The Princess of Dream smiled her vacant smile in response, as the clouds of sweet pink smoke encircling her began to drift toward me. "Oh, yes, Sir Violet. I know. Why, it happens every morning, does it not? This realm is, after all, maya: destined to be rewoven nightly in sleep, and torn asunder daily in waking."
I carefully ignored the smoke; it curled suggestively, but approached no further. "Lady Dream, I do not mean this realm. The waking world will be ended, and with it all Oneiria!"
She leaned back upon her throne of silks and pillows, the smoke receding with her; and though no part of her face seemed to move, her half-lidded expression was no longer empty and blissful, but sharp as shattered ice. "Then destiny will be no more, nor illusion reign again."
And the Princess of Dream laughed. It was beautiful and melodious, and in thirteen years of service to My Lady of Nightmares I had never heard anything that chilled my blood so.
"Go!" she cried, as her court began to vanish in billows of dark pink smoke. "Return whence you came, Rider in the Dark, and tell my sister she will receive no aid from me: for the nightmare of Nightmares is the dream of Dreams."
Why is so much of my fiction in first-person?
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