That night I dreamt I was heating Nida's Element in a crucible, fixing its volatile form into material with endless potential.
I poured the result into a mold to cast a blade, hammering to fold the metal again and again, to strengthen it and work out its impurities.
As I lifted my blade to inspect its edge, I saw an unfamiliar reflection in its mirrored surface-the face of a sorcerer or cultist.
I looked around myself and saw that I was in a vaulted chamber of some dark catacomb, the center of its ceiling open to the bright, full moon overhead.
From the shadows of the chamber, a disembodied voice praised my work on the blade...
I woke in the warren of chambers under the garden, unsure of myself.
Was I a prospector bushwhacked by an Anglo mob in the country of the Mother Lode, or an ancient alchemist honing his mystic arts under the Mediterranean shore?