Réveille means ‘awaken’, in French, and it is what Dreamers have called the Realm of the Dead Gods since they first learned how to step from regular dreaming to waking dreams. Centuries ago, only the shamans of tribes could accomplish the feat, using herbs to encourage their soul to leave their body and wander. Generations slip by, and now it is a hereditary talent, rare and sought after by witches and their covens. Like her father before her, Alyxa held the only position of the Dream Witch in the coven.
To dream, for Dreamers, is to live.
“Which one of us, child, have you chosen?” Isis asks her, her voice already lamenting some loss she felt.
“Have you chosen me, little girl?” Ares demands, the swords in his hands flickering in and out of view as he dances over the courtyard floor.
Alyxa shifts in the large silver throne that they have set up for her, a sign of their flattery. She had long learned to ignore the offerings of dainty foods that were presented to her.
“You should choose me,” Thor shouts, drowning out Ares’ presence with the solidity of his form.
“I should be the one to join Morpheus on the other side of the Veil, Réveille holds nothing for me, and I could do much good in the world,” Ishtar murmurs, materializing before the silver throne.
Alyxa presses a hand to her forehead. Back in her bed, her body tosses and turns under Morpheus’ silent eyes.
“We have not yet decided,” Alyxa whispers, “I have not yet made up my mind.”
“You should do it soon, dear child,” Isis whispers, “we are all very interested in your world.”
“I will try to decide soon,” Alyxa assures the gathering.
Alone, silent, Bast sits, and waits. She knows already.
This is gripping. Getting very exciting indeed.
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