TO MY UTTER amazement, a small crowd was standing outside of the shop in the morning.

The sky was grey, dreary and speckled with wisps of rain cloud. The cityscape was discordant yet still quite insipid —but the horde seemed to be zealous.

I had been lying down in the back room all night beside Georgia, conjuring dreams to bottle up. She was finally asleep after hours and persistent failure to settle down —and I wanted to keep it that way.

The sudden turnout left me dithering.

It had been so long since I had had this many customers; whether first thing in the morning or in one day.

There was a mixture of height, class and species —some wore issued clothing while some had customised their ensembles to ward against the harshened weather. Those divides were deemed irrelevant here. Here, everyone was simply an individual soul, yearning for something; some hope to cling onto.

My bewilderment must have been very evident, as the people —Elves, fairies and Faeries alike, and not a human to be seen —asked me if this was indeed the Cotton Candy and if I was the shop owner. I stumbled through my answer, before they swarmed inside like bees.

I had my hands full for the next few hours; going back and forth between the back room and the front-of-house to find dreams more to someone's taste. It was not that they were particularly picky —I always strove for complete satisfaction. It was that some preferences were beyond my imagination; beyond what I had already created.

I had to make a few from scratch.

And I watched their eyes gleam, light up and their faces stretch in sheer disbelief and awe as I used my magic. As I weaved and fabricated.

I had to remind myself that this was strange; abnormal.

"What are you?" asked one.

"I am a Dreamcatcher," I assured. "But some sort of magic has manifested within me. I can make my own dreams as well as receive them from donors."

"Like some kind of Dream...weaver," someone gasped.

"Like a Weaver spins worlds," murmured an Elf.

That made me pause.

He cowered behind the others, off to the side on his own. He looked like he had faced death and lived to tell the tale. His naturally blond hair was almost unrecognisable —it had muddied and browned, caked thick with dirt and small twigs. His silver markings had near-faded, though the designs still held their shape. Arcane and spiralling like ivy. The neglect and weathering mirrored his stick-thin form, his malnutrition.

It was jarring to realise something: out there, beyond my shop, people were dying and had nothing.

It was not new —the war had not brought about that change. The divide had always been there.

"I am sure the Weavers would be intrigued to hear of such talents," the Elf went on, his black eyes set.

"It is not a talent," I said firmly. "It happened quite simply and suddenly in an act of selflessness."

"I heard that you were attacked with flames by human soldiers," a young Elf girl then gasped. "Is it true?"

Her enthusiasm rattled me. She then seemed to notice the exposed bandaging on my hands, and her smile faltered. I offered a small reassuring smile. "...How did you know that?" I asked dubiously.

"I cannot say," she quipped, sticking her nose in the air. "They said that you would know."

A bad, foreboding shiver ran down my spine.

"We heard it from a wandering female," a Faerie with wings resembling those of butterflies filled in. "She did not tell us her name nor species, but she sang high praises of you and your shop."

I started. Kynes?

My customers then proceeded to recall events and sales as far back as a month after the first opening. My skin turned clammy. I had never told her about Cotton Candy. How could Kynes have known?

"When she told us that you could make dreams, we had to see it for ourselves," the Faerie continued.

I grimaced.

"Maybe it be a curse after all," sneered an old fisher-Elf; still clad in his raincoat and overalls. "The World-Weavers must be getting buggered with the lot of yer."

"No —they would never curse with their own abilities," someone else reasoned.

Bits of argument were then flung across the room, about deities, worship and beliefs.

I only thought about the World-Weavers. The black-eyed wandering Elf had not lied. They would definitely want to hear about this. If not them, then the Dreamcatcher Authority.

I could be sold out.

My muscles leadened as I realised by whom. I tried to look for the Elf, and ask him what he wanted.

But he had melted into the shadows.

A high-pitched ringing in my ear then partially blocked out the shop ambience. I was in danger. Everything for which I had worked; everything that I held dear, could be taken from me in an instant.

And that was the light sentence.

Who knew what else they would do to me —whether for their personal entertainment or experiments. Things far worse and unrelated to pleasure than that to which Kynes had alluded.

Someone then snagged my attention away from that downward spiral of thought, gushing about the most intricate and outrageous dream they could think of, just to see what I could do.

I immersed myself in the work, unable to stomach any further speculation.

The whole morning was a clamber for my focus —there was no respect for lines or order. If I chose someone based on who was directly in front of me, someone else would complain, declaring that they had been there first. It was brutal. I thought I would drown in the chaos, but somehow, I coped. Somehow I managed to retain my composure and keep Cotton Candy from turning into another war zone.

It was almost midday by the time I had served all but one customer. My breath caught in my throat as the Elf came forward. The very air seemed to chill and thin in his presence. He turned his head this way and the other, causing the silver things in his long pointed ears to jingle.

"...So the Wytch was right," he sighed.

I glanced down at my hands on the counter It did not take a fool to realise that he was speaking about Kynes. But why had she done this? Why had she spread word of me and my shop and my strange magic? I could think of nothing that she could hope to gain from it.

"Are you here to buy something?" I asked quietly.

"I have not eaten in four days," said the Elf. "I would rather spend my money on sustenance."

"Then you have come to threaten me?" I frowned.

"I have not," he defended himself. "I too came to look. I did not believe the Wytch at first. They are secretive and untrustworthy. But this one seems to have your interest at heart. Have you employed her?"

"No."

"Is she your lover?"

Even firmer this time. "No."

"Unrequited?" the Elf went on.

"Not that it is any of your concern," I clipped, "but we have no relation to each other. We met briefly last night. I do not know why she is doing this."

"Bound Wytches are either one of two things," the Elf informed me. "A caged beast, or a lapdog."

"She does not belong to me," I said through my teeth, my fingers curling in to make fists. "She is not my responsibility. She belongs to her coven."

"Her coven Marks were severed."

"What?"

"At the back of her neck," he elaborated, tapping the place in his own olive skin, "the binding cross symbol of all Wytch covens was split in two. Either she estranged herself, or she was punished."

I gasped. "You mean she is a stray?"

The Elf shrugged.

I felt around in the pocket of my apron. The ace of spades was still there, thrumming with energy.

"Where can I find her?" I demanded, coming out from behind the counter. "Where do you see her last?"

"I do not think she would be there now," the Elf pointed out. "She is a Wanderer, like me."

I gave him another once-over.

"You were thrown out by your family?"

He glanced to the side. "I left them. To find something better for us. We are Gamma-born."

There was always that risk. Creatures of magic born in Planes not native to them often struggled to assimilate to Earth's customs. They could imitate well enough, but their standing features was cause for prejudice. And now, in this desolate wasteland, hope was abandoned.

"I was born in the Alpha Plane," I admitted flatly. "I know of privilege and status. We came here many times of field trips. It was supposed to help us learn why we were superior to humans. But I believe that all it did was open my eyes to reality."

The Elf said nothing.

I sighed and made for the door. Then, as though I quite suddenly remembered, I turned back and scrambled for paper and a pen. I wrote a short note for Georgia, informing her of where I would be going.

"For whom are you leaving the note?" the Elf whispered, his expression one of confusion.

"There is a guest here," I said carefully. "If you are wise, then you will leave them alone."

"And what if I am not wise?" he dared.

Perhaps it was a testy, jokey sort of question —an attempt to lighten the heaviness hanging over us. But I knew trouble. And it did not matter if the Elf was simply a naturally curious male. If he posed any potential threat to Georgia, then he could not stay.

I pointed to the door. "Get out."

"It was simply a question."

"I have heard all that I need to hear," I hissed. "Now please leave the premises."

I knew that I had offended him. I thought that he would storm out though, in a huff. But he remained in front of me, his anger festering.

The Elf's gaze then hardened, and wisps of shadow curled at his feet and hands. Of course he had magic —I should have thought ahead.

I still held my ground.

I did not know what his magic could do —I had no experience with shadow arts. But as the darkness slithered along the floor and reached for my leg, and my skin recoiled and almost oxidised, I realised that it could wither and decay anything in its path.

My reflexes were adequate; the shadow narrowly missed me as I took a quick step backwards.

"Imagine what the Weavers would give me in exchange for you," mused the Elf, a wicked grin stretching his chapped lips. "An aristocratic Dreamcatcher with the ability to make her own dreams. I would be wealthy."

"Is that what you desire? Wealth?" I growled, darting in and around the tendrils of shadow.

"You know nothing of poverty," he accused. "You cannot possibly understand!"

"I do not know your situation," I admitted, "but you are misguided in your assumptions. I left my home a long time ago, and I had nothing to begin with. I know hard work and sacrifice. I am not without my own scars."

The darkness paused for a moment, lazily flicking in the air. The Elf scowled. "No one told you to leave your pampered life."

"Not directly," I said. "No one except for my sister told me to leave. I knew that I was second best."

"I do not believe you," he growled. "There is no way that someone like you grew up that way."

"It does not matter what I tell you," I sighed. "You have made up your mind about me."

I jumped, my trembling fingers skidding the surface behind me. I was against the wall. He had managed to walk me into a corner. The darkness flared, pouring out from the Elf in gentle hypnotic waves.

If any of it touched me —

I gasped as a vine of shadow grabbed my right ankle.

As soon as that coldness touched me, my senses exploded. I felt my ankle and foot weaken, deteriorate and shrivel. I felt the life there leave me. His gaze held mine all the while. He knew what he was doing.

He knew how to hurt and not kill.

A strangled cry escaped my lips.

In that instant, the door abruptly opened.

We glanced over to see Kynes, her blue eyes smouldering as she glared. I had never been so grateful. Blistering, deadly power was emanating from her.

The Elf's magic flinched away, and I crumpled to the floor, unable to remain standing.

Kynes shrieked. "Did you not hear the Dreamcatcher, you Wanderer? She told you to leave!"