You

	There you stand, in its shadow, at its darkest point.

	You and it, alone, in a room with no walls, no floor, no ceiling. It looms over you, and though you can barely make out its form, black against blacker, you can very clearly feel it. Its presence casts invisible embers onto you, like a flame roaring in utter silence—and like a flame, it pulls at the oxygen in the room, replacing it with a ghastly smog that hangs over your shoulders and writhes in your lungs.

	You feel its heat grace your frozen hands, you feel its gaze lock with yours though no eyes mark its body. You feel its nails drag across your prickling skin, as it winds around you, almost as if to appraise.

	For the first time, of the hundreds you’ve had this dream, you dare to speak. It catches in your throat, a jagged object of spikes and pain, and for a moment you’re not sure if you’ll simply swallow it back, but for once, just this once, you summon the strength of will to spill your bile onto that shadow in front of you.

	“Why!?” you scream.

	It goes still. Its form quells, smoothing back almost as though floored by the fact you’ve managed to speak even a single word. It coils back around you, its unbearable heat burning through your robes as though they didn’t exist, its gaping maw splitting in front of you, finally a feature for your gaze to settle on, something to give you some perspective on its form…

	“Why!? Why!?” you chant, as if it were some magical incantation that would arraign the creature before you and tear its secrets from it. Your rage builds in your chest and spills over into your arms like roiling magma, and you reach behind yourself, managing to wrench your newly acquired blade into your grasp. The shadow bows away from you, as the blade’s glimmering light is lost in its form. You are prepared to make it answer you, if only the blade will lend its holy light to you.

	“Answer me!” you howl, raising the blade over your head and charging at the shadow…

	and it draws its blade, identical in its glory and sharpness, slamming it against yours and holding you still.

	Your eyes are locked on that blade. The deepest chill you’ve ever felt sinks into you, gnawing at your bones and seizing you by the throat. Your ears ring and your arms tremble and you step back, the sword clattering uselessly to the floor in front of you. Your gaze shifts to the shadow’s maw, of misplaced teeth and bitter light, and you come to a realization.

	You have gained a mouth. So has it.

	You have gained a blade. So has it.

	You stare, like a deer caught in headlights. You drop to your knees, staring up at it. It winds back around you, through you, and as you reach for the sword in front of you, so too does it.

	…

	You awaken, on your knees, in the dark of an unfamiliar room.

	Your fingers tremble. You can feel them dance along the hilt of a familiar blade, but the angle is… wrong. You feel your stomach, and the slightest touch elicits a horrible sound from you as, suddenly, you are cognizant of the blade on which you are impaled. With that jolt of pain pulling you completely into reality, your vision focuses immediately, and you see what has happened: your blood pools between your legs and soaks into your bodysuit.

	You stand, shakily, your hands keeping the dagger stable. Yet as your fingers shift, you see something beneath them; a pair of shadowy, gnarled hands, attached to spectral arms, clutching the blade just as well.

	You realize again.

	When you die.

	It will not.

	Doing your best to keep it from moving about inside of yourself, and trying to stay on your feet, you stagger towards the door. The light of the hallway burns your eyes, and you call out, weakly, for help.