Jibril

She sees them in her dreams. It takes a few days to get a complete picture, because it always starts like looking through a mist, seeing just a shape and blur of indistinct colors. At first, she was impatient with her dreams; why did it take so long? Dreamseeing was a gift, an incredibly rare one, but it seemed so worthless when it could take her weeks or even months to make out who or what lay beyond the fog.

“You’re too headstrong,” Sofin said, cocking her head and observing her mildly when Jibril snarled in anger. “Patience is the most important virtue when it comes to the Sight, and by forcing it, you’re only making it harder on yourself. Relax. Let it come naturally.”

That sounded stupid. What good was an ability where she had to sit patiently and wait for the visions to find her? She wished that she had a useful ability, like dragons who had mastered their control of the elements. But no, instead she had to dream, and sit quietly in the mist, her eyes closed and her breathing even as she let everything slowly slip away.

And the first time she did, it only took two days to find Tirithrian. Lucky that she did, because if her usual headstrong approach had been taken, he would have been killed before she saw him.

But fate clearly had other plans, and once she’d mastered the self control she needed to navigate her dreams, it came easier. Each dragon that was revealed to her, each event that she foresaw, every power or ability she helped her fellow clan members unlock, flowed as easily as the blood in her veins.

There was a darkness, at the edge of her vision, whenever she was sitting in the mists. No matter which way she turned, she couldn’t ever really see it. Instead, it was waiting, just out of sight, although she didn’t know why. But the more time she spent in the mists, the clearer her visions got, and the harder it was to leave, the black fog creeping ever closer.

She felt pieces of herself slipping away, like the mists needed emptiness, a pure vessel. But she’d always been stern, blunt, and unsympathetic. It was a change that was apparent in the way she approached the clans she’d come to claim members from, her expression smooth and her eyes blank. They were terrified of her, of the aura that she gave off that they didn’t need powers to sense.

Jibril was but a messenger, a slave to the mists, and she carried out their will perfectly.