The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) by Dorian Hart

sleep.
     
    She stands upon a platform atop a narrow spire of rock. The platform is swaying in time to a series of massive booming thunderclaps, as though a giant is striking the base of the spire with a hammer. The tower is going to fall, and if she were real, if she were truly standing there, she would plummet to her death.
    A man is standing at one edge of the platform, a man plated in red mail. He ignores her—she is not truly there, in this dream—and looks south over a hazy ocean. In one hand he holds a shimmering black sword, and in the other is a polished gem-studded horn. His face is cruel and triumphant, a combination Morningstar finds troubling. He seems unconcerned with the spire’s oscillations.
    “This seems like a great deal of trouble to go through, Forkbeard,” he says to the air. “And my master is not entirely convinced any of this is necessary. He thinks his victory is already inevitable.”
    Another thunderbolt rocks the tower.
    “But it’s quite the spectacle, either way,” he murmurs. “Even more so if you’re wrong about how this will end.”
    “I think you’ll be surprised about how this ends,” says another voice. It’s Tor, who has appeared on the far side of the platform. Tor charges at the man in red armor, crashing into him and sending both hurtling off the edge.
     
    Morningstar sat bolt upright in her bed, drenched in sweat, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. Late morning light spilling in the window immediately blinded her; she threw an arm across her eyes and staggered to draw the curtains. It took almost five minutes for her vision to return.
    A Seer-dream! Certain sisters were Dreamseers, trained to interpret dreams and provide guidance based upon those interpretations. All Ellish priestesses understood that some dreams were prophetic though usually in small or ambiguous ways.
    Dreamseers were also, on rare occasions, granted prophetic dreams of their own, called Seer-dreams. They had been described to her as unusually vivid, and unlike most dreams which burned off like morning mist, Seer-dreams were as easily remembered afterward as any waking experience. Not for a second did she doubt that was what this was. She could still hear the sound of the thunderous booms, as clearly as if she had been there.
    Would she tell the others? Morningstar was unused to sharing…anything, really. Opinions, revelations, spiritual experiences, even mundane pleasantries had been too often turned back on her by her Ellish sisters. For something as intensely personal as a Seer-dream, all of her instincts warned her to keep it to herself.
    But then there was the boy. She didn’t see him strike the ground, but the implication was clear enough. Should she warn young Tor about what she saw? Seer-dreams could be anything from obscure metaphors to near-literal foretellings. She ought to tell him, though he’d probably forget all about it before lunch.
    Downstairs Dranko and Tor were sitting together at the living room table. Dranko was pulling on a cigar, the smoke of which was so thick and heavy that it curled downward to form a spreading cloud by the floor. Tor was methodically stacking coins. Mrs. Horn was curled up on a couch nearby, sewing up a hole in a sock that wasn’t hers. The old woman looked up at her.
    “Are you feeling well, dear?” Mrs. Horn glanced at the window and shook her head. “This won’t do at all. Boys, we need to remember that Morningstar isn’t used to sunlight.” She carefully set down her needle and thread, crossed the room, and drew the curtains across the bay windows. “There’s still plenty of light for you two to enjoy your coins.”
    Morningstar nodded gratefully to Mrs. Horn. “Thank you.”
    The old woman smiled as she sat back down. “We all need to look out for one another, now that we’ve been thrown together.”
    Dranko gestured proudly at the table. “ I’m looking out for us.”
    There was quite a lot of money there—the pile included at