He feels the nudge of Ronan's subtle, gentle intrusion, can tell somehow the second when the world simply shifts underfoot in tremors of dwindling power. Magic at play, Ronan's command of it unpolished, crude enough that Adam — himself unsophisticated in his control — can notice.

"I don't know if you should change things now we're here." Dreamscapes need stability to thrive, and this one is already fledgling, subject to the drain of Ronan's whims, his creativity, his humor. Exerted, perhaps past its natural limitations.

What won't bend will break. The forest answers, the crisp scent of freshness and running water — stilling to pour into a calm lake as Adam advances — assaults him. He crouches at the shoreline, hand hovering gentle over the bed of winking, grey and dirtied stone, before his fingers stop on the chosen piece.

He collects it, then a few siblings, rolling them in his hand before he releases them in a shallow toss into the lake water — and grins, when flickers of tepid green movements herald trouts or friendly bass.

"You made me fish," he concludes, and tries his damnedest not to sound absurdly, childishly pleased, fond beyond measure.