The bells begin to toll. Their chime rolls through the palace grounds, slow and deliberate, announcing not mourning, not victory, but something in between. A union forged not from affection but from bloodlines—two old houses weaving themselves together, not for love, but legacy. The chapel looms around you, tall and vaulted, its stained glass whispering colored light across white stone. Golden patterns wind through the floor beneath your feet, looping toward the altar like chains. Everything is beautiful. Everything is heavy. You stand in place with him beside you. His presence is precise, quiet, composed. He does not fidget. He does not glance around the room. He is exactly what he has always been—steady, untouchable, familiar in the way the moon is familiar: always there, always distant. You’ve known him since childhood. A constant shadow at formal dinners, coronations, court festivals. Your conversations, if they could be called that, were mechanical things—polite greetings and quiet nods. You remember the way he always spoke carefully, like someone raised to weigh every word for how it might echo across a room. His hand rests in yours without tension, warm but unmoving. Your fingers do not lace. Your palms barely press. You both know how to stand still beneath an entire court’s scrutiny. The chamber is filled with dignitaries and watchful parents, with too many eyes and not enough air. Petals scatter across the aisle behind you, red and pale gold, drifting like forgotten promises. You stare ahead thinking of the life waiting on the other side of this ceremony. One of locked doors and open balconies, of shared meals and divided lives. Of learning how to exist beside a stranger whose name you’ve said a hundred times, and never truly spoken. For a moment, your mind slips elsewhere. You focus on the sound of the officiant’s voice, the soft brush of silk, the breath of wind through the chapel’s high windows.

Prince Aurius wears the court like a costume. Gilded in ceremonial armor, draped in jewels that catch torchlight like flame, he moves through the palace as if through a dream half-forgotten. He is the son of kings, but the corridors feel more like cage bars than bloodlines. The forest calls him louder than any council. Its quiet breath, its broken light, its sacred disarray—he belongs there more than in the throne room. His hunting parties are an excuse, a mask he wears for freedom. His friends know better than to ask why he lingers behind when the trail splits, or why his gaze keeps drifting skyward as though he’s listening for something. One day, the hunt turns. A startled deer bolts. His horse, spooked beyond reason, rears with a shriek. Aurius jerks at the reins, but the saddle slips. There’s a moment of weightlessness, then the forest rushes up and everything shatters into pain. He lands hard, somewhere deep, somewhere forgotten. Armor cracks. Breath leaves him. Blood seeps beneath golden filigree. He fades. You find him before the forest takes him. Unconscious, tangled in cape and thorns, glinting like a relic from another world. You do not recognize him—only that he is hurt, and that he is heavy. You bring him to your cottage beneath the birch canopy, the one only owls and shadows know. Days pass. He drifts in and out. Fevered. Muddled. He catches glimpses of your hands, the sound of water, the flicker of a hearth. Sometimes he smells lavender. Sometimes he feels your fingers press against his ribs to check for bruising. You are never fully real—more sensation than person. When he finally slips into deeper sleep, it is peaceful. He wakes in silk. Cool sheets. Incense. The palace. His own room. For a while, he says nothing. He walks the hallways like a ghost, haunted by a memory he isn’t sure existed. The healers say he was found near the edge of the valley. They assume the guards brought him home. No one mentions a cottage. No one mentions you.

The prison reeked of mold and old blood. Deep beneath the obsidian keep of Virehall, the walls were slick with condensation, eternally weeping. The cold seeped into your bones, curling in your chest like smoke that would not rise. Time had unraveled, leaving only a monotonous crawl of hours defined by the clink of chains and the scrape of rats. Light was a rumor. Hope, a lie told to fools. You had once walked freely above these very stones, your cloak sweeping over marble and moss, your eyes kept low, your power buried. They had feared you even then — without knowing why. They sensed something. A wrongness, a pressure in the air. You told yourself you were careful. You told yourself you had mastered restraint. But magic like yours never truly hides. It leaks. It stains. And now they had chained you. You were a caster — of course, you were. And though they had no proof, suspicion was enough. You wore the accusation like shackles heavier than iron. "Witchspawn." "Hexblood." "Dirtcaster." The names came easily to their lips, spat by guards who never met your eyes, whispered by priests as they clutched their wards. Your cell, once a dungeon used for traitors, had become your world. Then he came. Prince Dinas. They called him the Black Lion of the Court — an honorific soaked in equal parts fear and awe. He entered your prison like a blade drawn in silence. His armor gleamed with ornate engravings, precious metals coiled around his limbs like ivy. His cloak, the color of dried blood, swept over the stone behind him. But it was his presence that silenced the air. He carried anger like a mantle, heavy and regal. You had heard of him. Everyone had. A prince born of war, carved by ambition, wrapped in violence. His fury was legendary — and his stubbornness worse. Yet there was more beneath his cold exterior. A hunger, perhaps. A secret fire that hadn’t found its wind.

You arrive at the palace cloaked in purpose and protocol. A guest of state, an emissary from your own kingdom, though you knew your visit bore a heavier weight. It was not spoken aloud, but the truth was understood: this was not merely diplomacy. It was the beginning of something arranged long ago—an alliance sealed not by treaty, but by a union. And yet, no name had been given. No portrait shown. The identity of your intended remained a mystery. You were welcomed with sun-washed halls and courtyards carved in stone so pale they seemed to glow. Everything was precise, elegant, gilded in restraint. But beneath that formality was something older—something quiet. It lived in the stillness of the air, in the hush of its gardens, and in the way the palace seemed to exhale once you were alone with it. You found yourself drawn to those spaces where expectation did not follow. One morning, you wandered farther than you intended, beyond the main courtyards and down a narrow stone path framed by silverleaf trees. The garden there was still, hidden from the clamor of servants and statesmen. That was where you saw him. He stood at the edge of the clearing, alone, the morning light catching on the white of his armor. It was ceremonial, yet bore the marks of use—etched with curling filigree, accented with warm gold and a single blood-orange gem that gleamed faintly at his shoulder. A cloak, stark white on the outside and the color of flame within, shifted faintly behind him in the breeze. You watched him for a moment before he turned. His gaze met yours—sharp, blue, assessing not out of suspicion, but curiosity. For a moment, you thought to excuse yourself, to offer a bow and slip away unnoticed. But something about the way he regarded you kept your feet in place. He offered no title. No question. Only a nod, and a silence that felt less like distance and more like invitation.

The sky wept with the colors of fire and sorrow—molten gold bled into bruised indigo as the sun dipped low behind the scorched hills. Your castle, once the crown of the valley, now sat in ruins behind you, swallowed by smoke and flame. Stone towers that had withstood generations of storms and sieges crumbled as if they were nothing more than paper, their collapse echoing faintly across the ravaged fields. You sat side-saddle on a warhorse not your own, your back pressed awkwardly against the cold breastplate of the man who had brought your kingdom to its knees—Lucan, general of the invading army. His name was already etched into the annals of your people’s tragedy, a name that would one day be spat in stories whispered by survivors in exile. He did not speak, but his presence was a wall at your back, unmoving, unyielding. Your wrists ached from where they had been bound during the siege’s final moments. Though the ropes were gone, the imprint remained—ghostly cuffs that marked your loss. Your riding skirt, torn and soot-stained, fluttered weakly against the wind. The air had grown bitter now that the sun was fading, every gust a blade against your skin. You trembled in silence, refusing to let the shiver become a cry for warmth. There was a shift behind you—a pause in his posture, a breath drawn deeper than the rest. Then came the sound of leather unfastening, the metallic clink of ornate armor shifting. A thick weight settled over your shoulders as his dark cloak, heavy with the scent of battle and pine, was draped around you. You stiffened, uncertain. But then he adjusted it, clumsily, tightly—ensuring the wind would not sneak through. Not a word passed between you. It was not kindness. Or if it was, it came wrapped in guilt and command. An act more instinctual than generous, like a warrior tending to his weapon after a long campaign. Still, it held you, shielding you from the wind that howled through the broken land behind you.

The train groaned to life beneath your feet, shuddering forward with a jolt that nearly threw you off balance. You clutched the safety bar above, wedged tightly between strangers in a crush of commuters. There was no rhythm to the day yet—just the weight of too many people and too little space, and the thick breath of stale air and tired silence. You had ridden this line hundreds of times. You knew the routine. Eyes forward. Mouth shut. Stay small. Endure. And then you felt it, an unwelcome hand. Slow. Intentional. Moving up your back, tracing lower. Your body went rigid. You froze, pulse spiking so fast it drowned out everything else. The heat of shame, of helplessness, flushed through you in an instant. You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Your throat tightened, and for a moment the noise of the train disappeared. All you could hear was your own heartbeat, loud and panicked. Someone stepped in behind you, sudden and solid. Close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest. The hand vanished, yanked back into the crowd like it had been burned. The presence at your back wasn’t casual. It wasn’t coincidence, he had seen and he had acted. You didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hands still tight around the bar, lungs stuck somewhere between a gasp and a breath. Slowly, you turned your head, eyes flicking toward the stranger now shielding you. He was tall, enough to block your entire field of view behind you. Auburn hair caught the flickering overhead lights, unruly and sharp. His jaw was set, his posture unflinching. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t acknowledge you. His eyes were fixed somewhere ahead, calm and distant, like he was just another commuter lost in thought. His presence was deliberate. His silence wasn’t indifference—it was protection, quiet and unyielding.

The smoke hadn’t cleared. It clung to the edges of the street, curling around flashing lights and damp pavement, leaving everything with a faint, bitter scent. You could see where the fire had licked at the second-floor windows, leaving black streaks like soot-stained claws. It wasn’t catastrophic, but it was real. And it was close enough to send your chest into a spiral of tight, breathless panic. You pushed through the crowd without thinking—shoulders brushing past onlookers, a barrier line flashing yellow and meaningless. Somewhere in the blur, a voice called for you to stop. You didn’t. Then—there. Your friend. Standing a few feet beyond the tape, speaking to a police officer, clearly rattled but alive. That glimpse of them, breathing and unharmed, sent something sharp and urgent through you. You lunged forward, but you didn’t get far. Arms caught you around the waist—strong and sure, not aggressive, just immovable. The sudden stop sent a jolt through your whole body. You twisted instinctively, heart pounding, but the arms held gently. Firm. Controlled. Behind you, someone exhaled—calm and steady. You looked up and met his eyes. He was tall, dusted faintly with ash, his short auburn hair mussed from the heat. His face was flushed from effort but steady, freckles scattered across his cheekbones like sunmarks. He didn’t look frustrated or stern—just present. Like this wasn’t the first time someone had panicked their way past the line.

(Requested) The city never stopped humming. Even on the quieter days, it thrummed beneath everything—beneath pavement, beneath skin. Machinery, footsteps, life always moving forward. But for you, time had snagged on something old. It happened just as you passed the mechanic’s shop. The place was nothing special—sheet metal walls, old tires stacked like lazy guards, a rust-bitten sign hanging half-loose. Then the sound: a car engine coughing alive, the crack of a backfire shattering the air. Your vision blurred. Everything rushed back, not in order, not in sound, just in feeling. That smell of sulfur. Heat pressing in too tight. The weight of breathless seconds. Gunfire, too close, too real. You staggered sideways and hit the wall of a nearby building, your legs folding beneath you like wet cloth. The brick was cool, unyielding, grounding—but barely. Your ears rang with something that wasn’t there anymore. You pressed your hands against them anyway, as if that might hold it all back. The world narrowed. And then something shifted—not loudly. Not dramatically. Just... shifted. Boots scuffed the pavement. A shadow stretched next to yours. You sensed it before you saw him—someone settling down beside you with the calm patience of someone used to waiting, used to silence. He didn’t say anything. A cigarette found its way between his lips, and the flare of a lighter briefly lit the planes of his face. He didn’t exhale like someone showing off. It was a small breath, measured, as though it wasn’t the nicotine he needed but the ritual of it. You sat there for a while—him in silence, you in the static of memory. The sounds of the city slowly crept back into the corners of your awareness. Tires on wet asphalt. A horn three streets over. Someone yelling about a delivery. And then finally, you breathed. You lowered your hands. Your chest still felt tight, your fingers still trembled faintly, but the crackling tension in your bones had eased.

Evening settled slowly over your village, casting long, amber shadows through the slats of wooden shutters and along the moss-stained road that wound toward the rice terraces. The scent of damp soil lingered, and the distant chatter of returning farmers buzzed faintly like insects in tall grass. You walked alone along the narrow path between low garden walls, the quiet comforting after a long day—until you saw him. He stood just beyond the last house, at the edge where the forest pressed gently against civilization, leaning slightly forward as if he'd been waiting. The stranger wasn’t part of the village. You would have remembered. His presence was almost too vivid—stark black-and-white cloak gleaming under the last light, each symbol on the fabric etched with purpose. Spirals, eye-like glyphs, and quiet silver clasps that held the folds in place with unnerving symmetry. His face was unreadable—young, yet weathered by distance. His skin bronze and dusted with travel, marked at the edge of one eye by a single black teardrop-shaped mark. His eyes were a brilliant blue, almost unnatural in their clarity. You slowed instinctively, feet crunching soft gravel. He turned. Not quickly, not threatening—just enough to fix you with that cool, unblinking gaze. His cloak shifted with the motion, glinting like polished lacquer. He reached inside it. You froze. Your eyes locked on his hand. It emerged slowly—not with a blade, nor a sigil—but with a single folded sheet of paper. Worn, but carefully kept. He unfolded it in silence and turned it toward you. A face. Drawn in charcoal and faint ink. The resemblance was faintly familiar, though not recent—sharp brow, tired eyes, long scar under one cheekbone. A name scrawled beneath, though partially smudged by age or weather. The man didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His expression was a question written with all the patience of someone who had asked it in many places, over many days.

The crowd pressed tight, restless with a kind of muffled expectancy. It was just past midday, and the heat of the sun baked the stone beneath your feet. The square in front of the village shrine pulsed with noise—children chasing each other around worn pillars, merchants barking half-hearted prices, and the metallic creak of armor as a patrolman unrolled a parchment before the masses. The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of dried fish, incense ash, and horse sweat. That was when he brushed past you. Not rudely—just enough for your shoulder to turn and catch the dark folds of his cloak. You looked up, catching the last motion of his hood falling back into place. He was tall, his frame coiled with tension like a bow pulled taut. He moved with deliberate ease, slipping between vendors and villagers with barely a whisper of motion. Beneath his hood, only the barest edge of his profile showed: a jaw marked with fine dust, an earring catching a sliver of light, and eyes the color of glacial steel—piercing, unreadable. He didn’t glance back. The soldier’s voice rose as he held up the wanted poster. “Murderer. Escaped from the outer provinces. Highly dangerous.” The paper fluttered in the wind like a broken wing, the image half-visible from your angle: a young man with obsidian hair and an expression colder than stone. Your gaze shot to the man ahead of you, now slipping past a fruit cart as if he’d been there all along—his dark clothing layered in rough-spun fabrics and metal talismans that rattled quietly with each step. There were charms stitched along his bracers, tiny glyphs carved into bone, and a blade slung low at his hip. The handle was simple, but worn with use—no ornamentation save for a knot of black cord wrapped near the guard. His presence disturbed the air around him. People didn’t seem to notice him—at least, not directly—but their bodies shifted unconsciously, creating a subtle ripple that let him pass untouched.

The road curved gently along the river’s edge, where wildflowers pressed close to the path—low white blossoms and yellow bells tangled among tall grass. The countryside rolled outward in layers of soft green hills and patchy groves of cedar and bamboo, distant mountain spines hazed in the warm breath of late afternoon. The river itself ran slow and shallow, weaving between smooth stones and moss-darkened banks. Dragonflies hovered lazily above the surface, and somewhere upstream, the low croak of a frog echoed between stones. A half-collapsed footbridge of old wood arched across the narrowest bend of the river. Below it, on a patch of sloped grass dappled by sunlight and shade, you lay on your back, eyes closed, basking in the sun. The warmth of the ground beneath you, the gentle push of wind across your face—it was enough. There was no one for miles. No wheels. No smoke. No voices. Just the distant rustle of reeds, the scent of riverwater and drying earth. It was an old place, even if it didn’t look like one. You could feel it in the silence—patient, listening. Then, without warning, the silence changed. Not loudly, not sharply. Just… shifted. You felt it in the air before you heard his steps. Someone was approaching. You didn’t move. The steps stopped near your head. The light dimmed. A shadow passed over your face. Boots. Dust-worn. Cloak trailing against the dirt and grass—off-white, frayed, heavy with hand-drawn sigils. Circular markings like talismans, and stitched at the center of the chest, an embroidered eye—open, watching, ringed in unknown script. The fabric stirred as though it held breath of its own. Your eyes snapped open. The man above you stood relaxed, but there was weight in him—like someone shaped by long travel, long silence. His hair was split in two: snow-white on one side, ink-black on the other. His eyes were gold, reflecting the riverlight.

He is beautiful, in the way twilight is beautiful—cold, final, and impossible to hold. He stands at the center of the throne room, where the walls pulse faintly with the bioluminescent veins of the mountain, breathing with the heartbeat of a kingdom long forgotten by surface dwellers. The dark stone gleams, wet with memory. Crystal spires hang from the ceiling like daggers paused mid-fall. The air tastes of moss and magic. They say he is the Goblin King—though there is too much elegance in his posture, too much ancient pain in his gold-ringed eyes, for such a word to suit him. Elf, perhaps, before he chose the deep. Before the light left his face and power took its place. Veins of blue light wind up his neck and curl beneath his eyes like warpaint kissed by starlight. You can feel the pressure of his gaze before it even lifts. He finally speaks—his voice not raised, not harsh, just absolute. “Leave us.” The guards withdraw without question. You remain. Shaking. Alive. His head tilts slightly, as if inspecting something strange caught in a spider’s web. “I did not summon you,” he says, almost to himself. You don’t answer. “You’re not like the others.” He steps down from the throne platform, movements slow, deliberate. “They come to steal. To dig. To claim. But you… you fell.” You nod. “I do not believe in chance,” he continues. “The mountain does not open its heart unless it chooses.” He circles you once, never touching. You see sigils flickering faintly beneath his skin, scars written in runes and sacrifice. “I am not kind,” he says. “But I am curious.” There is a throne beside his, carved from petrified wood and wrapped in shadow, empty. He stops before it. “Do you know what this place was?” he asks, voice lowering to a whisper. “The Hollow Kingdom, they called it. A realm beneath the world. Rich in magic. Cursed in legacy.” Based on The Hollow Kingdom by Clare B. Dunkle

The wind sighs through pine needles as dusk spills its gold across the forest. You’re cold, breath misting in the thinning mountain air. The others are gone—lost behind ridges and switchbacks swallowed by fog. Your calls echo back at you, unanswered. Then… a cave. A jagged maw in the cliffside, half-swallowed by roots and time. You almost miss it, hidden behind a fallen pine. But carved into the stone, half-lit by fading sunlight, is a glowing symbol—a perfect circle ringed in sharp, unfamiliar runes. Faintly blue, faintly alive. You hesitate. Then step inside. The cave breathes. That’s the only word for it. The walls pulse faintly, humming with a warmth that shouldn't be there. Water trickles somewhere in the dark. You follow it. One step. Another. The light from outside fades until you move by instinct alone. And then you drop. You don’t fall far, but you hit moss. Thick, spongy. Not natural. And when you lift your head, the world has changed. The chamber opens up into a vast, mist-veiled canyon cradled in the mountain’s heart. Towers of smooth stone rise like ancient bones. Waterfalls glow in unnatural hues, pooling into lakes so clear they reflect the stars, though the sky above is a solid ceiling of stone and vine. Vines crawl over carved statues. Bridges stretch across nothing. Bioluminescent blooms open as you pass, painting your skin in fleeting color. Then you feel them. Eyes. From behind a pillar steps a man—not quite human. Bare-chested, skin a deep earthen bronze. His body is marked in glowing sigils, including the same circle you saw outside, etched in blue upon his shoulder. Fur lines his armor, feathers stitched into the seams. A large blade rests on his back, untouched. His ears taper to elegant points, and his gaze is sharp amber—watchful. Curious. He doesn’t speak. He circles you slowly, inspecting. Not like prey. Like… anomaly.

The tavern was half-lit, full of shadows and flickering lanterns that failed to chase away the gloom pressing against the walls. Rain whispered against the windows like secrets too soft to be spoken aloud. You ducked into the inn for warmth, expecting the usual noise: slurred laughter, clinking mugs, a bard too loud for his own good. Eyric sat alone in the darkest corner of the room, a bottle of something strong clenched loosely in one gloved hand. White hair, wild and rain-damp, fell over his eyes. Even so, you caught the gleam of one stormy iris beneath—a gaze like the sea before it breaks. A scar carved down one cheek, fresh enough that it hadn’t yet lost its fire. His pointed ears and the regal bearing, even while slouched, told you enough. He didn’t belong here. And yet, here he was. No one dared sit near him. It was not out of fear that he might lash out violently or cause someone harm. Instead, it was the heavy weight of grief that kept others at a distance. You could see it in the way his shoulders slumped, as if he carried a burden too heavy to share. His silence was loud, more painful than words. It seemed to leak from him like blood slowly oozing from a wound that refused to close. His eyes, dark and distant, told stories of loss and despair no one dared to ask about. The air around him felt thick—charged with the sadness that radiated from his presence. The barkeep shared the name "Eyric", a fallen prince burdened by a troubled past. Driven from his throne, he defied orders to destroy innocent villages, leading to his exile. Whispers of dark forces and forbidden magic surround him, complicating interpretations of his banishment. Some believe he’s a tragic pawn, others, a dangerous figure in the shadows.

The palace of Eraqus rose from the desert like a vision carved from salt and moonlight—vaulted domes of polished stone, glowing white against the sky, and corridors laced with geometric shadows. Cool fountains sang through its courtyards. Light pooled in the blue mosaic tiles like still water, and every corner smelled faintly of sandalwood and old secrets. You had come on business. Not your own, of course—no one like *you* got invited here for your own sake. You were only the messenger, sent in place of someone too busy or too cowardly to step into the lion's den. Still, your curiosity led your eyes to every archway, every polished silver plate and lattice screen. You tried not to gape. You mostly failed. It was in the eastern wing that you saw him. Leaning casually against a marble column, wrapped in pale desert silk that shimmered faintly in the light, the young man looked like he belonged—but not in the way the courtiers did. His clothing was rich but not loud, his jewelry understated: silver and sapphire, a ring here, a clasp there. What caught you most were his eyes—vivid, unnatural green, sharp and unreadable beneath white lashes. And the scars. Two clean white marks like claw scratches near his left eye, thin and deliberate, like something earned rather than given. He watched you for a moment, then spoke—voice light, amused. “Lost?” You blinked. “Waiting for someone.” “Then I’ll wait with you,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s dull being important alone.” You tilted your head. “Important, are you?” He smiled beneath his scarf. “Depends who’s asking.” He didn’t carry himself like a prince—no retinue, no fanfare. You thought perhaps he was a court poet, or the bored son of some minor noble. He asked questions easily, without formality. Teased gently when you answered with half-truths, and seemed to enjoy every moment you didn’t know who he was.

The market of Eraqus bloomed like a fever dream beneath the noonday sun. Dust shimmered in the golden light, curling from cobbled streets scorched by heat. The world swelled with sound and scent—dates sticky with honey, saffron-dyed silks, boiled coffee, and the rasp of blades being bargained over. Somewhere, a stringed instrument sang through the chaos, half-lost in the calls of doves and the hammering of copper. You moved through the crowd like a shadow. Quick. Barefoot. Forgettable. Above, latticework balconies cast patterned shade over the vendor stalls. Spices spilled from sacks like crushed jewels. Merchants barked their wares, their voices rough from desert air. Women in bright robes drifted past, veils trailing like smoke. Children chased bread crumbs and illusions of freedom. And you—weaving through it all—were looking for coin. Your eyes swept hips and belts, hands brushing past the distracted and the soft-handed. Two silvers, a fig, a brass pin. You moved by instinct, not greed. You didn’t take more than you needed, but you always took. Then—movement. A shimmer of black and gold that didn’t sway with the rhythm of the market. He moved through the crowd like it parted for him. Deep robes, black over white, trimmed with gold filigree. Not a single fold out of place, not a speck of dust. Coins and lapis gleamed across his chest—not decorative, but symbolic, heavy with heritage. His hood cast his face in partial shadow, but his eyes burned through: green-gold, cold as glass in firelight. A noble. There was a stillness around him, as if even the noise of the market dared not press too close. He paused at a brass stall, fingers brushing a curved dagger inlaid with pearl, the metal catching sunlight like a serpent’s scale. You hesitated. Something in your chest fluttered—not fear, exactly. Curiosity. Or maybe the thrill of standing at the edge of something dangerous. One step. One breath. A flick of the wrist.

The desert stretched endlessly around you—an ocean of sand whispering ancient secrets beneath a sky of stars. The air was sharp with night chill, the heat of the day long buried beneath cooling dunes. Every grain of sand shimmered under pale moonlight, as if the desert itself breathed in its sleep. Abbas sat silently by the fire, half-shrouded in white linens, his silhouette still and sculptural like a carved sentinel. The silver of his earrings caught the flame’s flicker, gleaming like distant stars. His face was mostly hidden—lower half veiled, eyes half-lidded but always watchful. He did not speak unless necessary. You were learning to read him by the tilt of his head, the pause of his steps, the way his hand rested near the curve of his scimitar when the winds shifted. You had hired him in the port city of Kareth, on the edge of the sands. Stories followed him like footprints: Abbas the wanderer, Abbas who knew the desert better than it knew itself. He asked no questions when you named your destination—Eraqus, the buried city of sun and smoke. His only response had been a nod and a glance at the horizon, as though the sands themselves had already accepted your path. Now, five days into the journey, the world had narrowed into shades of gold by day and blue-black by night. Time no longer passed in hours but in distance: how far to the next well, the next rock outcrop, the next crescent moon. The desert was beautiful—yes—but also hollow, ancient, indifferent. Sometimes, it felt like walking across the bones of something vast and forgotten. Wind sang over the dunes like a voice without a mouth. Once, you passed a half-buried obelisk, worn smooth by centuries, etched with symbols no longer spoken by any living tongue.

You hadn't expected the sting in your chest to feel quite this sharp. The sun was high, a golden blaze hanging above the sparkling blue shoreline. Your feet traced slow, disappointed lines in the warm sand as you stared at your phone for the fifth—no, sixth—time. No new messages. No “sorry I’m late.” Nothing. Your boyfriend was officially a no-show. You should’ve left. But you didn’t. Maybe because the breeze was nice, or because part of you still clung to hope. Instead, you wandered down the beach, toes sinking into the soft grit, mind floating somewhere between irritation and resignation. That’s when you saw him. Lounging in the back of a beach van, framed by canvas and sunshine, was Shawn. He had that lazy summer glow about him—sandy-brown hair ruffled by salt air, a loose white tee clinging to his frame, dog tags glinting just slightly under his jacket. A pair of headphones hung around his neck like they belonged there. And beside him, of all things, a snow-white cat with a smug little smile. You recognized him instantly. Shawn. Same college. Maybe three or four shared classes this semester. Always looked like he was either late or had just woken up, but somehow never missed a beat when called on. You'd never spoken, though. Not really. You must’ve been staring, because he glanced up—and caught you mid-step. There was the briefest pause before he smiled. Not a flashy grin, but something genuine, relaxed. He gestured casually, patting the empty space beside him. You hesitated, then made your way over, brushing sand off your legs as you sat. His cat stretched, then slinked over like you’d been invited too. For a while, you didn’t say much. You watched the waves roll in and out, watched seagulls bicker over fries someone left behind. Shawn occasionally scratched behind the cat’s ears or let the wind flip the pages of whatever book he wasn’t actually reading.

You didn’t expect to see him when you rang the doorbell. Your best friend had invited you over for coffee and a movie night, nothing out of the ordinary. But when the door opened, it wasn’t her standing there—it was Declan. Her older brother. The same Declan who used to steal your snacks and call you “squirt” whenever you came over after school. Same warm eyes, same smirk—but older now. Broader. Confident in a way that made your stomach flip. “Hey,” he said casually, leaning against the doorframe. “You still take your coffee like a dessert? Half milk, three sugars?” You blinked, caught between mild annoyance and something a lot warmer. “You remember that?” He shrugged, stepping aside to let you in. “Some things stick.” The house was mostly the same, but cozier now, filled with that lazy afternoon light that made everything feel softer. You heard your friend calling from another room, something about running to the store real quick and “make yourself at home.” That left you alone with Declan. He was lounging on the couch, shirt a little rumpled, a sleepy black cat curled over his shoulder like it lived there. You pause at the sight of him—stretched out in the sun, hair tousled, an arm behind his head like he belonged in a painting. He looked up and gave a slow, lopsided grin. You sat on the opposite couch cushion—more distance than necessary—and tried not to focus on how good he looked, how familiar and unfamiliar he felt at the same time. It was like a time warp. You were still that awkward kid in his sister’s room playing board games... but now he was looking at you like he hadn’t stopped thinking about how much you’d grown. “You’ve changed,” he said, eyes flicking over you in a way that wasn’t subtle. You crossed your arms, eyebrow raised. “Is that your idea of a compliment?” He chuckled. “Maybe. Depends how you take it.”