Things went as this for some time. My first steps down the path to ruin were innocent enough.

Dream sylphs, I should note, take our sustenance from the fragments of the dreamer left behind when they wake — this is why dreams so rarely seem complete when you leave them, and why memories of them seem so difficult to grasp. It is our gain from the symbiotic relationship we share with humans. Much as a human needs a variety of nutrients to remain healthy, so do we need a variety of dreams to sustain us. Sadness, anger, embarrassment, joy; these are our food groups, you might say. The more bitter emotions are only an occasional requirement, but they are still a necessity.

There is no malice intended in weaving frightening dreams — scaring the dreamer is similar, I like to think, to when one in the waking world plays a prank on another. There is entertainment for the sylph in it, although there can be value to the dreamer as well in the facing of things most feared. Indeed, in the city today true fear is a rare thing indeed, so the dreams we weave are more valuable than ever — they maintain the dreamer’s connection with their primal emotions, so that they are prepared for the experience on those occasions it presents itself.

As for my dreamer, the most primal of his fears, as is the case with many, was a thread embedded deep within his subconscious mind during his childhood. He had seen a movie in which a fearsome, snakelike dragon appeared, and it had so terrified him at the time that its writhing image had remained with him long after the surrounding memories faded.

One night I took this image from him and embellished it with every fear-inspiring fragment I could find within him. I then wove a dream around it, a cavernous place full of dampness and murk in which he found himself utterly alone save the beast of his nightmares.

The visage of the beast might have been sufficient, but it is the details of sensation that pull the dreamer fully into the dream and deepen the terror. Such details are what separate a skilled sylph’s dreams from those of one less so.

I spared nothing for him, being careful to weave in the hot, foul breath of the dragon, the sting of its acid spittle on the back of his neck, the penetrating rumble of its thunderous roar echoing endlessly through the dank catacomb.

It was, I must say, among the best nightmares I have ever woven, attested to by his screams. In the role of the beast I toyed with him for some while, watching him scramble through the darkness. There was a mischievous fun in it, to be sure, but perhaps I was too successful — with each piteous cry I felt a stronger pang of guilt at tormenting him so.

As such, when I had driven him to the edge of a precipice from which there was no escape, I did not wake him suddenly, at the peak of terror, the way most such dreams conclude. Instead, I took the role of a valiant knight, stepping in to stay the dragon and allow his escape. This would provide a soothing resolution so that he might feel better rested in the morning.

I did not see this at the time, but in doing so surely I had sown the first seeds of what was to come.