
The Eater of Idols shuddered as it died, an earthquake
in my arms. The storm faded with the hopes of a broken
mother.
With the eyes of the two gods upon me, I gathered my
family. My father was quiet to the touch, having exhausted
his volcanic rage through me. His steel was cold, proud. My
sisters glittered in the moonlight, smiles like songs. They
sang my praises, and I nearly cried at the sight of them.
The Shepherd had been with me, preserved me from
the storm, made me into his vengeance—but it all meant
nothing to me. In truth, I was no Wolf, only an artist in love
with a dream. A dream worth killing for, again and again. I
would slay the Shepherd himself and rip the dreams from
his blackened guts if I thought them imprisoned there. Yet,
if winning his game meant seeing dreams past the threshold,
then I would win. Tonight, I became stronger for having
died. My chances were improving all the time.
I turned to the fading presence behind the dead white
trees, where sallow eyes hung like skinned fruits, naked and
gathering flies. “A mother is God in the eyes of a child,” I
said, spitting upon the crumpled corpse of her rotting son.
The night was calling to me. I slipped into the shadows as
my extended family welcomed me back.
It was horrible, coming back to the Deadworld. It wasn’t
merely that I’d been exposed to the utter cancelation of
dream, washed away beneath a wave of boiling black
pavement. Or that I’d been made solid and soulless, an
idle statue abandoned to a forgotten basement. It was the
thoroughly sickening revelation upon my return that I was
grateful for having been renewed within the lands of the
dead. I was relieved to see the acrid smoke of industry,
the grey pitch of ash blowing across eons, the unchanging
ugliness. The realization nearly killed me all over again.

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