The darkness sinks in around him, thick and inky, the pink-purple making the sorcerer stick out like a sore thumb. Something could come lashing out of that darkness and he won’t even see it coming; caught off-guard, unable to defend himself. He hears Vazeiros hiss like a cat, like a lizard, an animal. He thinks, fleetingly, of Sinister.

Thedas is strict rules and limitations. One hand tied behind his back, mouth muzzled, operating with so much less than he’s used to. But in a dream…

Think outside the box, Stephen, he reminds himself, and with his spare hand snatches one of the books and lets it fall open. The words melt off the page, sentences scrawling into the air and moulding themselves into a floating shield, a flexible wall of text which stands between himself and an attack. This is no familiar spell on Earth or in Thedas; it doesn’t exist, it’s not something he’d ordinarily be able to do, but this is a dream.

Vazeiros’ blade swings. The inky words block the brunt of the attack while it sends vowels and letters scattering, but Stephen is put on the defensive, moving backwards. The dagger eventually slips around the shield, rips through fabric, digs into Stephen’s thigh, a shallow slash rather than a killing blow to hi sstomach. It might be a dream, but it hurts like it’s real.

(For the first time, a thought: What happens if he dies in the dream, properly? Is he Freddy Krueger’d? Best not let it happen—)

He’s bleeding into his robes. A different tack: “Ennaris,” Stephen calls out into the darkness, into those winding library stacks, teeth gritting on the pain, still not using her nickname. He never uses her nickname. “Ennaris. He’s yours. So I know you’re here, somewhere.”