The late August sun bathed Crestwood in a golden haze, the air warm with the scent of wildflowers and the promise of new beginnings. Anne stood before a mirror in their apartment, her white dress—a simple, flowing gown with lace sleeves—hugging her frame, her gray eyes bright with a joy she'd fought to reclaim. Deon adjusted his tie nearby, his green jacket swapped for a charcoal suit, his sky-blue gaze catching hers in the reflection, a grin tugging at his lips. Months had passed since Tom's banishment—since the Dream Eaters retreated, the murders faded into whispers, and their bond healed over scars of guilt and loss. Today, they'd marry in the dandelion field, surrounded by Nina, Matt, Jacks, and Kim, a quiet vow to seal their love against the world.
"You're beautiful," Deon said, stepping behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his voice soft with awe.
She leaned into him, her smile trembling. "And you're mine—finally."
He kissed her neck, a tender brush, and the room glowed with their shared peace—until a shadow flickered in the mirror, a hum threading the air, the dream world's echo stirring once more.
In the silver forest, Tom's nightmare form writhed, sealed in the starry river's depths, his obsidian skin cracked, his black eyes burning with spite. The Dream Eaters had retreated, their hunger starved by his banishment, but the dream world's primal law—give to take—offered a loophole. He clawed at the sigil binding him, Lazare's dust a fading chain, and struck a deal with the realm's oldest shadows: freedom for chaos, control for a price. "Give me her," he hissed, his voice a snarl, "Anne—his heart. I'll break them—feed you their ruin."
The shadows stirred, their maws glowing, and agreed—his essence unbound, tethered to Anne's will, a puppet string woven from her latent dream-walker blood, dormant until now. They took his voice, his form reduced to a whisper, a price for power, and released him—a nightmare reborn to claim his prize.
The wedding day dawned bright, the dandelion field alive with fireflies as dusk fell, chairs scattered with friends, a wooden arch draped in ivy marking the altar. Anne walked the aisle, her hand in Deon's, their vows a murmur of love—"Always yours," "Forever mine"—and the crowd cheered, Nina whooping, Matt and Jacks grinning. But as they kissed, a chill swept through, the fireflies dimming, and Anne's eyes clouded—gray to black—a shadow seizing her mind.
Tom's whisper slithered in, his deal's power snapping tight: Kill him—now. Her hand moved, mechanical, pulling a knife from the cake table—a bar blade, kept as a memento—and plunged it into Deon's chest, a single, clean stab echoing Gary's death. He gasped, blood blooming through his suit, his sky-blue eyes wide with shock as he fell, her name a choked cry on his lips.
The crowd screamed, chaos erupting—Nina lunging, Kim shouting—but Tom released her, his control snapping, his laugh a faint echo as he faded, his deal done. Anne blinked, the knife clattering from her hand, and saw Deon—bleeding, dying—her scream tearing the night as she dropped beside him, hands pressing his wound, tears streaming.
"No, no, Deon—I didn't—" she sobbed, his blood staining her dress, his hand weak on hers.
"Love… you," he rasped, his eyes dimming, and he stilled, the field silent save for her wails, the dream world's hunger sated by his life.
Weeks blurred into despair, Anne retreating from Crestwood, her bar shuttered, her friends' pleas unheard. She hid in a coastal cabin, miles from town, her gray eyes hollow, her dress—still bloodstained—crumpled in a corner. Tom's control had shattered her—Gary's death a wish, Deon's a curse—and guilt gnawed her raw. The dream world whispered still, its shadows mocking, and she saw no path but one.
On a stormy September night, she stood at a cliff's edge, the ocean roaring below—a gray abyss mirroring her soul. Rain lashed her, her hair whipping wild, and she stepped forward, whispering, "I'm sorry, Deon," as she fell—down, down—into the waves, the water claiming her, her body sinking as lightning split the sky, her breath lost to the deep.
Madame Lazare felt it—a quake in the dream world, Anne's essence fading—and raced to the silver forest, her opal pendant flaring as she crossed. The starry river churned, Tom's echo snarling—freed, sated—Dream Eaters circling, but Anne's glow flickered, a spark caught in the tide. Lazare knelt, her hands trembling, and saw it—Anne's blood, her will, a dream walker's mark, dormant all her life, awakened by Tom's deal.
"She was one of us," Lazare whispered, her voice breaking, piecing it through—Anne's insomnia, Deon's birth, her strength—a walker's gift, untapped until it betrayed her. "I'll bring her back—redo my sin."
She wove a sigil—spiral, sharp—pouring her essence, her memories of Jonah, into the dustless void, a bargain with the dream world: Take me, give her life. The shadows surged, her pendant shattering, and Anne's spark flared—pulled from the ocean, reborn as the realm claimed Lazare, her sacrifice a final thread.
Deon woke in a starry landscape—no Crestwood, no field—just endless night, constellations swirling with memories: Anne's laugh, their oak tree, the bar's glow. His chest ached, the stab a ghost, and he stood, his suit gone, his body bare. Above, the sky replayed their love—kisses, fights, vows—each a star, and beneath his feet, a bright one pulsed, warm in the dark.
He knelt, lifting it—a glowing orb, Anne's essence—and it sank into him, a rush of light and pain. His hair turned snow-white, his skin night-sky black, flecked with stars, a transformation born of loss and love. "Anne," he whispered, tears falling, the landscape his limbo, her absence his eternity—until a voice called, faint, new.
Sneak Peek: Season 3
Mira emerged from the ocean, her body reborn—a woman of sharp cheekbones, hazel eyes, auburn hair cascading wet—her past as Anne erased, her name a whisper from the waves. She stumbled onto the shore, a stranger to herself, her memory a blank slate, and built a life—quiet, small—unaware of Crestwood's ghosts. One night, she dreamed—a starry field, a man with white hair and starry skin, his sky-blue eyes piercing her soul. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling, drawn to him.
"Deon," he said, reaching for her, his touch a spark she didn't know. "I've been waiting."
The dream faded, Mira waking with a gasp, her heart racing—a mystery begun anew.