Wings folded tight against her body, Alraune dove through the dreaming firmament, daring the clouds, the starlight, and shadows to catch her as she cut through the mists toward the shifting plane of the roiling ground.

The slightest shift and Alraune’s path leveled just in time, the tall grass of the meadow beneath her brushing the white feathers of her chest and tucked legs.

Drunk on freedom, she flew through the dreaming on the wings of a snow white owl, soaring toward the moons and plummeting back toward the ground. Faster and faster she pushed through the mists, picking at the threads of dreams like she might choose a morsel from a tray of sweets. The weave of the tapestry of dreams shone like bright gems of possibility. Desire flowed freely; hidden passions, forbidden love, suppressed rage, fear, hope, treachery, debauchery, innocent attraction, and carnal lust.

She stretched her wings as far as her feathers would reach, catching an updraft to float among crystal stars. How long had she enjoyed such abandon? Since when had she slipped into the mists just for her own enjoyment? No agenda, no counsel, just the unfelt wind of the dreaming and the endless kaleidoscope of possibility.

Before her, a black wall of roiling ink began to devour the stars and mists. Alraune slowed, curiosity keeping her on a converging track, her large eyes searching the darkness for any clue of what the strange form might be. What invaded the dreaming this way? It wasn’t like anything she’d seen before, and as her wings carried her closer, rising fear began to choke the air from her lungs.

Alraune tucked her wings and turned sharply as panic fogged her vision. She flew as fast as her wings could beat, the growing terror pushing her, herding her, driving her toward the waking horizon and the firm plane of the dreaming ground. The wall gained on her, chasing her beyond endurance, beyond fear, to a place of pain and failure.

Blood ran from her the corners of her mouth, and the beat of her wings faltered as the ground rose to meet her. She stretched out her legs, claws ready to grip the ground, to hold her firm against the blast of the black wall as it passed over.

One sharp claw found the stone as the ink slammed her to the ground, sending her tumbling, rocks and thorns finding her bare skin as feathers faded, the owl replaced by her normal form and her bare body suffered the abrasion of hard, unforgiving ground.

Over and over she rolled and fell, the earth seemingly endless in its abuse, the black cloud pressing from above, stealing her air, burning her skin, until at last Alraune screamed.

Prostrate, the razing ended and Alraune finally drew a deep, painful breath, her ribs bruised by the fall.

Panting, she tested her limbs, surprised when all responded to her commands – albeit painfully.

She looked through the veil of her misty hair, the black ink of the wall thick around her, like a wet wool blanket that weighed against her skin. Slowly she pulled her arms beneath her and began to push herself off the ground.

Grinding, gravel biting, a boot pushed against her back, driving her back into the rocky ground.

“Where do you think you’re going, my dear?” Frozen steel echoed from above.

Alraune turned her head and glanced up. He towered above her, black leather trimmed in silver, his ice blue eyes and chiseled features as coldly beautiful as his voice. Long white-blonde hair moved in the currents of the undulating black cloud.

“Dawn approaches,” she whispered, her cheek pressed to the dust. She felt the lighting of the waking world, felt the tapestry of dreams beginning to unravel. Before long, there would be nothing for her to hold to, nothing to lead her back to Adam and the waking world.

The pressure on her back retreated for a moment, but before she could react, the boot was replaced by the point of his knee, his weight pressing against her spine until she could hardly breathe.

“Do you know who I am?”

Alraune gasped, dust choking her as she fought to control her rising fear. “No, sir, I do not.” She coughed violently, as she tried to pull clean air into her lungs.

He wrapped a gloved hand in her hair and pulled her head back. “I am your future, Alraune. I am your lord and master.” The sing of a blade filled her ears. He pressed the chilled metal of the blade against her shoulder.

She cried out as she began to struggle against the press of the blade, but also from panic unrelated to his oppression. The dreaming crumbled beneath her, the stones and thorns that dug into her skin began to turn to sand and water.

A growl of frustration rose in his chest.

He untwined her hair and pushed against her spine as he rose to his feet.

“I will find you again, Alraune, and when I do, you will know your place. Your man has met some of my brothers and sisters, and now it is your turn. We are the Elder Arcana.

"I am Domination, and you will submit to me.”

His gloved hand ran down her bare back like a promise.

Then the black wall covered her, grinding her against the road. Alraune cried out as she pushed through the frayed tapestry, into the hard, black ground, until it gave way, becoming sand, water, air, and she fell, down, down toward waking and light.

But as she fell, only darkness heard her cries.

She woke in the Salon, the bright morning filled with summer promise. But there was tightness about her throat, and weights at her wrists, as though she wore chains. She tried to shake away the sensation and sitting up, she reached for Adam's sleeping form for comfort.

Her fingers found warmth and love in Adam’s sleeping form, but the shackles would not leave her entirely.

And even as sunlight filled their bedroom, the invisible weight seemed more real than any dream of freedom.