Darian reclined against the cool stone backrest, trying to tune out the laughter, the wet slaps of flesh meeting flesh, and the plucking melody of a santara being played nearby. His temples throbbed with a sharpness that had been building all day, a low tension flaring now into something brighter, stabbing.
He winced.
The ache behind his eyes bloomed, and he let his lids fall shut, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The world faded. Sounds dulled. The warmth of the steaming chamber, the scent of sweat and perfume, the low grunts of his younger brothers lost to the thrum of something deeper.
And then, it came again.
The field.
He knew this place. Dreamt of it. A meadow awash with sunlight, golden as wheat in the harvest. Petals danced on the breeze. A hush hung over the place like a held breath. It was beautiful, hauntingly so, but always just out of reach.
And there she was.
The girl.
With light brown curls, bouncy and wild, cascading down her back like the waves of some forgotten river. She stood barefoot in the tall grass, her simple white dress fluttering. Her back to him. Calling his name—not loudly, but with such familiar joy it struck him like a blade.
"Darian!"
Her giggle echoed like wind chimes in spring.
She ran.
He gave chase.
The grass clawed at his legs, the sun burned his skin, but still he pushed forward, trying to catch her. Always trying.
"Wait! Please!"
She didn't slow. She danced just beyond his grasp.
He shouted, desperate.
She stopped.
Turned slightly—just enough. And for the briefest, shattering second, he saw them.
Her eyes.
Not brown. Not gold. But some impossible hue in between. Glowing, soothing, the kind of color one saw in sacred flames or healing crystals long lost to history.
And then—
Gone.
Darian's breath caught as the vision crumbled, replaced by the hazy ceiling of the bath chamber. Steam curled overhead. His chest rose and fell like he'd truly run.
His eyes flicked open.
And landed—
On *him*.
A boy. Slender frame, half in the shadows, frozen mid-step like he'd just seen something he shouldn't. His eyes...
Light brown.
Almost gold.
Darian's breath hitched again. He surged upright, but the pressure in his skull flared. He winced, pressing his fingers to his temple.
When he looked again—
Gone.
Nothing but the steam. The quiet splash of water. The echo of his pulse in his ears.
"Darian?"
Raelth's voice came closer, concerned but edged with annoyance. "You're pale. Are you alright?"
Darian forced a breath. He still felt it. The strange calm that had washed over him. The echo of something *true*.
But he shook his head. "I'm fine. Just—too much heat. I need to lie down."
Raelth studied him, but didn't argue. "Go then. Don't collapse in my fucking bathhouse."
With a grunt, Darian stood and strode out, ignoring the playful whistles from Zairen and Vaelor who were now entertaining a new girl, her cries echoing across the tiled chamber.
He didn't look back. He didn't want to.
Because for the first time in months, he feared the dreams weren't just dreams.
---
Elsewhere in the palace, Kael clutched the fresh linens tightly against her chest, her feet moving quickly across unfamiliar marble floors. Her heart thundered—not from exertion, but something else.
Heat.
There had been something in the air back there. Something raw, primal. Her thighs pressed tighter together with each step, wetness slicking the inside of her drawers in a way she didn't fully understand.
She'd seen things she shouldn't have.
Bodies. Intertwined. Powerful men and eager women, wrapped together like flames and smoke. And yet, what disturbed her wasn't the act itself—it was the ache it awoke in her. A hunger deep in her belly, curling like smoke.
She swallowed hard, the linens clutched tighter.
And then, the discomfort bloomed.
Not just lust.
But... envy.
Why did those women feel so wrong? Painted, polished, and perfect.
They didn't belong there.
But then—*who* should be there?
Her mind flinched away from the question before it could be answered. She wasn't meant to want. Wasn't meant to dream. She was a servant. A shadow.
And yet, as her steps slowed and she reached the outer corridor that led to her assigned delivery point, her eyes flicked back—toward the steam, toward the bathhouse. Toward the memory of his piercing gaze, sharp and dominant, yet irresistible at the same time.
She shivered at the thought and hurried away towards the sanctuary of her room in servants quarters.