Yet they fought, and seemingly without tiring; from man to man he handed death without remorse. There were seven of them when they came out of the moonlit forest, and by dawn there were none.

Their blood had darkened the silver grass, though the strange radiance of that night made it seem almost black as ink. The man who slew them stood among the bodies with his sword hanging loosely from one hand, his other hand resting against the trunk of a white and leafless tree.

He could not remember his name.

Indeed, he could remember little. He only knew that he had awakened beneath the tree with a sword beside him, dressed in black velvet garments that were neither torn nor stained. Seven men had emerged from the forest, wielding curved blades and concealing their faces behind masks of tarnished gold.

They had called him by a name he did not recognize. “Vael,” they had cried.

And then they had attacked. Now the forest was silent.

Far beyond its pale trunks, a red moon hung over mountains that seemed too distant to be mountains and too enormous to be clouds. Their summits vanished into a darkness filled with faintly moving stars.

Beneath that impossible sky stood a road paved with slabs of green stone. It wound between the trees and disappeared into a valley where towers, domes, and slender bridges gleamed with the phosphorescence of some unseen city.

The man looked toward it. Something within him whispered that he must go there. So he went.

The road seemed longer whenever he looked behind him and shorter whenever he looked ahead. At intervals he passed statues carved in the likeness of beautiful women, each with closed eyes and hands folded over her heart. Their mouths were slightly open, as if each had been interrupted in the utterance of some delicious secret.

The farther he traveled, the warmer the air became. Perfumes drifted upon it: rose, myrrh, amber, wine, and something darker whose sweetness reminded him of flowers blooming above a grave.

At last the road descended between walls of polished black stone and entered the city. No one came to greet him. Yet the city was not deserted.

Behind windows of violet glass, pale figures watched his passage. Some were robed in silver gauze; others wore masks resembling the faces of beasts, angels, or corpses.

From balconies came the soft sound of laughter. Somewhere nearby, an unseen musician played an instrument whose notes were so languid and melancholy that the man felt an inexplicable desire to weep.

Then he saw the palace. It stood at the center of the city, beyond a garden enclosed by ivory walls.

Its towers were black, but every window burned with a warm crimson light. Vast curtains of wine-colored silk hung from its balconies, stirring though there was no wind.

The gates opened before him. He entered.

The garden beyond was filled with flowers. Never had he seen flowers so beautiful.

They were enormous, some larger than a man’s head, and their petals possessed colors that seemed to have no counterparts in nature: bruised violet, luminous green, blue like drowned stars, and crimson so deep that it appeared almost brown. Many had human faces hidden among their petals.

As he walked between them, they whispered. Some spoke his forgotten name. Others begged him not to remember it.

At the garden’s center stood a woman beside a marble fountain. She was dressed in black, but the fabric was so fine and tight to the body that it seemed woven from shadow itself.

Her hair fell to her waist in dark waves, and her skin possessed the pallor of moonlight upon snow. Around her throat was a necklace of small red stones.

She smiled when she saw him. “You have come at last.”

“I have come before?”

“Many times.”

Her voice was soft enough to make the question seem unnecessary.

He looked into the fountain. The water was perfectly still, yet he saw within it a succession of images.

A desert beneath three suns. A ruined temple. A city burning beneath an emerald moon. Himself, older than the mountains, kneeling before an altar while a crown was placed upon his head.

Then the image changed. He saw the woman. He saw her lying upon a bed of black roses, her arms extended toward him. He saw himself beside her.

He saw blood. He stepped back.

“Who are you?”

The woman laughed quietly. “You have forgotten everything except how to kill.”

She approached him.

There was nothing hurried in her movement. Every gesture seemed part of some ritual whose meaning had been known to civilizations now buried beneath the earth.

“My name is Serathine,” she said. “I am the keeper of this house.”

“What house?”

“The last house.”

He looked again at the palace. “What is this place?”

“Dream.”

“Whose dream?”

She touched one finger to his lips. “Yours.”

At that moment the garden vanished. He found himself in a vast chamber beneath the palace.

Candles burned in niches along walls of black marble. Their flames were blue.

A long table stretched through the center of the room, covered with golden vessels, dark fruits, crystal decanters, and plates of food whose origins he could not guess. Serathine sat at the head.

He sat opposite her, and between them lay his sword.

“You killed seven tonight,” she said.

“They attacked me.”

“They always do.”

“Who are they?”

“Those who wish to wake you.”

“And why should I remain asleep?”

“Because waking is death.”

She poured wine into two crystal cups. The wine was almost black. He drank.

For a moment he tasted roses and iron. Then he felt an extraordinary warmth spread through him, followed by a sensation of falling upward through endless darkness.

Serathine watched him. “You have fought your way through this dream for a thousand years.”

“That is impossible.”

“Is it?”

She leaned forward, and the candlelight moved across her face. “You remember seven men. But there were seven hundred before them. Seven thousand before those. Every time you begin to remember, they come for you.”

“Who sends them?”

“You do.”

He stared at her.

She smiled. “You created the hunters.”

“Why?”

“Because you are afraid of yourself.”

The candles went out. Something breathed beneath the floor. When the flames returned, Serathine was standing behind him. Her hands rested upon his shoulders.

“You once ruled a kingdom,” she whispered. “Not this city. Not this world. Something older. Something whose ruins lie beneath the roots of every tree and beneath every dream men have ever dreamed.”

“What kingdom?”

“Ask yourself.”

He closed his eyes. Memory came. He sat upon a throne made from the bones of impossible creatures. Before him stretched an empire of black towers. Millions knelt beneath a sky filled with enormous silver planets. Priests chanted his name.

Then came Serathine. She stood before his throne in white. He remembered loving her. He remembered fearing her. He remembered placing a dagger against her heart. And he remembered her smiling.

The memory shattered. He opened his eyes.

Serathine was watching him. “You killed me,” she said.

He could not speak.

“Then you killed the world.”

She touched the red stones at her throat. “These are the jewels from your crown. You gave them to me after you had conquered death.”

“Why am I here?”

“Because you could not bear what you had done.”

She moved closer. “Because even a monster may dream of innocence.”

Her fingers brushed his cheek. The touch was almost tender. The man felt desire awaken within him, but it was a strange desire, mingled with grief and terror.

He wanted to flee from her and embrace her at the same time. He wanted to tear away the veil of the dream and descend into whatever darkness waited beneath it.

Instead, he kissed her. The chamber disappeared, and they stood together in the garden beneath a sky without moon or stars.

Flowers opened around them. The air trembled with music.

Serathine’s arms were around him, and her lips were warm against his. For a little while there was neither palace nor city nor sword nor memory—only the intoxicating illusion that two lost creatures had found each other at the end of eternity.

Then she whispered against his ear: “Do you remember now?”

“Yes.”

The word came from somewhere deeper than speech. The garden changed. The flowers withered. The ivory walls became ruins. The palace collapsed into dust.

Above them there appeared not a sky, but an enormous abyss. Within it floated dead worlds, extinguished suns, and pale things that moved among the stars like worms in a corpse.

He remembered everything. His name was not Vael. That had been the name of the king he murdered.

His own name was older. Older than the city. Older than all kind.

He remembered being summoned from the void by beings who had no bodies, beings whose thoughts had poisoned the dreams of entire species. He remembered giving them worship in exchange for knowledge, remembered discovering that death was merely a door. And he remembered opening it.

The seven men in the forest had not been men. They had been fragments of his own conscience.

Every warrior he had slain had been another piece of himself. Every corpse was a memory. Every battle had been an act of forgetting.

Serathine stood before him, no longer human. Her beautiful face remained, but behind it he perceived an infinity of faces: maiden, queen, corpse, demon, child, mother, stranger.

Her eyes contained the beginning and ending of worlds. “You have remembered,” she said.

“What happens now?”

“You wake.”

He looked at the ruins. “And you?”

She smiled sadly. “I remain.”

“No.”

“You have always said that.”

He took her hand. The abyss opened above them. “I will not leave you.”

“You already have.”

“No.”

“You killed me.”

“Then I will die with you.”

For the first time, she seemed afraid. Around them, the ruins began to dissolve. The garden became transparent. The city beyond it vanished. The red moon appeared once more, enormous and swollen, hanging above the mountains.

The man understood. The dream had never been a prison. It had been a mercy. Beyond it waited the truth: a universe in which he was neither man nor king but an ancient hunger wearing memory as a garment.

Serathine squeezed his hand. “Choose.”

He looked at the sword lying among the flowers. He understood its purpose now.

It had never been a weapon against others. It was a key.

He lifted it, and Serathine closed her eyes. But the blade entered his own heart.

There was no pain, only an immense sensation of falling. And somewhere, very far away, a man awoke beneath a white, leafless tree.

Dawn had come. Seven bodies lay around him.

He stared at them without recognition. Then he looked at his hands. They were clean.

A woman was standing beyond the road. She wore black. He could not see her face.

“Vael,” she called.

The man rose. He followed her into the forest. Behind them, beneath the roots of the white tree, something enormous opened its eyes. And from very far below the earth came the faint, delighted sound of laughter.