Abianarin did not dream. Her sleep was a vast black expanse, with the barest smudges and pinpricks of light and random intervals — impossible to see, scarcely perceptible at the edges of her senses. She floated in this space, an eternity of gentle, motionless rest, until some ancient part of her knew it was time to wake up.
She stretched, yawned, and packed her things. The others were already up, and each one looked haunted — but none moreso than Abia herself.