He is barefoot, his pajamas fluttering in a wind that doesn't exist. He is walking toward a massive, swirling vortex of anti-logic at the edge of the dreamscape. The vortex is a tear in the fabric of the sky, a black hole made of shattered glass, consuming the light around it.
It is the Formless.
Asher! I scream, my mental voice ringing across the chaotic landscape. Stop! Don't go to the vortex!
Asher stops. He turns to look at us. His mismatched eyes are dull, the vibrant light entirely absent.
"It’s not a vortex, Mama," Asher says, his voice echoing strangely in the small room of his mind. "It’s the cure. It’s the fix."
It’s entropy, Asher! Kade projects, his mental voice a roaring, unyielding drumbeat. It’s chaos! It will unmake you!
"No," Asher whispers, his voice tight with the
