no, you move

Twelve hours ago, you decrypted the files that contained incontrovertible proof of Zayne’s subterfuge— flight logs and covert missives and a signed agreement that the Empire would be handed over to him on the condition that he ended your life. You’d stared and stared, unwilling to believe he’d done such a thing. But when you went to him, numb and flanked by your Imperial Guard, he took one look at you and, with the resigned finality of a chess master graciously lying his king on its side, said, “You know.”

That You know has been haunting you.

Robbing you of sleep.

Eating you alive.

For hours, you’ve been lying awake and mentally replaying every recent interaction you’ve had with Zayne, wondering when the switch happened. When had he turned against you? Why hadn’t you been able to sense it?

The not-knowing is killing you. So, against your better judgement, you’re doing something about it.

The corridor leading to the temple is empty save for a pair of guards stationed at the door, expressionless and military-neat in their carbon-steel armor. They stand up straighter as you approach, though their gazes remain fixed on some distant point.

“I am going to have a conversation with the Imperial Grand General,” you announce. You’re kitted out in cream and silver. Royal colors. Official colors. You are here as the Empress, not as the Grand General’s former student. At least, that’s what you hope the guards believe. “Alone,” you add hastily. “And you will neither open nor permit others to open these doors for any reason, regardless of what you might hear. Should you fail or disobey my orders, I will see you tried for high treason. Do I make myself clear?”

Their responses are immediate and spoken in tandem: “Yes, Your Majesty.”

You hadn’t expected them to challenge you, but their frictionless cooperation still fills you with a morose sort of unease. Like all soldiers aboard the Valkyrie, these two were trained by Zayne himself. And now they are serving as his jailers.

If you dwell on it too long, you will go mad.

Exhaling, you step up to the retinal scanner and let it read your biometrics, antsy as the red light sweeps over your features. Zayne is on the other side of this door, but which version of him will you encounter? The mentor or the turncoat?

With a muted chirp, the doors whoosh open to reveal a darkened vestibule.

Dark like the gullet of a beast.

Maybe this was a mistake. Zayne made his choice, and interrogating him further won’t change anything, but… But you need to hear him confess. He’s been so decisively silent ever since his arrest, and a childish part of you clings to the hope that this was all just a misunderstanding.

For your own sanity, you need to smother that hope.

Sympathy for the guilty is a weakness, and you cannot afford to be weak right now with nearly a third of the Council and at least half of the nobility questioning if you are fit to rule. So, head held high, you step over the threshold.

“Computer,” you say, “disable the video and audio feeds originating from the temple, seal all doors to this sector, and scramble all override codes.” Your hand finds the pommel of your sword. Squeezes. “Until further notice, prevent any attempts to reinitialize the feeds or gain entry to this area of the ship. Authorization code: Valkyrie Alpha Zero-Zero-One.”

“Confirmed,” comes the computer’s dulcet response. The doors slip shut behind you. “Implementing lock-out measures.”

At your collar, your communicator crackles to life, and the gruff tone of the Captain spills through. “Your Majesty,” he starts, “it app—”

You swat at your device to silence it before he can say more. “Computer,” you add, “also disable comms routed to me.”

“Comms disabled,” the computer chimes, infallibly obedient.

Zayne was like that once. How foolish of you to think he would be like that forever.

The vestibule spits you out onto a dark floor lit by the cold, cosmic sea twinkling beneath. Drifts of golden leaves lie scattered about, fallen from the branches of ginkgo trees that line the atrium, and at the center of it all is a ceiling-height statue of the Avenging Lady— eight meters of grey marble, posed as though she’s challenging the heavens themselves. She’s clad in a windswept gown and wearing a mantle that covers her eyes, and she bears an uncanny resemblance to you.

Zayne is standing near her feet.

One arm is folded behind his back, his white glove contrasting harshly against the deep sable of his uniform. There’s no way he hasn’t heard you, and though he also undoubtedly recognizes your gait, he hasn’t turned to greet you— hasn’t even acknowledged you.

Is this how your time together comes to an end? As strangers?

His warning from the day of your coming-of-age ceremony rings cruelly in your ears: “When you ascend the throne, individuals whose power rivals yours will become your enemy… and that includes me.”

You didn’t believe him then. You do now.

As you draw closer, your pulse hammers, then stutters. What are you even doing here? This is reckless. Reckless and indiscreet. His fate should be left to the Council.

But you need answers— need him to tell you to your face that he raised you like a lamb for slaughter.

That he’s not being framed.

That he—your preceptor, your most trusted advisor, your lifelong keeper and guardian—saw an opportunity to seize power at the expense of your life and chose to pursue it.

You come to a stop five paces away. Grit your teeth. “How were you going to do it?” you ask. The accusation sits heavy on your tongue, wrong-tasting and repulsive, and your forearm burns from how tightly you’re gripping your sword. “Poison? A blade across my throat while I slept?”

His reply is a rote and dismissive, “Your Majesty shouldn’t be here,” but you’re done heeding his counsel.

“Perhaps a public execution,” you continue. “A spectacle to demonstrate your indomitable might and dispel any notions that I was simply being held as your prisoner— that there was ever a chance of returning me to the throne.” Zayne is not a brutal man, but he is the greatest military and political strategist this Empire has ever known. And executing you would’ve been the strategic choice. “It’s as you’ve said before: the most effective way to quash a resistance is to steal its hope.”

He says nothing, and you take his silence as confirmation.

It’s really true, then. He was plotting against you.

As the scope of his betrayal sets in, an ache blooms beneath your ribs, splintering and abrupt, like fissures cracking across a pane of glass. He was going to kill you. He was going to kill you.

Grief swiftly transforms into fury, then into resolve. You stand taller. “Apologies for failing to cooperate with your scheme, Grand General”—you unsheathe your sword, and the bladesilver sings like a mourning dove—“but I’d rather just get this over with.”

Zayne finally turns his head enough to glance sidelong at you, his calculating gaze flicking over your form. More than anything else, he looks tired.

“The Imperial Council might have spared you,” you say bitterly, pointing the blade at his neck. “I will offer no such quarter.”

Zayne returns his attention to the statue. “Do as you must, Your Majesty.”

The dispassionate use of your title stings like nettle rubbed over sunburnt skin. Does he think you’re bluffing? That you don’t have it in you? Has the legendary tactician sized you up and determined you lack the conviction to take a life? Indignation curdles in your gut. Whatever the two of you once were, whatever affection you once held for each other… it means nothing in the face of him orchestrating a coup. He’s ruined everything.

Blood hot in your veins, you attack.

Zayne steps to the side, arm still tucked behind his back like you’re no more a threat to him than a child throwing a tantrum. Worse, he has the audacity to look truly, genuinely surprised. It enrages you. You lunge and slash again, and again he dodges, nimble as a fox.

Suddenly, you recall that he has never once been defeated in a duel.

He narrows his eyes, and you can practically see the lecture brewing— notes on your technique and mental fortitude, followed by a scolding for your impulsivity. Were this a sparring match, he’d be giving you pointers right about now.

But this is not a sparring match. Not this time.

Steeling yourself, you engage him again. You swing with intention, studying his defensive strategy, and stumble upon a combination of maneuvers that forces him to conjure an ice shield. Your blade bounces off it harmlessly, but it feels like a victory because finally, finally he couldn’t simply dodge. He looks impressed, and you’ve never hated him more.

You hate him, you hate him, you hate him.

Yet even now, in this moment, you can hear his voice inside your head, instructive and tender in cadence.

Find your control. Breathe through the movements.

You whip your blade in a circle, arm extended, hips leading the motion. It forces Zayne to jump backward, and he narrowly avoids what would’ve been a fatal blow.

Dance, don’t rampage. Grace will conceal a strike better than strength will land one.

You try to block him out, but he is as much a part of you as your own blood, your own breath. He molded you into what you are, taught you everything you know, and because of that he is always one step ahead of you. How do you best the man whose instruction shapes your every thought?

Can you?

Doubt is just as dangerous as hubris. Consider them servants of the enemy, and deal with them in kind.

You bite back a scream, half tempted to turn the sword on yourself and cut him out of your mind. Instead, you direct your ire outward, at its source. Rage sharpens your reflexes, imbuing each of your swings with limb-severing force. It also loosens your tongue, and the curses you’ve been itching to hurl at Zayne come tumbling out. “Usurper.” You slash; he sidesteps. “Snake.”

He moves like water, like this is a waltz.

“I trusted you,” you snarl, your blade striking nothing but air. “Confided in you.” Your sword carves another lethal arc, but Zayne compensates with an easily summoned ice shield. Still, he does not attempt to disarm you. “I loved you, dammit.”

This time when you thrust forward, he catches you by the wrist and doesn’t let go— just holds you there, back to chest, as you struggle to wrench your arm free. He could snap your neck if he wanted to. So why doesn’t he? You glare up at him, and where you expect to find the Grand General’s enmity, there’s only Zayne’s turmoil. He looks troubled. Looks devastated.

It’s a ploy. It must be. You won’t fall for it.

You yank your arm free and spin to put distance between you, then you charge forward. He’s unprepared for the speed of your attacks—stabs and slashes chained together like a spirited melody—and you manage to nick his sleeve. It’s not enough to draw blood, but it’s enough to make his eyes widen.

You pull back to catch your breath. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

His throat bobs. “That sword,” he says, voice thick, expression unreadable. “You wield it well.”

You glare at him, dumbfounded. That’s it? After everything he’s put you through, after destroying his reputation and tarnishing his legacy, after retroactively poisoning every intimate moment the two of you have shared, he chooses to comment on your combat prowess?

Hot, vicious moisture gathers along the rims of your eyes. “Why did you come to my bed?” you mutter, jaw quivering. “Why did you make me think…”

The echo of his touch still lingers beneath your robes. His lips against your skin, his weight between your thighs, his body moving in perfect, precise harmony with yours— it’s all right there, right at the surface, fresh as the night you gave yourself to him. Fresh and raw and blistering.

You’re not unused to people using you; you just never expected it from him.

Your mistake.

You get control of yourself, but only barely. Then, voice low and caustic, you say, “You’re no better than all those slimy men you spent half my life warning me about.”

It looks like Zayne wants to say something. You don’t give him the chance.

Your sword cleaves through the air, axe-like in its directness. Zayne blocks the strike with his arm, though his icy vambrace shatters on impact. Then, before you can recover, he uses your momentum against you to grab you by the wrist and pull you close, face-to-face this time. Something—an excuse, an apology—is written in the broken lines of his expression, but you don’t care to decipher it.

“So much for the Imperial Grand General being without vices.” You scoff, trying for indifference, but the next words snag on the way out. Leave you bloodied. “When it came down to it, he just couldn’t pass up the chance to find out how good of a fuck his star pupil was before he removed her from the game board once and for all.”

With a single blink, Zayne’s expression goes blank and his grip on you slackens.

You wrest yourself free, capitalizing on his lapse in vigilance, then slam your pommel into his sternum. He goes down hard, back to ground, skull thudding against the glass, and when you place a boot on his chest and point your sword at his throat, he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t resist in the slightest. Zayne, the untouchable and undefeated duelist, lies incapacitated at your feet, silent as he awaits your final judgement.

The victory rings hollow.

Your lungs burn.

Answers, you remind yourself. You came here for answers. “Why, Zayne?” Tears pour freely down your face now, though you keep your jaw clenched tight. “Just tell me why.”

Why the deal with Halron.

Why the night you spent as lovers.

Why everything he’s done since you were crowned Empress.

You would have given him any territory he asked for, lent him all the influence he could ever want. Why wasn’t it enough? Why weren’t you enough?

Zayne’s eyes, forest green and normally flecked with the sun’s own gold, have gone cold and dark. He wears surrender like a burial shroud. “You know better than to show mercy to traitors,” he says. “Finish it.”

You try to picture the killing blow. Picture slicing his carotid in the way he taught you. Picture him bleeding out in this desecrated temple. Picture the moment his eyes would dull and his chest would still.

It turns your stomach.

You can’t do it. You can’t be his executioner. You never should have come here.

Zayne’s expression hardens. “Finish it,” he says again, then grabs the blade and forcefully guides it toward his neck.

Time slows. Your mind races.

This isn’t right— why is he helping you kill him? Why did he do any of this? Zayne has never been tempted by power, not in all the years you’ve known him, but more than that, he is not sloppy. And the deal with Halron was sloppy. Everything that came after was sloppy. Zayne knows how to scrub flight logs and encrypt messages. He has taught the best spymasters in the Empire how to conduct their business.

Yet here you are, with a pristine dossier detailing the minutiae of his sins— a dossier full of files you just happened to intercept with a passcode that just happened to be your birthday.

The improbability of it all snaps into focus.

The Imperial Grand General has never been bested in a duel.

Oh, you are such a fool. You didn’t outsmart him; he handed you the game.

Using all your might, you yank the sword to the side, and it spears into the floor not even a finger’s width away from Zayne’s ear.

Your knees buckle.

You end up with a hand braced against his chest, panting. Spent. Immediately, it becomes obvious that Zayne could’ve held out longer, could’ve weathered another dozen assaults. Sweat glistens on his brow, but his breathing is deep and even. You, on the other hand, have not exerted yourself like this since your days at the Academy.

Things were so much simpler back then, when you were just his student and he was just your teacher. When the fates of entire planets and systems and galaxies were not resting, leaden, on your shoulders.

You stare at Zayne, the Grand General.

Zayne stares at you, his Empress.

And for the first time in all your years, you become acutely aware of just how far he was—is—willing to go to prevent war from consuming this Empire. That understanding is followed by anger is followed by grief. One thought claws its way atop the rest: how dare he.

The Avenging Lady looms over you. Hers is a room of confessions, and she—Mistress of Verity, Harbinger of Justice—is owed the truth.

“You fabricated the evidence…” you say softly, disbelief making your voice waver.

Zayne looks away.

Blood seeps through his glove, red staining white, and you reach for his hand. He lets you have it. “Zayne…” The sword has carved tracks into his flesh.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, wearily: “They would have kept challenging you.” His gaze staggers back to yours. “Again and again, until you were beyond my protection. Until they succeeded.”

The Empire is teeming with power-hungry leeches, the nastiest of whom are heads of the noble houses. The reason you’re even in this situation is because of them, because they split their support between you and Zayne. Some of them earnestly believe Zayne would be the more capable regent; most, fueled entirely by uncomplicated, opportunistic greed, yearn for a time of conflict because that would better facilitate their acquisition of contested territories.

Deposing you would practically guarantee a galactic war, what with how the Federation and Khaosi are nibbling at the edges of Empire space.

“You—” The scolding bunches up in your throat. “You let me think— let everyone think—”

“You were born to rule,” he supplies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the cosmos. “It was high time I stopped standing in your way.”

“You have never been in my way.” For him to suggest otherwise feels akin to blasphemy.

Zayne props himself up on an elbow and brings his other hand—the uninjured one—to your face. You lean into the touch. There is comfort in the familiar, in him sweeping his thumb across your cheek and drying your tears as he has so many times before. “Yes I have,” he says, expression breaking the way of a rueful smile.

You think again of the trees at the palace— a sapling hungering for light while trapped in the shadow of its elder, overlapping root systems vying for nutrients. “You could’ve stepped down,” you say. “Or retired. Or—”

“You know that’s not how this works, Your Majesty.” Zayne’s correction is gentle but firm, and the way he lingers on your title is an unsubtle reminder of the predicament you’re in.

A predicament he put you in.

No, that’s not entirely right. Tension has been mounting for years. Your coronation was merely the catalyst, and Zayne’s actions, severe as they were, weren’t dissimilar to a body spiking with fever to burn off an infection.

You shake your head. “I won’t let you go through with this.”

“Yes you will.”

“I’ll tell the Council the truth.”

“No you won’t.”

He is so infuriatingly calm. “You’ll be tried for crimes you didn’t commit, for which the sentence could be— could be—” You can’t make yourself say it.

“It will be all right,” he says, soft and sure. “No harm came to you, and executing me would only elevate me to martyrdom, which would likely embolden the military factions.” Zayne sits the rest of the way up, then rests a forearm on his bent knee. “Vespyr and Ornak despise me enough to vote in favor of capital punishment, but the rest of the Council will not risk destabilizing the Empire just to see me hang— not when such instability could also cost them their necks.”

He really has thought this through. Of course he has. He’s the Grand General.

The only thing he didn’t account for, it seems, was you confronting him. Had he gotten his way, you would’ve gone to your grave believing he betrayed you. Technically he did. He kept his plan from you knowing full-well evidence of his treasonous actions would devastate you. Isolate you. Hasten your transformation into a mistrustful, self-reliant ruler who would always account for the scenario where her closest allies proved duplicitous.

But maybe that was the point.

In your final year at the Academy, you’d been torn from your bed in the dead of night, dragged before Zayne, and accused of selling classified intel to the Federation.

“Y-You know I wouldn’t do that,” you’d stammered.

“Do I?” he’d replied, gelid and distant. Gone was your doting preceptor. In his place was an impassive authority acting in service of an institution that punished treason with death. “Convince me.”

Nothing you’d said had been sufficient, not in comparison to the evidence he laid out before of you— messages you’d never sent, wire transfers you’d never received. And no one could corroborate your innocence because every piece of data was timestamped during the windows you’d slipped your guard detail. But that had been the point— to teach you how essential it would be to keep a record of everything you did and everything you said so that enemies couldn’t exploit your desire for privacy, couldn’t construct a narrative about what happened when you were truly alone.

After Zayne had dropped the act—of course he knew you were innocent; he was the one who’d forged the documents—you’d screamed and beat your frustrations into his chest. The adrenaline had turned into tears. Tears had turned into clinging to him for comfort.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said softly, one hand stroking down the nape of your neck over and over again. “Sometimes experience is the best teacher.”

“I hate you,” you’d spat, face buried in his chest, body shaking with the after-effects of visceral, unbridled fear for your life. “Why couldn’t you just ground me for sneaking out?”

“Who says I haven’t?”

Much as you’d been cross with him for staging such an event, the lesson had taken. You’d never slipped your guard detail again. Never, until today. And now, in the confines of the Lady’s sanctum, you’re once again piecing yourself back together after one of Zayne’s deceptions.

He might not be executed for what he’s done, but he will be exiled.

“No,” you say stubbornly. It has taken more than a decade to arrive here—as equals, as lovers—and you’re not ready to part ways, not ready for him to be sent where you cannot follow. “No, I am the reigning Empress, and—”

“And you were my student first,” he says. There’s that cadence again, the one he used to use during seminars at the Academy. “Consider this my final lesson.”

Your expression pinches in sorrow. “Master…”

Zayne casts his gaze to the sword that’s still embedded in the floor. “Mercy, like betrayal, carries a cost.” His blood has spread from the gash on his palm to your own gloves. A shared injury, almost. He sighs. “And the bill has come due for us both.”

It’s not fair what the Empire demands of you— not fair that you’re being forced to lose him so soon after finding each other.

But Zayne’s web of intrigue is too well-spun, and there’s no way to halt the events he’s set in motion without potentially triggering a civil war. Pardon him, you appear weak. Help him escape, you appear incompetent. Reveal the truth, get tried alongside him as a conspirator. And if the Council does not rally behind you in the wake of Zayne’s presumed betrayal, it will encourage would-be usurpers to make a play for the throne.

Millions could die. Perhaps billions.

“Let me do this for you,” he says. Kisses your palm. “My Empress.”

You grind your teeth. It’s not fair. But you’re out of moves. You’re out of moves and you refuse to let his sacrifice be in vain. “Damn you,” you whisper, a scathing rush of breath, and then surge forward to kiss him. Meanly. Fiercely. You hike your skirts, swing a leg over his hips, and seat yourself on his lap. He accommodates you. “Damn you, Zayne.”

“Language,” he chides, the word muffled against your lips.

You take his jaw in your hand, grip harsh, crimson smearing across his moon-pale skin as you hold him there and glare. “I will speak to you however I please.”

He lets out an amused huff. “So you will.”

“And you will be grateful for the gift of my attention.”

“Of course.”

“Stop agreeing with me.”

He smirks. “Yes, Majesty.”

You sigh and tip your forehead against his. Let your eyes slip shut. “You have made such a mess.”

He skims a hand up your side. “I did what was necessary.”

“No, you did what was strategic,” you hiss, pulling back to scowl at him. “That is not the same.”

He lets the accusation hang there, unrefuted. “You have grown into a formidable diplomat, Your Majesty. As shrewd as you are just.” He pushes his thumb across your lips, slow and affectionate, and smooths away your frown. “It has been my greatest honor to witness you bloom in the way I always knew you would.”

You hear the words for what they are: a goodbye. It’s like your chest is being cracked open. You’re not ready.

A gloved finger traces the ridge of your cheekbone. “The Empire will thrive under your uncontested rule,” he finishes, pride glinting in his eyes.

It’s the most he’s ever praised you. You can hardly bear it.

The thought of being without him has a black hole opening within you. It feasts on your confidence, siphoning away your faith that you can do this alone. You have always been able to turn to him in moments of doubt, when you couldn’t determine whose voice to listen to, when you couldn’t discern a patrician’s motives, when you couldn’t predict the way an adversary would respond. He is your shade, your safe haven, but once you leave this room, once you return to Alore, no longer will you be permitted to seek refuge beneath his branches.

He believes you are ready to stand in the unfiltered light. You hope he’s right.

“You are going to spend the rest of your life making this up to me,” you say sternly.

Zayne angles your chin down so that he can place a kiss on the bridge of your nose. “As Your Majesty commands.”

What have you ever done to deserve such devotion? You were a spoiled, willful, sophomoric thorn in his side for years, and despite that, he has given you everything— a crown, an army. Himself. Once again, heat wells beneath your eyes, though this time it’s born of limerence rather than despair, and you burn with a need for one more memory with him, untainted. Something to get the sour taste of today out of your mouth. You reach for his belt. “Starting now.”

Zayne’s hands fly to yours—interference that takes the form of a caress—as he glances nervously at the doors. “If someone were to see us—”

“They won’t,” you say. When he returns his gaze to you and cocks a brow, you add, “I… may have threatened everyone with the same charges you face if they disturbed my interrogation of you.”

That charms a smile out of him— a reserved one, but a smile nonetheless. “An interrogation, was it?”

“I got answers, did I not?”

He hums.

“Now,” you continue, wiggling your fingers until he lets you have your way, “I want you to bid me a proper farewell.” His belt yields to you, as does the clasp on his trousers.

“A proper farewell,” he says, uninjured hand pushing beneath your skirts as the bloodied one settles on your hip, “would require a private villa”—a kiss to the swell of your shoulder—“a bed”—another to the base of your throat—“and at least three days and nights.” He finishes with a kiss to the curve of your jaw.

Arousal stirs low in your gut, and as he nuzzles the space beneath your ear, breaths warm against your skin, you shiver. “An earnest one, then.”

“Earnest,” he murmurs, lips sowing supplications everywhere they touch, “I can do.”

And though Zayne may not be a believer, he puts every single one of the Lady’s disciples to shame when, in a stolen moment beneath the star-speckled firmament, he worships you.

It’s over too quickly, your coupling, but you dare not linger. You have already risked too much.

Wordlessly, Zayne helps you fix the lay of your skirts, then he kisses you one last time, deep and slow. You commit it to memory— the feel of his mouth on yours, the greed of his embrace. He’s as reluctant to let you go as you are to leave him, but somehow, you find the strength to pull away, to extend him one last mercy by making the decision for him.

You’ll be with each other again. Of that, you’re certain. It may take months or years or even decades, but one day, you will stand in the light together, side by side.

When you emerge from the sanctuary, palm-shaped splotches of red stamped all over your pearlescent gown, a small crowd has gathered. The guards did as you ordered, despite the disheveled captain’s protestations, it would seem.

“Page Medical,” you say, careful to keep your tone firm and slightly detached. You need to get ahead of this mounting scandal. Your appearance—the placement of some of the hand prints—invites questions that you cannot allow anyone to voice. “The prisoner is bleeding.”

The captain pushes forward. “Your Maj—”

“I am unharmed,” you say, interrupting him, and though he narrows his eyes, he at least has the sense to hold his tongue. Whatever he intends to say to you will be done later, behind closed doors and ideally after you’ve washed Zayne’s scent off of you. “Now page Medical,” you continue. “I will not say it a third time.”

Someone—an ensign, you think—jumps to action. Others follow suit.

Good. Perhaps you can still salvage this.

You test your hunch with a step forward, and the crowd parts for you like steam struck with a gust of wind. Relief follows. It sits high in your chest, light even though the rest of you feels heavy.

It’s as Zayne said: everything will be all right.

You leave the way you came, and before you even reach your quarters, you’ve sketched out a plan to reunite with him. If you play your cards right, and you intend to, his banishment might turn out to be a blessing. After all, is it not an Empress’s right to visit any of her territories whenever she pleases?

Holding your breath, you listen as the intruder stalks down the length of the sleeping area with seemingly practiced quiet and little hesitation. You’d heard of bandits before, circling excavation sites like vultures in hopes of snatching whatever they could from archaeological digs, but you hadn’t imagined they’d be so bold as to break into occupied tents at night. Especially when your team’s expedition hadn’t actually yielded anything of value yet. 

The footsteps draw closer and closer and your gaze darts around the dimly lit, cramped space of your sleeping area, searching for anything you can use as a makeshift weapon. Serendipitously, a heavy metal envelope opener sits within grasp, its faux gold handle glinting in the dying candlelight. It’s not exactly the terrifying weapon you would’ve preferred, but you snatch it up regardless, desperate to arm yourself with something. 

The muffled noise of its hilt knocking against your bedside drawer must’ve alerted the bandit because the footsteps pause just outside the curtain of your “bedroom”. You hold your breath, steeling yourself as a pale hand reaches around the dark canvas drapes.

“It’s late,” Zayne’s voice sounds from just beyond the divider, his familiar stern features appearing in the makeshift entryway. 

Relief floods your body and your arm slackens, nearly knocking over your already-dying lamp. 

“Zayne,” you say, never more elated to see the post-doctorate fellow in your life. “I thought you were, like, going to kill me,” you say, trying to keep your voice as hushed as possible, despite the adrenaline pumping in your veins. 

He cocks his head in confusion. “You thought I was going to kill you?” 

“Yeah,” you cry-whisper, kicking off the thick cotton of your sheets. “I thought you were a bandit that was trying to steal our stuff.” 

He slips inside your space, tucking the divider closed behind him. 

“There’s nothing of value in this tent. The most we’ve found is shattered pottery, not unlike what’s in every historical museum in the country.”

You scoff at his matter-of-fact tone. “Yeah, but they don’t know that,” you motion your head towards the outside of the tent, referencing the hypothetical bandits. 

You’re unsure if it’s a trick of the light, or if it’s just late enough that your brain begins to conjure hallucinations, but Zayne suddenly looks as if he’s smirking. “Well, I can assure you that there’s no one out there for miles. It’s just us, the desert, and maybe some hungry foxes.” 

Realizing that this is the first time you’ve ever been alone—and in such close proximity—with the fellow academic, you suddenly grow a bit more self-concious. You tuck in your knees to your chest and drop your gaze to rest at the collar of his jacket.  “What were you doing outside?”

“Thinking,” he says, his right hand twitching towards a rectangular bulge in the lining of his jacket. It’s an open secret that Zayne is a smoker, the unmistakable scent occasionally clinging to his hair and his clothes in almost-imperceptible amounts, but you’ve never seen him actually do the deed. 

“Was it a good, uh, thinking session?” you broach awkwardly. The lantern is flickering precariously now, drowning you in seconds-long durations of darkness. Thankfully, the sky is clear and the moonlight shines strong through the gaps in the large, communal tent. 

“Yes,” he remarks, after a pause. “It’s very peaceful out there. The sand dunes are remarkably beautiful, even at night.”

You watch as he hovers near the end of your cot, the cloying scent of tobacco hanging in the air as he hesitates to intrude further into your personal space. In all of the months that you’ve known Zayne, you think you’ve never seen him look so unsure. He’d always been the cold, stoic academic in your eyes, delivering his research and answering questions with such cutting confidence at all times that you’d just assumed that that’s who he was. 

“Must be nice,” you whisper, silently revelling in the thought that you were probably one of only a few people who had ever gotten to see this other side of him. “I might join you sometime.” 

“I think you’d like it,” he states, as if he knows what you’d like, as if you’d had more than two one-on-one conversations in all the time you’ve known each other. However, something in his tone tells you he might be right.

His eyes land on the cover of the thick academic journal lying on your flat pillow. “Anything good in the latest volume?” 

You glance at the artistic cover photo of weathered ruins on stone. “There’s an article in there about Niavan farming practices,” you say, recalling the article that you had nearly finished reading. “Something about the different tilling practices and the way they rotated crops.” 

Zayne makes a face. “The author is Mustermann, I presume?” 

“Yeah! How did you know?”

“The Niavan agriculture circle is so small, there wouldn’t even be enough people to rent out a private room in a restaurant, much less a conference space,” he says matter-of-factly. “Mustermann is…hard to forget.”

You can’t help but giggle, picturing an overly-stiff Zayne interacting with a boisterous, red-faced professor. As a newcomer to the Niavan archaeology space, you were still learning the ropes of academia and what it meant to be a researcher in this area. In fact, you’re sure that you were only invited to this dig as a first year graduate student because of your unusual aptitude in the area of Niavan paleography.

“Zayne,” you say, after a moment of reflection. “Doctor Zayne, I mean,” you correct yourself, remembering his technical title. “Do you think I should be here?” 

He seems to hesitate for a second before slowly lowering himself to sit at the end of your bed. 

“Yes,” he says. “I don’t think there is anyone else who can read and translate Niavan as quickly and as accurately as you can,” he studies the sandy floor beside your trunk. “Perhaps not as quickly as Doctor Lern, but you’re certainly getting there.” 

The validation you feel in this moment is enough to settle your mind tonight, and perhaps for the rest of the week. “You really think so?”

He looks up at you, the glare of his glasses slightly obscuring the deep green of his eyes. “I think,” he starts slowly, “that it’s normal for students like you to feel impostor syndrome. If you weren’t qualified, you wouldn’t be here. And even if that were the case, it would only be on us for not being able to see it sooner.”

You ruminate on his words for a second before speaking again. “Thank you, Doctor Zayne.”

Elsewhere in the tent, someone lets out a sharp snore. Their bed creaks as they roll over and their snoring decrescendos to a low, steady noise once more. 

“It’s late,” he says, standing up. The cot squeaks lightly at the sudden change in weight and you watch as he brushes invisible sand from his jacket.

“Goodnight, Doctor Zayne,” you whisper cheerfully, more than pleased at the outcome of this conversation. 

He nods and heads toward the entrance of your sleeping space, his silhouette cutting a sharp line in the shadows along your curtained wall. 

“Oh,” he says, his chin turning towards you again. “It’s quite cold at night. Do you not have any warmer sleepwear?” he asks. 

Your hands instinctively fly up to cover the bare skin of your forearms. It’s true that they’re blemished with goosebumps but inexplicably you don’t feel as cold as you should be. 

“I didn’t bring anything warmer,” you say dumbly, shrinking back into your sheets. In your naivete and excitement to join the dig, you’d simply thrown together whatever clothes you thought were practical for extended periods of time in the sweltering desert. This had not included any loungewear with fabric thicker than tissue paper so you had had to learn the hard way that the desert was, in fact, very cold at night. 

“The others didn’t tell you what to pack?” Zayne’s frown is deeped by the flickering shadows of your bedside lamp. 

“It’s my fault,” you assure him, raising your hands. “It hasn’t been that bad so far—plus, it just means that I don’t wake up drenched in sweat.”

“Still,” his mouth draws in a tight line. 

“I’ll be fine,” you insist, voice pressing slightly above a whisper. “Please go to bed.”

He relents with a slight bow of his head before his figure slips into the shadows of the tent beyond the curtain. 

“Goodnight,” he says, before disappearing entirely. 

“Night,” you whisper before his footsteps trail off in the dark. 

You lean over to blow out your candle and spend the next hour lying in your cot, staring at the dark woven roof of the tent, listening to the myriad of soft breathing and light snores, and wondering if you can pick out Zayne’s among them all.

The next few weeks are grueling, with most days beginning as early as five in the morning, while the air still holds a stiff chill, in order to beat the unforgiving heat that comes later in the day.

You had joined the excavation in its last season, when the temple had already been mapped out and gridded, and most finds documented, but there was still the endless task of going through every potential item of interest and recording it for the field lab to go through.

As an archaeologist hopeful, you prided yourself on being detail-oriented. In fact, you’d always thought that was one of your defining skills, but now, amongst other grad students and real professionals, you were always waiting for the moment when someone would inevitably call you out for mis-cataloguing a shard of pottery or fumbling the handling of an already-cracked glass bead. You were too slow, your fingers too clumsy around the delicate tools, and your notes too awkwardly phrased and littered with corrections and messy strike-throughs that you’re constantly sure the other shoe is about to drop on your exhausted, sand-covered self.

The only time you feel the vice grip around your psyche loosen is at night, when you sit outside the field lab tent and listen to the sand shift across the endless dunes. Zayne was right, of course, you did like it. Even though your time outside wasn’t always alone or quiet, the soft beauty of the desert, highlighted by the moon’s lustre, was a sight you did not believe you could ever grow tired of. 

Speaking of which—

“Hello,” a cool, deep voice slices through a rare moment of silence. 

You turn around, unsurprised by the intrusion. “Doctor Zayne.”

“You don’t have to keep calling me Doctor,” he points out, the soft metallic clicking of a lighter punctuating his sentence. 

“Having a PhD still makes you a doctor,” you counter with a smile as the familiar, cloying scent of tobacco begins to drift in the space between you. 

“I’m sure my doctorate in Niavan archaeology will be very helpful the next time Arthur eats a peanut butter cup and is too panicked to remember how to administer his own Epi-pen,” he returns, just as smoothly. 

“Mmm,” you tilt your head, watching as he takes a long drag of his cigarette, “I think in another life, you would’ve made an excellent doctor, Doctor Zayne.”

The corners of his mouth quirk up in a small smile, “I thought you said I was already a doctor.”

“You know what I mean,” you laugh, grateful for this small moment of relaxed familiarity between the two of you. Over the weeks you’d been here, Zayne had remained emotionally distant, but physically close, often joining you at night during your treasured moments of quiet in the desert. 

While he was still quite the enigma, you’d like to think that you were now more familiar with him than most others at the dig, especially since he’d elected to spend some of his own free time with you. 

“Do you think we’ll find anything significant?” you ask, allowing your mind to wander back to your work. In the distance, the clatter of empty cans and drunken laughter fills in the quiet after your sentence.

Zayne exhales, the tendrils of smoke dissipating slowly in the cool night air. “There are inscriptions,” he begins, “in the antechamber within the tower. A good amount is damaged but Doctor Lern believes it describes how they developed the medical practices they used to combat the plague detailed in the records from the Western temple.”

“Really?” you turn towards him, the excitement in your tone apparently amusing Zayne. 

“Have you not been inside the site?” he muses, tilting his head. 

You furrow your brow, an odd mixture of shame and irritation bubbling within you. “No, I…I’ve been recording the finds from one of the smaller temples. I haven’t been allowed—or, I mean—asked to work in the main temple area.” 

Zayne hums. “It’s truly quite beautiful,” he admits, an edge of awe in his voice. “The walls are covered with murals and the paint is not nearly as faded as we’ve seen in other sites. The main chamber itself is…remarkably well preserved. There’s a carved depression in the center of the room, much like a large bath, or even a pool. We believe there may even be pipes for drainage.”

Excitement, mixed with the elation of seeing Zayne so animated, fizzes in your chest like a shaken beverage. “That’s—that’s incredible,” you breathe. 

“I know,” he flicks the ash from the end of his cigarette. “We thought it would be destroyed. All of our previous sources indicated that it was actually part of a tower that had collapsed entirely, but perhaps it was simply buried.”

“Wow,” you marvel, imagining the temple in all its glory. Images of brightly painted steles and towering columns, lit by rows of roaring braziers fill your mind. Of course it’s a far cry from the faded walls and crumbling structures of its current state but the vision enthralls you nonetheless. 

“It’s a shame you haven’t seen it,” he says after another drag. “The pictures really don’t do it justice.”

Your eyes flash to his and a sudden wave of boldness overcomes you. “Would you take me to see it? Now?”

He blinks, clearly surprised. “I—It’s not a good idea right now. We’re not supposed to be…” He bites back the remainder of his sentence. 

“I can’t,” he says finally, shaking his head. “It would be breaking at least five different safety rules, not to mention the trust of our supervisors.”

“Oh,” you say, your eyes dropping to your own footprints in the sand. “Yeah, no that makes sense.” You try not to let the disappointment show on your face. Really, you should know better—as a mere grad student, you shouldn’t be trying to get yourself, or Zayne, in trouble.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, sounding truly apologetic. “Maybe Doctor Lern will let you work in the main temple once everything else has been recorded.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” you nod, giving him your best smile. “Patience hasn’t always been my strong suit,” you admit, “but I’ll try to keep my head up.” 

“We all have our flaws,” he shrugs and you feel the blossoming hope within you wither. On one hand, you know that it was almost naive of you to think Zayne would be your accomplice in trespassing onto an archaeological dig site. On the other hand, with the way he’d spoken about the temple, you thought he shared your excitement—that he’d understand.

“I should go to bed,” you say after a few more moments of silence. “I’m kind of getting used to waking up at four thirty, but it just means that I get sleepy at nine.”

“Wait,” Zayne says abruptly as you turn to leave him alone in the night. You pause and look back, surprised to see a light blush dusting his cheeks.

“There’s a sweater on top of my trunk. Please take it if you’re still cold at night.”

The expression on your face must be adequately shocked because he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to take it. It’s just—it’s just in case.”

The gesture is so moving that you find yourself grinning. “Thank you, Doctor Zayne,” you gush and he nods before waving you off.

“Goodnight,” he mumbles.

You’re nearly bouncing as you walk back to the tent, not even minding the sand that finds its way into the sole of your shoe. 

True to his word, there’s a deep blue knitted sweater folded neatly on the lid of his storage trunk. The weight of it surprises you—it’s heavy and the yarn is soft and plush. You tangle your fingers in the thick fabric as you take it back to your own bunk, picking up Zayne’s familiar, clean smell from the garment. 

Once behind the thin curtain separating your personal space from the rest of the camp, you pull the sweater over your head and try to refrain from being too giddy about being wrapped in Zayne’s scent. You suppose it’s normal to feel somewhat attracted to the tall, handsome postdoc—especially since everyone else here was decidedly age-inappropriate and spent most of their conversations discussing the kids they’d left behind during their weeks at the site.

A little workplace crush never hurt anybody, you think that night as you tug the thin sheets of your cot over yourself. On any other night, you would be shivering with your knees tucked into your chest for to conserve body heat, but tonight, you’re lulled to sleep by the warmth of Zayne’s sweater and the soft, pleasant scent of his unfamiliar laundry soap.

You open your eyes to find yourself already standing upright, your body feeling strange and weightless as you take a step down a long hallway of shining stone. The braziers lining the walls roar with flames, their heat licking at your limbs as you pass by each one. While you aren’t acutely aware of your destination, it feels as if your body—or whatever is controlling your body—knows exactly where to go.

Your gait picks up to an intentional march, carrying your body straight past towering pillars and full-colour murals that you would have killed to study at any other time. But whoever or whatever is piloting your body keeps their gaze high and forward. 

After what feels like an inordinately long time, the grand hallway terminates at a tall set of doors, inlaid with swirling patterns of gold and obsidian. You examine the whorls, at the way they branch and wind around each other like the stems of a vine. Judging from their appearance, you guess that the doors are likely as heavy as they are beautiful and you hope that whoever has control of your body doesn’t think that you could possibly push them open. But then you raise your hand in a short, almost dismissive wave and the hinges begin to creak. 

Okay, you think, so I’m a wizard in this dream. Cool. 

But your body continues forward, adamant on not allowing you to dwell on any details of the situation you’ve been so unceremoniously thrown into. Instead, you approach a gigantic pool carved into the center of the large circular room and stop short of the water’s edge.

“Zayne,” your voice calls out, loud and clear. There’s an impatient edge to your voice that you could never imagine using with your senior and while as bizarre and out-of-place as it may seem, you half expect the tall academic to appear from behind one of the columns in his usual pressed shirt and trousers. 

Instead you’re greeted with nothing but vacuous silence. A small huff escapes from your throat and for a second you wonder if you’d regained control of your facilities.

“I seek an audience with you, oh benevolent—”

A hand lands on your shoulder and your soul nearly tears itself from your dream body in surprise. 

You whirl around and come face-to-face with—

—Zayne?

Except it isn’t Zayne—not really, at least. The male that stands before you is just as tall, with the same modelesque, cold features, and inquisitive green eyes. However, there’s an intensity radiating off of him that makes your skin crawl with unease. The golden chains along his body shimmer as he moves back and you realize that this Zayne is wearing very little. If you were in control, you’re sure that you would’ve looked away by now, too flustered to even sneak a glance, but you hold his gaze firmly. 

“Goddess,” he addresses you, almost teasingly. It’s hard to believe you’re anything of the sort, but instead of denying it or turning away, you only raise your chin in response.

“I was looking for you,” you say, voice softening. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here, or if you would have left me again.”

“I would not—” 

Shirtless Zayne stops, his eyes narrowing as if he can sense a change in the air.

Without warning, his hand shoots forward, trapping one of your wrists in a tight grip. You and your body both flinch, shocked at the suddenness of the action. He raises your arm well above your head and you splutter with indignation.

“Who are you?” he presses, his voice a near growl. His eyes bore into yours and you feel him searching, attempting to tease apart your soul from that of the other inhabitant within this body. Something within you—the real you, not this dream figure—begins to heat with an intensity. Like someone had lit a match and was now holding it too close to your skin. You feel the edges of your soul begin to smolder. 

“Zayne,” a cry from your throat sounds. “What are you doing—?”

“Get out.” Zayne’s voice commands, his stare holding strong, and your consciousness bursts into flames. 

Before you crumble into ash and smoke, and your vision burns away, you catch one last glimpse of the fury in his eyes, of the primordial power burning deep within.

You wake with a start, your skin hot and soaked with sweat.

Zayne—real Zayne—’s sweater is still wrapped around you, the damp threads sticking to your back and trapping the heat tight against your torso. You scramble out of your sheets, panting as you allow the cool night air to wash over the little exposed skin you have bared. 

You push the sweater up over your shoulders and squeeze out of the sleeves, allowing it to hang around your neck like a clunky, oversized scarf. The exposure of your arms and lower back is enough to finally relieve you and you lay there for a few moments, staring at the seemingly endless dark above you and trying to calm your still racing heartbeat.

You rub at your wrist where other Zayne had yanked it hard. Flexing the muscles there, you wonder if the ache you feel there now is real, or if your mind had somehow manifested it as an artefact of your dream.

From the darkness still blanketing the tent, you estimate that there are still a couple of hours until daybreak. You take a long breath and feel the slow dread of working a full day on inadequate sleep worm its way into your body. You have to at least try. So you close your eyes again and inhale slowly, trying to focus on anything but the lingering heat within your ribcage and Zayne’s eyes, burning in the back of your mind.

The next day is less awkward than you expect. 

You join the breakfast tables, groggy and quiet as usual, and try not to devour your boxed cereal too quickly. When Zayne sits down next to you, you manage to greet him with an appropriately tired-sounding mumble, but when he looks at you, it takes all of your resilience to hold his gaze. 

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” he asks later, as you walk towards the point at the site where your paths diverge.

“Like…being a dog in a past life or something?” you tilt your head. Even though sunrise had just passed, the rays were already beating down on the sand and stone around you. 

“Not exactly,” Zayne nudges up his glasses with the tip of his index finger. “Less animal, more human. From the site near the mouth of the Urtama river basin, they’ve found some scrolls and tablets detailing funeral rites. They believed that human souls were simply reincarnated over and over again—generation after generation. So you would’ve known everyone you were about to meet in your next life, even before you’d met them.”

You consider this idea. “Well how does that work with the population growth over the millennia since?”

He shrugs, the brim of his hat obscuring his eyes. “New souls put into the rotation, I suppose.”

“I wonder if it’d be better to be a new soul or one of the really old ones,” you wonder aloud, digging your toe of your shoe into the sand in front of you. “It must be nice to be an old one though,” you continue. “Maybe you get to meet your friends or your lovers over and over again.”

“Perhaps,” is all Zayne says before you reach the crossroads. 

There’s a moment in which you, fleetingly, consider telling him about your dream but then common sense returns to your body and you bite your tongue. 

“Have fun in the main temple,” you settle for, trying not to sound too bitter as you part ways. 

He gives you a look so pitiful (by Zayne’s standards) that you almost regret saying it. 

“I can speak to Dr. Lern, if…if you want me to. Maybe I can mention that I need assistance—”

You shake your head. “No, I don’t want her to think that I’m not grateful for even having the opportunity to be here, I’m just…” you huff, a light layer of sweat already beginning to form on your bro. “I’m just being petty.”

Zayne’s eyes—the same eyes you’ve been seeing every time you close your own—shift towards the well-trodden path below you. “You’re allowed to feel however you do,” he begins evenly, “just don’t let it affect your work here.”

Something in your chest crumples inward and you turn away. You hadn’t meant to sound like a petulant child, but you did, or—you do. For weeks you’ve been trying to prove that you belong here. You’ve taken every assignment, done all the grunt work, and never complained like you were supposed to, but in this moment with Zayne, you’d let your frustration rear its ugly head.

And why? Because you felt safe with him? Because you had a dream about him half-naked? Because you thought he was your friend?

You take a deep breath and force those thoughts into the furthest reach in your mind. 

“I know,” you say, squaring your shoulders, “I won’t.”

“Good,” Zayne says, and you leave the conversation there. You only turn once as you make your way to the easternmost temple and watch him walk into the hot, hot desert, the air shimmering all around him.

You’re having one of those dreams again. 

In the barely lucid state you’re in, you can’t recall how many times it’s been, but you’re beginning to think that the way your brain is dealing with your workplace crush is becoming a little trite. 

You’re lying on a chaise, the soft velvet pressed against your cheek as a strong arm around your middle holds you close. Despite the blanket of night that covers the terrace, the air is still pleasantly warm, if a little humid. Your skin is sticky and hot as you peel your companion’s arm from your side carefully, settling it beside him as you sit upright. 

You don’t need to look to know who it is, but your body decides to face him, eyes lingering on the sharp planes of Zayne’s face as he sleeps. In the dim of the night, he almost looks relaxed, and you hold back the urge to reach out and run your fingers along his cheek. Instead, your hand reaches out and hovers over the deep ruby gem that sits just above his sternum.

You watch, helpless, as your fingers slowly ease the stone from its setting. You hadn’t taken the controller of your body to be a thief, especially when it came to Zayne, but the determination you feel from your host is enough to keep your doubts at bay. 

The jewel detaches with a soft clink and you feel its weight in your palm, feel the carefully cut facets and points. It’s about as heavy as you would expect a gem of that size to be, but there’s something else—something about the stone that makes it thrum, as if it lives and breathes as you do. 

You try to look into its depths, but your body stands up before you can perform your assessment. 

You look back at Zayne’s sleeping form, the pang of guilt so strong that you feel it ripple from your host’s consciousness and reverberate throughout your own. However, while you don’t condone stealing, you’re glad he isn’t awake to incinerate your soul again—which you’re sure would be a natural consequence of the situation at hand. 

The dream then distorts and blurs before refocusing on the chamber with the pool again. You’re alone, but you’re standing at the far end now, your back to the dias as you face an impossibly tall column of golden light. Glancing up, you’re not even sure there is an end to how high up the spire goes. 

Your body takes a step closer and you can see the way the light ripples and shimmers. Specks of golden dust break off and form into shapes—two rabbits running across a field, the breach of a whale in the ocean, flames burning savagely through a forest, and finally, a man and a woman frozen in an embrace. 

In your hand, the stone begins to thrum even stronger now, like a miniature heart in your palm. You feel its pulse, feel the way it almost mimics your own frantic heartbeat as you take another step towards the golden column. 

A voice in the back of your mind tells you that this is wrong, that you shouldn’t be here and that you definitely shouldn’t be stepping into the light, but you have no way of telling this voice that you’re not exactly in the driver’s seat right now. 

You reach a hand—the one holding the gem—into the light and it feels impossibly warm and almost like a relief, as if the spire was waiting for you to bring it the stone. For you to be here. 

You push forward, allowing the golden light to consume your wrist and your forearm. 

This is right, you think, as the warmth spreads along your limbs. I’m meant to be here. This is right.

Your head jerks off of your pillow as someone jostles you from sleep.

“Wake up,” a familiar voice hisses, low and frantic and your eyes snap open. 

“Wh—? Zayne?” you mumble, your head still foggy as you take in his crouched form beside your bed. It’s still dark in the tent, meaning it’s still night, unless the sun had somehow imploded while you were asleep. 

“What time is it?” you whisper hoarsely, attempting to stifle a yawn. 

“It’s two thirty,” he says, glancing at the display on his phone, before tucking the bright device away. 

“What’re you doing here?” you rub the sleep from your eyes. 

“I’m taking you to see the main temple,” he says, those familiar eyes gleaming in the dark. 

Your short journey across the desert is as exhilarating as it is clumsy. 

You stumble out of the tent as stealthily as you can, one of your shoes still half-off as you trail after Zayne. You nearly double back when you realize you’d left your phone on your bed, but decide against it after remembering that you’d nearly tripped in front of another post-doc’s bunk. 

The light from Zayne’s own phone bobs and stretches across the dunes of sand as you speed-walk across the well-trodden path towards the dig site. You’re panting as you catch up to him, unable to hide the grin on your face as you finally, finally start down the path towards the main temple.

The moon above you is full and bright and closer than you’ve seen it in months, like it’s leaning in closer to watch as the two of you race across the dunes towards the angular, half-crumbled structures ahead. As you near the entrance to the site, the path solidifies into well-worn blocks of sandstone, lined by ropes and markers, courtesy of the dig team. And then the pillars appear—first the ones that had crumbled to just their foundations, followed by those that were only half-intact, all the way up to the ones at full height with the friezes still attached at the very top. 

Your rushed footsteps slow as you pause to take it all in. Even in the meagre light of the moon, you can make out the carvings in the stone, the grooves in the dirt between them where the braziers must have sat. It’s all so stunning and all so—familiar. 

You frown as the thought flickers in your mind. It can’t be familiar; you’d never seen this place before. You hadn’t even seen the photos, since you’d made it a point to ensure that your first view of the main temple be in-person. 

Weird, you think, as you jog to keep up with the light in Zayne’s hand. But you brush it off as soon as the entrance to the tower comes into view. 

There are wires everywhere, leading from multiple generators and terminating at large panels of lights all throughout the site. Certain areas were cordoned off with the same rope you’d seen near the entrance and a set of scaffolding climbs three storeys high against a faded looking mural. 

“What do you think?” Zayne asks as you fall in step beside him. His light bounces up the entrance, illuminating the eroded rock and chipped paint that frames where the doors would have sat.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe. You watch as he shines his phone towards the interior of the chamber, the dust and sand swirling in its beam before the light is consumed entirely by the darkness within the structure. 

“Is it safe to go inside?” you ask, eyeing the cracked stone along the roof. 

“Yes,” he says, “as long as we stay within the path. We’ve been in here for weeks and there have been no structural concerns.”

That’s enough reassurance for you as you bound after him, the excitement within you pulsing like a whole new heartbeat. 

Within the chamber, your footsteps begin to echo, the sounds cold and hollow as the two of you make your way into the center of the room. From the limited radius of Zayne’s light, you can just make out the carvings along the walls—endless lines of Niavan, preserved for millennia, containing information that could potentially alter the world’s understanding of the ancient civilization. And you were here, standing in the midst of it all. 

It’s almost too much to process. 

You take a step closer to one of the illuminated walls and try to focus, despite the adrenaline coursing through every limb of your body, turning you into a live wire. But your brain can’t, or won’t, focus in on what those symbols might mean. Instead, your mind chooses to catch on a small noise from further within the structure. A whisper of air, like wind coming through a back entrance of the temple. But you’ve seen the maps the team has sketched and you know for certain that there’s no back entrance. 

You glance behind you, the darkness of the temple yawning over your shoulder. 

You’re too old to be scared of the dark, and much too old to believe in ghosts. But here, in this cold, ancient place, you begin to worry that you’re not alone. 

Zayne follows your gaze. “Did you hear something?”

“I think so,” you squint into the void. “It’s probably nothing though.” 

The sudden, intrusive thought that this could be a tomb, as well as a temple, crosses your mind. You know that this is unlikely; the Niavans typically interred their dead in necropoleis further uphill from the river basin. However, considering the size and grandeur of the temple, you can’t rule out that this might be a final resting place for someone important. Maybe a high priest or an emperor. Either way, the thought of stumbling across a body—no matter how dusty and skeletal it may be—makes your skin crawl.

But underneath the apprehension and disgust, curiosity creates a pull in the pit of your stomach that’s hard to ignore. 

“Zayne,” you whisper, as if there’s anyone else to hear you. “What’s in the main chamber again?”

“Hmm?” the tall man hovers close and you can smell his laundry soap and skin, mingled with the stubborn scent of cigarettes. “Just the ceremonial pool, like I told you, and the ruins of something that Doctor Wei thinks may be an altar.”

A pool. Your brain conjures the image of shimmering, shallow water, lapping softly at your thighs. Of the scent of lotus blossoms and incense, cloying your senses. In this moment, the image feels so far away, like a memory from the first few years of your life. But a memory nonetheless. 

“Can I see it?” you ask, already starting along the dark path towards the inner chamber. 

You don’t hear Zayne’s response but the source of his light follows you, casting oblong shadows that shrink and grow along the ancient walls. You grip the ends of your sweater—Zayne’s sweater—over your fingers and forge on, ignoring the stubborn chill of the night. 

The sound of your hurried footsteps echo along the dusty walls as you pass marker after marker. Zayne catches up to you swiftly, no doubt because his stride is about one and a half times as long as yours. 

“Why did you bring me out here tonight?” you inquire, glancing up at the academic. 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he returns, the glare of the flashlight obscuring his eyes from your view.

“No, I mean,” you glance at the bobbing shadows along the cold sandstone, “why tonight?”

Zayne makes a thoughtful noise. “I…I’m not really sure why I chose tonight. I had a really strange dream and then I couldn’t go back to sleep so I just—” You can’t see his expression but you can picture his frown. 

“I see.” You think about your own dream, about the way you had lain next to someone who was Zayne, but also clearly wasn’t. You’re still not sure what to make of it. The man in the dream looked like your companion, but there was something about him that felt much more intense and much more dangerous. 

But your train of thought about Dream Zayne is quickly derailed by the unmistakable sound—and feeling—of another soft gust of wind from within the chamber doors. You shiver as the air brushes past your cheek, impossibly warm and indescribably familiar. Like walking into your own home after a long, winter’s day. 

But as Zayne’s light scans over the entrance, you notice that only one of the doors remains intact, its panels dusty and worn. If you squint, you can still see the way its ridged with swirls and twists. 

Like vines, you think, as you peer past the intricate design and into the deep nothingness behind it. Yet, you don’t feel like you’re about to be swallowed whole by the void, entirely against your will. Instead, you feel it beckon you forward, filling you with such a sense of sureness that your body acts on its own, drawing you into its endless, warm embrace.

“Wait,” Zayne calls after you as you walk into the main chamber, seemingly unbothered by the lack of light or sense of direction.

You stop short and breathe in, letting the familiar scent of dust and the desert at night fill your lungs. 

Everything about this feels good, you think. It feels right.

That is until you hear Zayne softly swear and the unmistakable rumbling of something large and heavy moving behind you. You freeze, watching hopelessly as the dim glow of the moonlight shrinks and vanishes entirely, cutting you off from the outside world. A final heavy thud seals your dark fate and your heart drops to your feet.

Zayne’s phone light flickers.

“The door closed,” your accomplice breathes and you shakily turn towards the entryway. Indeed, what had once been an open door, held ajar by a box, was now a tall set of ornate, firmly-closed doors with not even a crack of moonlight showing from its edges.

Panic bursts within you like a broken dam, flooding your body with a sudden wave of fear that quickly extinguishes the confidence you’d carried just a second ago. 

“It wasn’t supposed to—” Zayne’s usually calm voice is frantic. “I didn’t even think it was possible. It took two men to even get the doors to budge. This shouldn’t be—”

But he’s cut off by another gust of wind, this time stronger and harsher than you’d ever felt it before. It catches on the fabric of your pyjama pants and sweater, jostling you back half a step. You falter, but manage to plant your leg behind you to avoid falling over. Whipping your head around, you search for Zayne, who also remains standing, but with an uncharacteristically startled expression on his shadowed features. 

You open your mouth to call to him, but suddenly, the light in his hand flickers once, twice, before going out entirely and submerging you in darkness. 

There’s a quick second of nothingness—no sound or light or sensation, before the air, still thick and unusually warm, billows around you in another gust, scattering sand across your sneakers and calves. Your limbs begin to tingle with the uncomfortably familiar sensation of shock and all you can focus on is the way you can’t breathe, can’t get enough air in your lungs as the wind seems to steal it directly from your lips. 

You shuffle forward, arms reaching out in the void, as you try to find something, anything, to stabilize yourself as the edges of your vision begin to grow fuzzy. 

“Zayne,” you manage to croak, as you shuffle forward. Your foot catches on a wire and you stumble forward, unable to move your body fast enough to catch yourself as you fall to your knees. The grit of the sand cuts into your palms as you land, but the sting barely registers as you scramble to sit up. 

“Zayne,” you call out again. The echo of your own voice, reverberating across the cold, dark walls of the chamber, is the only response you receive. You’re trembling too hard to stand, so you just sit there, clenching and unclenching your clammy, sand-caked palms. You tell yourself that you just need a minute, just a minute, to ground yourself and calm down before you get up to look for Zayne. But as the seconds pass and your pulse continues to pound across your skull, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll be stuck like this forever, panicked and trapped in the dark until dehydration claims your consciousness, and eventually, your life. 

You bring your knees to your chest and tuck your chin downwards. You won’t die here like this—you can’t. In the morning, the rest of the crew will be here and when they notice that you and Zayne are gone and that the door is closed, they’ll find a way to get you out. Right? 

But if they can’t open the door…

“Zayne, are you there?” you ask again, your weak voice barely carrying through the dark. “I just—I just want to know if you’re okay.”

Silence again. 

How had it all gone so wrong so suddenly? You had been so sure, so excited to be here to witness the discovery of one the greatest archaeological finds of this century, and now you were hopelessly trapped.

You imagine your bodies, dry and desiccated in this cold, ancient tomb for all eternity. 

“Please don’t leave me alone,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut.

Something warm caresses your cheek, the sensation soft and gentle, unlike the strong gust that had blown through the chamber just a moment ago. It feels almost like the intimate touch of someone familiar. Someone beloved. 

You force yourself to take a deep breath. You need to get it together. You need to overcome this.

Raising your head, you look around, hoping to find a potential source for the wind. Maybe there would be a crack in the wall large enough for you to slip through and find help. However, even with your eyes now adjusted to the dark, you can’t seem to find any source of light in your surroundings. 

You brush the dirt off your palms, ignoring the prickling of broken skin and dirt and ready yourself to stand again. But before you can move, something heavy comes to rest on your shoulder. 

It isn’t wind, or the insubstantial flurry of disturbed sand—it’s a hand, solid and firm against the thick knit of your sweater. 

You freeze like an animal caught in a trap. 

“Are you alright?” a familiar voice asks. 

Zayne. Your heart nearly bursts with relief. 

A dozen questions fire in your brain: Where had he been? Why hadn’t he answered you before? How had he found you in the dark? How were you two going to get out of here?

But none of them find their way to your lips before you sense that something is amiss. You can feel the figure behind you kneel, feel the heat of their body as they lean in towards you, but it’s the smell that sticks in your mind. Incense and lotus, mixed with something spicy and heady that you’ve only ever encountered in your dreams. 

“Zayne?” you utter, swallowing as you feel the stranger’s grip tighten. No. You know this isn’t a stranger. Not really. But the rational part of your brain still scrambles for some sort of reasonable explanation. 

“I’m here.” Zayne’s voice again.  

Behind you, the roar of a flame igniting causes you to jump. You don’t need to look to know that a brazier near one of the pillars you’d briefly spotted was now crackling with fire, its heat washing over your crumpled figure like a warm blanket. 

That’s impossible, you think. It’s been thousands of years, everything here is dust and ruins. It’s impossible. 

The part of you that is desperately hanging onto reality knows that this is real life and not one of your confusing, crush-spurned dreams featuring Zayne. But for some inscrutible reason, you’re far from surprised when you finally turn your head and come face-to-face with the powerful figure you’ve seen every night for the past two weeks. 

“You,” you breathe hoarsely before you can stop yourself. 

Even when facing away from the flickering glow of the brazier, the man before you is resplendent. You take in his features—the ones that are just like Zayne’s, just like the ones that are burned into the back of your mind—but your dreams have hardly done him justice. As he kneels before you, you can’t help but think that this is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. You watch as he draws in breath, his lips slightly parting and his broad shoulders rising as he takes in your trembling form before him. Golden tattoos accentuate his high cheekbones, peeking out from underneath the diaphanous black veil over his eyes. Zayne’s eyes. 

You swallow and watch as he mirrors you, his Adam’s apple bobbing up the column of his throat. 

“It really is you,” he says, his familiar voice low and edged with something like surprise. 

“I—I don’t…” you stammer, feeling his grip loosen and slide along the ridge of your shoulder. 

“I can’t believe it,” not-Zayne breathes as his touch wanders down to your wrist before clasping one of your hands in his own. 

“You’ve come back to me.”

Your breath catches in your throat and something stirs within you, like a snake slowly uncoiling after a long slumber. 

But you shake your head. “I’m not… I don’t think I’m who you want me to be,” you blurt out, your eyes searching for some kind of understanding from the man in front of you. “My friend and I—I think he’s hurt and I can’t find him. I need to get us help.”

“Your friend,” he begins, straightening his back, “is fine. I’ve borrowed his body for a moment because I wish to speak to you.”

Borrowed his body.

Borrowed his body.

The words echo within your mind, but it takes you all of five seconds to process them. 

No, no, no.

You recoil from his touch, yanking your hand back from his grasp. You press your stinging palms against the cold dirt floor behind you.

This is impossible. Unreal. And even if it is real, it’s wrong. 

“Wait,” the being in Zayne’s body pleads. “I just want a moment. And then I will leave the two of you and release you from this tower.”

“You trapped us here,” you breathe, your heart pounding in your chest. “It was you. You lured me in here and—and you made the doors close and our light—”

“Lured you here?” he tilts his head. “No, I wouldn’t have done anything of the sort. If you were drawn here, it wasn’t by me.”

You ponder his words carefully. Could he lie to you? Would he lie to you? You don’t even know what manner of creature stands before you. 

“Goddess,” he whispers, his voice so full of yearning. His fingers reach out to caress your cheek, but you pull back from him. 

“I’m not who you think I am,” you say again, this time with more finality. “I’m just—I’m a person. A student. I think you must be mistaken.” 

He watches you from beneath the veil, his gaze raking over your pathetic form. You’re sure that he’ll realize his error at any second and release you. You’ve been nothing but insignificant your whole life and this moment was not an exception. 

However, Zayne only leans in closer, his intoxicating scent filling your lungs as you take one decidedly human breath after another. As he nears, you feel your skin begin to tingle, as if his very presence triggers some kind of physiological response from within you. 

“You don’t remember me,” he says and you shake your head. 

“Can you see me?” he asks. A ridiculous question because as far as you can tell, you can see him. A broad, strong figure wearing your friend’s face—Zayne’s face. So beautiful, and yet, so otherworldly. 

“Yes,” you grit, a sense of alarm creeping into the back of your mind. Could he be dangerous?

The being laughs.

“No,” he says, raising his hand to cover your eyes. You squeeze them shut out of instinct. “I mean, can you really see?” 

And then you feel his hand move away. 

Slowly, you open your eyes again and gasp. 

All around you, the braziers crackle with flames, filling the chamber with light. They illuminate the murals along the walls, their colours bright and the details sharp as if they were painted just yesterday. 

Impossible, your brain tells you. Impossible, and yet, nearby you can hear the soft bubbling of the ceremonial pool, now filled to the brim with glimmering water and fresh petals. 

Just like in your dream. 

You shift your weight onto your hands, still planted at your side, and nearly gasp as you feel warmed, smooth stone under your palms instead of gritty sand. Your gaze shifts from the ground beneath you to your own hands, now adorned with bronze and silver jewelry so ornate that the weight presses into your skin. 

Shocked, you clutch at your now-bare arms and collar, where you feel the similar press of metal along your fire-warmed skin. The little fabric that adorns your body now is so thick and inlaid with golden finery that you imagine it would take a great effort to move in. And yet, when you tuck your legs closer to your body, it feels almost weightless. 

You must still be dreaming. There is no other explanation. Perhaps when you’d tripped over that wire in the dark, you’d actually bashed your head against something hard. You reach up to pinch your cheek, but the stinging doesn’t transport you back to the cold, dark recesses of the dusty ruins. Instead, you stay where you are, your ass planted against the shining tiles of the golden chamber in its glory days.

“What is this?” Your hands fly down towards your chest, your fingers grasping at the heavy stones across your neck. 

The being in Zayne’s body leans over you, bringing his face a mere few inches from yours. The hairs on the back of your neck raise as he appraises your startled expression from behind the gossamer fabric over his eyes. 

“Do you see now?” he breathes, the air electric as you shiver beneath him. “Do you see who you once were?”

You swallow roughly, your tongue feeling dry in your mouth as you work up the ability to speak again. “I’m not who you think I am,” you repeat, scrambling backwards and out from under him. “I’m no goddess. I don’t know who you’re talking about and I don’t know you.” 

Something like hurt flashes across Zayne’s features before it’s quickly replaced with a steely determination that puts you on edge. 

In the blink of an eye, he has you in his arms, scooping you up with such ease that you only realize what’s happened when you’re tucked firmly against his chest. You gasp, clutching at the paper-thin linen of his robes as you’re carried towards the pool, unable to even protest when you manage to look up at him. His fingers grip the fat of your thighs as you bounce lightly against his torso, the hard edges of his gold jewelry grazing against your skin with every step.

Eyeing the edge of the pool, you shoot him a pleading look. “Please don’t dump me in the water,” you utter, slightly panicked. It’s not that you can’t swim, it’s more that you would prefer to remain dry, hallucination or not. 

“It’s not deep enough for you to drown,” he says, as if reading your mind. “And I would never do something so…impolite.” 

True to his word, as he descends the steps into the pool, he lowers you slowly, feet-first, into the water. 

You prepare yourself for an icy dip, but the water that envelops your legs is warm and comforting, not unlike the baths you’d drawn for yourself before. Your feet find the bottom of the pool and you quickly steady yourself as Zayne sets you down. Here, the water only reaches your knees, which eases the worry in your mind. 

Zayne takes your hand and leads you further into the water and for some reason, you oblige. While his touch sends a shiver along your arm, you feel tethered to him in a way that supersedes this mere instance of physical contact. It leads you towards the center of the pool where velvety petals brush against your knees and your dark dress drags in the water behind you. 

“Look at this,” he says, waving his hand over the gleaming water. 

You frown as you watch the fire’s light reflect over the ripples. “I don’t—”

But then the reflection changes, morphing from flickers of light to something more substantial—something that begins to look like the bird’s eye view of a landscape. A great pyramid looms over a city of mortar and sandstone, with winding roads connecting the buildings and lush greenery filling in the gaps between. Two rivers cut across the metropolis and you know immediately what you’re looking at. 

“Niava,” you whisper, your fingers hovering over the image. 

“So, you do remember,” Zayne’s voice prompts gently. 

“No,” you say, tearing your eyes away from the glowing illusion. “Like I said, I’m—I’m a student. I’m studying Niavan archaeology. This is incredible, but for me…this would have been nearly three thousand years ago.”

He studies your reaction. “And you think that this is a coincidence?”

“Do I think that what’s a coincidence?” 

“That you’ve chosen to dedicate your studies and so many years of your life to this,” he motions downward between you. “That you were able to be here. Now. With him.” He places a hand on his own bare chest. In spite of yourself, you sneak one more look at the gleaming city below you. 

“What do you mean?” you ask, your brows knitted in confusion. “What does this have to do with Zayne?”

He laughs sharply, the sound uncharacteristic in Zayne’s voice. “And here, I thought you’d forgotten who I was.”

You shake your head. “You’re not Zayne. You’re—you’re puppeting Zayne’s body like some weird kind of…” You trail off, faltering as you realize that this is way past your comprehendible level of surrealism. 

“Possession?” Zayne offers. “It’s true. He is Zayne, but I am also Zayne. The cycles of reincarnation are often slow and the timing is rarely ideal for—for souls like us to meet again, but—” he steps forward, obfuscating the image of Niava between you, “—fate does sometimes have a sense of humour.”

You hold his gaze as he takes another step towards you, causing the water to lap at your thighs. “So if—if you’re not my Zayne, then who are you?” you challenge.

“I’m not surprised that you’ve never read of me in your studies,” he says, “I was careful to erase my name from any and all records within the city. But if you really can’t remember, I am a being like you.” 

The answer comes to you before you can stop yourself. “A god.”

He nods, a small, amused smile at his lips. 

“A god of what?” you ask. Your brain racks through everything you know about the gods of near civilizations but nothing comes to mind. Furthermore, you’re sure Niava didn’t worship a pantheon of gods—just one.

He stills. “It feels as if I haven’t been god of anything for a while,” he says quietly. “But I remain here, my presence persisting and immortal nonetheless.” 

You blink. “O-okay. So you’re a god. But you think that I—” you press a palm across your heavily-jeweled chest, “—am also a god?”

“I think that you are the reincarnation of a goddess,” he clarifies. “One who has not realized who she was in a past life, one who has not realized that she was once everything to an entire people.”

The realization feels like cold water being poured down your neck. “You think that I am—I was the patron goddess of Niava.” 

He nods slowly, his gaze never breaking from yours as he measures your reaction.

“That seems…unlikely,” you say, unsure of how else to capture the situation at hand. 

“And yet, here we are.”

You glance at one of the torches, bracketed high up on a pillar. “But if I’m supposed to be the patron goddess of Niava,” you begin slowly, “who are you? Were you the god of another civilization?”

He shakes his head. “My domain is no more,” he says, with little sadness. “I remain here as an artifact of this civilization. Proof of the bond that existed between—” he hesitates as you blink up at him, “—between my goddess and I.”

“Your goddess,” you whisper. The memory of a warm evening surfaces, of the velvet of the chaise against your cheek and the weight of Zayne’s arm, wrapped so firmly around your chest. 

“But why isn’t she here? Why isn’t she in my body like you’re in Zayne’s body?”

He sucks in a slow breath. Around him, the divine glow that seems to emanate from his very being, diminishes. “My goddess left this plane of existence a long time ago. And because it was my fault it is now my curse—my burden—to remain here, without her.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and you mean it. The god’s sorrow reverberates across the bond between you, striking a chord deep within your chest. 

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he insists. “While I’m sure destiny has brought you here to serve as another punishment for me, I hope that you can forget this night soon after it ends. In fact, I will see to the safe return of both you and your companion, with no trace of this in your minds.”

“Wait,” you protest against this robbery of your autonomy. “What if I don’t want to forget? And why would I be a punishment for you?”

“Because no one will ever believe you,” he says. “And because tonight, many many moons ago, I made a promise that I broke.”

“A promise to me,” you finish before you can stop yourself. Despite the absurdity of the situation, despite the fear and the shock, there’s a part of you that shares in Zayne’s grief. It draws from something deep within you; something much more tangible than empathy. 

Anguish clouds his expression. “Not to you. To her. To my goddess. After speaking with you, I do not believe you are—”

“But haven’t you been trying to show me the opposite” you frown. “If what you’re telling me is true and if my understanding of reincarnation is correct, then I am her. Our souls are the same, just shaped by different lives and circumstances.”

He turns away so suddenly that the water splashes across your middle, causing you to flinch. “I may have been mistaken. You do not appear to remember anything about—about her life. About who she was.”

You watch as he hangs his head, the cascades of his onyx hair tumbling over the strong lines of his shoulder. The ends drift across the water’s surface, the gold glimmering among the tendrils of black. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask. “Maybe… Maybe if you can just speak to her through me, it’ll help you move on. Maybe you’ll be able to leave here as well.” 

He turns, the sharp lines of his face cutting a strong silhouette in the fire’s light. “I am grateful for your kindness, mortal. However, I must ask you to withdraw your offer. You do not understand what you are proposing.” 

Mortal. You don’t miss the way he utters the word. Bluntly. Dissmissively. As if a few moments ago he hadn’t been calling you goddess and conjuring images of your former empire. You may not understand the complexities of godhood and immortality, but you do recognize when someone is attempting to push you away. 

“I only want you to find peace,” you say, your voice small. A petal brushes against your now-clenched fist. “I know that I must seem insignificant to you and I’m not saying that I could ever replace a—a goddess but, like you said, I must be here for a reason.”

The corner of his mouth twitches before his features settle into an impassive mask once more. He wades slowly towards you, the petals scattering in his wake, before he stands a mere arm’s reach away.

“I thought,” he begins, the rumble of his voice sending your pulse skittering, “that when I first saw you that speaking to you alone would be sufficient. That it would be enough to fill the void within me, at least for another millennia.”

You raise your chin, knowing full well how foolish you are for even attempting to challenge a deity with your gaze. “And now? What would be enough for you now?”

His nostrils flare and his eyes flash downward at you, his stare still sharp behind the dark fabric obscuring them. “Now I realize that what I want is far greater than just a simple talk. And it is much more than you can give me, I can assure you of that.”

Another dismissal. But beneath the curt dressing of his tone, you can almost see how fragile his  resolve is, how easily you can reach out and snap it between your own mortal fingers. The adrenaline that rushes beneath your skin tells you that there’s some kind of risk to this, some kind of inherent danger that is forcing your body to react as if you’re standing at the precipice of a thousand-foot fall. 

And yet, you want nothing more than to take the plunge. 

The water drips down your thighs as you press up on your toes. “What if I’m offering you everything?” 

He’s so close now that you can feel his breath upon your lips. You wonder if a god needs oxygen the way you do, or if it’s an action prompted by appearances or habit. Nonetheless, he exhales, warming your Cupid’s bow.

“I am asking you,” he utters, still fixed upon you with that imperious glare, “to rescind your offer. To walk away now. I promise that I will return you to where you came from and it will be as if this night never happened.”

You shake your head. “I want to help you.”

“Please,” he whispers. The tether between you is now pulled so taut that you can feel the urgent tug behind your navel. 

Slowly, you raise your hands to his face, the tips of your fingers finding their way along the rough golden thread woven into the dark gauze over his temple. He goes so still that you wonder if your touch has turned him to stone. You carefully push the fabric down, unveiling the deep jade of his eyes, burning directly into yours. 

He doesn’t stop you as you lower the blindfold down to his neck and let it rest on his collar. Nor does he stop you when you brush your thumb along his cheek, feeling the ridge of the bone under his alabaster skin.

“I want you to take what you need from me,” your voice just above a whisper as his hands hover over your waist. “I want you to take it all.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead it’s you who closes the gap, pressing your lips ever so slowly to his, as if you’re afraid his walls will come right back up if you move too suddenly. But like the early warmth of spring, he begins to thaw, his mouth melting against yours as his hands slide up your back. 

“Fool,” he murmurs into your skin as the distance between you closes into nothing. “You’ve made a fool’s bargain.”

You break from him to meet that cold gaze but all you find is a growing hunger, barely restrained. “A bargain is only a bargain if I receive something too.” 

Something like amusement colours his features. “I would never take from you without providing something in return,” his voice is gravelly as a hand runs up your decorated bicep. “And I promise you that I can provide much, much more than I can take.”

Electricity skitters up your spine, causing you to shudder lightly. “Sounds like more than a fair exchange to me, then.”

He laughs, his knuckles brushing against the adornment along your shoulders. The contact is feather-light, as if he’s deliberating whether your delicate mortal body will be able to handle his touch. You want to tell him that it’s alright, that you can take whatever comes next, but with the way your body tenses as he twists your chin towards him, you’re not sure if you would be telling the truth.

This time, he initiates the kiss, the action still slow and careful. You raise your hands and snake them up his collar to wind around the back of his neck. The resulting groan from him reverberates through the column of his throat and against your skin, spurning you on as you part your lips against his. You wonder if this is what it would be like to kiss your Zayne, if he would be as careful as this, if he would hold you the same way, and—as you dart your tongue out to brush against his bottom lip—if he would taste the same. 

But your attention snaps back to the moment as the god ducks his head under your jaw to nip at your throat. The action is so openly hungry and human that it stuns you for a second. Surprise quickly gives way to arousal as he lavishes the length of your neck with his tongue and his teeth, causing your toes to curl against the smooth tile of the pool’s bottom. A moan slips from your mouth and you loll your head back, eyelashes fluttering as he sucks at the heated skin along your pulse point. 

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes into your hair, “the way you smell, the way you taste,” you gasp as he licks a stripe up to your earlobe. “I’ve waited millennia for this.”

A strong hand moves down to squeeze at the fat of your ass, prompting you to hook your leg around his thigh. Zayne grabs at your other thigh, his hand slipping through the high slit of your dark gossamer dress and you allow him to lift you for the second time in a strong carry. The ease in which he hoists you up against his torso hints at a kind of strength that’s more than likely preternatural.

Slowly, he wades towards the edge of the pool, with you tucked against his chest and the dripping, heavy fabric of your dress dragging along the water’s surface. You shudder as he crushes you tight against him, pressing the crease between your legs against his solid abdominals. He sets you down on the warmed stone, but you keep your fingers linked behind his neck, unwilling to let him go. 

He chuckles at your insistence and gives you a kiss that’s all too chaste for the thoughts running through your head at this very moment. You prod at the seal of his lips with your tongue and he obliges, allowing you to intensify the contact. His hand, previously settled at your bare hip begins to wander, his fingertips skimming over the warm crease at the apex of your thigh. Your back bows, revealing your desperate need for more as he thumb digs into your skin, just inches from the heat that was growing much too intense to ignore. 

“Please,” you cry out as you feel his knuckles brush against the rise of your mons once more. You can’t tell if he’s teasing you or himself by prolonging this, but the rumbling laugh against your collar tells you it’s probably the former. Slowly, carefully, he parts the gauzy fabric hanging at your hips to reveal the bare skin of your upper thighs and everything in between as he lowers himself to eye-level with your navel. 

The back of your neck warms with slight embarrassment as he lowers his gaze to the barely-concealed patch of hair between your legs. You shift slightly, the back of your knees knocking against the pool’s edge as you attempt to cover yourself out of instinct. The god in Zayne’s body makes a noise of impatience and forces your legs apart, causing you to squeal. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he snarls, eyes fixed on the now-parted folds of your pussy. Your hand flies to your mouth as he begins to trace a line down the crease of your thighs with his thumb, pulling at the soft flesh to expose more of you to his gaze. With his other hand, he wipes through the slick mess between your labia, catching at your fluttering hole to gather the moisture there before running his fingers up to the swollen bud at the very top. 

You catch your bottom lip between your teeth as he rubs a slow circle around the bundle of singing nerves before pulling back the hood and exposing your clit to the compartively cooler air of the chamber. You wonder if it’s sacrilegious to do this in a place where the divine meets the earthly, but a glance at the concentration on Zayne’s face assures you that there are no gods to be offended here. 

Flickers of arousal spark in the pit of your stomach as he continues to rub and roll your clit between his long fingers, his ministrations focused and deliberate as if he’s had ages to ponder how to best do this. Your fingers card through his onyx hair and your nails drag along the burnished gold of the circlet sitting at his temple as you revel in the sensation of your pussy being played with by Zayne’s expert hands. 

His cheek brushes against the inside of your thighs as he lowers himself to your core—so close that he can smell your sex. Holding your breath, you watch as he gently pinches your clit once more before he presses a feather-light kiss against the sensitive bud of flesh. 

“I can’t believe I get to have you again,” he groans before pressing the flat of his tongue against your pussy. Your breath hitches at the sudden, hot contact and a keening moan escapes from your throat as he continues to drag it up your clit. The muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, twitching sharply with each pressured stroke. His fingers push against the soft folds of your cunt, stroking downwards to catch at the entrance, but not penetrate. “I can’t believe I get to feel you like this.”

You can only make a desperate noise in response, bucking your hips toward the teasing touch, but his other hand holds your shaking mortal body in place. Slowly, carefully, he presses into you with the tip of one finger, as if he can’t sense your urgency from the way you pulse around the digit. You watch as his middle finger disappears inside of you and your eyes nearly water at the sensation of him spreading you open, even if it is just one, solitary finger. He sinks himself down to the last knuckle before sucking your clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling. You whine as he slowly introduces a second finger, continuing to work you open as you shake and shudder beneath him.

Never before, in your dreams or in reality, have you been eaten out like this. You throw your head back, your vision swimming as you finally notice the paint across the ceilings. A deep ultramarine sky stretches as far as you can see, freckled with golden stars. The fire’s light reflects on the metallic paint, causing the celestial bodies to glimmer in the blur of your tears as Zayne continues to pump into you with his fingers, crooking them at just the right angle to cause your legs to quake.

Your cries reverberate across the heavens, mingled with the obscene squelching of your pussy as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. Your fingers search desperately at his wrist, your vambraces clinking against the golden chains along his forearm, as you attempt to warn him of your oncoming orgasm. 

But before the sensation reaches its peak, Zayne stops, raising his head to watch as you squirm and hiccup under his scrutinizing gaze. 

“W-why did you stop—?” your voice comes out pathetic and whiny as the tension holds within you. Zayne only smirks and slides his fingers out from the needy grip of your cunt. Already, the ache from the sudden emptiness is too much to take and you slide down in an attempt to feel him again, the hard edge of the pool biting into your flesh. 

“I want to feel you when it happens,” he purrs, coming up to grip at the hollows of your thighs. He pulls your body towards him, holding you above the water with that unnatural strength again as he presses his mouth along your clothed stomach and up to the rise of your breasts. You allow him to nip and suck at the sweat-soaked skin of your decolletage, your limbs all hot and fuzzy from the attention he’s lavished upon you. 

He leans over, bringing his face to yours for a slow, languishing kiss that leaves your heady essence smeared across your lips and chin. Then, in a sudden movement, he flips you over so that your chest hovers just above the water-slick tile. 

“How do you want to be taken?” he growls in your ear. You shift your hips back desperately and find purchase against the embroidered leather of his belt. He clicks his tongue and turns your chin towards him. 

“I want—” you gasp, feeling the weight of his erection as it comes to rest on one of your ass cheeks. You can’t even form the end of that sentence in your mind because there really is nothing else to say. All you feel is want, coursing throughout your body as he pushes aside the fabric of your dress, as he swipes through the heated, swollen mess of your pussy with just a light enough touch to prevent you from gaining any sort of substantial relief from the ache. 

You twist around to watch as he works the slick of your arousal over the length of his cock, causing it to glisten in the fire’s light. 

“Please,” you keen, leaning on your elbows as he nears, causing the water to splash against the back of your legs. You feel the light prod of his cock, pushing through the wet folds of your cunt and catching at your entrance. 

“Anything for you, goddess,” he purrs and a long, stuttering moan is pulled from your throat as he begins to enter you at an achingly slow pace. The initial breach causes stars to explode across your vision and the sensation only grows in intensity as the walls of your pussy stretch to accommodate his girth. From your limited view, you hadn’t had the opportunity to see just what he had behind all those layers of finery and linen, but now, with the supernova dancing behind your eyelids, you know that it’s considerable.

“Ohh, fuck,” you hiss, nails scrabbling at the floor as he bottoms out with a soft smack of his hips against your bottom. You hear him inhale sharply at the obscenity but don’t have the wherewithal to ask why as his cock drags out of you, as the sensation of each ridge and vein reignites the mounting tension at your core. 

His shadow creeps over your bent form as he leans in, the golden chains dragging across your back as he presses a tender kiss to your shoulder blade. He places another one along the ridge of your spine as he pulls out, giving you time only to breathe his name before he plunges into you once more. Unexpectedly, your pleasure peaks and your climax crashes upon you like a rogue wave, causing your core to clamp down on him with such force that even the deity growls out a swear. 

He maintains his pace though, fucking you through your orgasm as you shudder and whine and twitch against him. Around you the water sloshes precariously, mirroring the pulsing snap of your muscles, as it slaps across the already-soaked tile near the edge of the pool. In the corners of your vision, you spot a faint glow across his arms—the arms that have you caged in place as his balls slap against the puffy, arousal-slicked lips of your pussy. 

“I need to see you,” he growls as he hoists you up by your elbows. Your biceps crush against his chest and you let out a raspy, “oh my god,” as he drives into you at this new angle. Your eye rolls back to meet his gaze but your brain won’t—or can’t—focus on his features as the pleasure consumes you, body and soul. 

“Beautiful,” he croons, as he takes in your fucked out expression. Drool is gathering in the corner of your mouth now, threatening to spill over your bottom lip as he continues his brutal pace. “I can never get enough of that look.”

There’s a thrumming in your bones that you can only place as the result of the sublimation of pure power. With each thrust, you can feel the air crackle and glow around you, as if the joining of your bodies will lead to something greater than a physical release. It occurs to you then that this might be a ritual of some kind, but to what end you have no clue. Nor can you bring yourself to care as he pulls out to turn you over once more. 

You whine as he picks you up, your hands scrabbling across the rippling muscles in his back as he angles his dick just right to spear into you again. He bounces you on his cock hard, his fingers digging into the fat of your ass as the water churns and splashes all around you. He brings his forehead close to yours, not close enough to press against it, but just enough that you can feel the brush of his fringe over your skin with each thrust. The pupils of his eyes are blown out and hazy and you realize that he might just be feeling this just as deeply as you.

He captures your mouth in a wet, slovenly kiss, his teeth scraping against the soft tissue as he continues to breathe praise against your lips. And as he lifts you again, you catch the way he looks at you, with such adoration and worship, that you wonder if he’s forgotten which one of you is the deity. 

The onset of your second orgasm is a much more gradual process, with each drag of Zayne’s cock pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You grasp at his shoulders, subconsciously kneading into the muscle, as you babble pleas against his throat to not stop. He obliges, his need not yet extinguished as he manhandles you on his cock over and over again.

You cum with a shaky, hollow, “oh,” and it feels as if the world has tilted on its side, sending your body and sanity sliding along the walls as you crumple into his arms, your limbs shaking with such force that your teeth begin to chatter in your mouth. 

Zayne maintains his strong grip on you, but you feel him begin to waver too, the air around you almost glowing as he finds his end. A guttural noise rips from his throat as he finishes and you vaguely hear the pops and crackles of energy around you as he fills you with a rush of warm cum.

Everything stills for a brief second, blanketing the chamber with such a deep quiet as he cradles you against his chest, your bodies still connected. You tilt your face up to look at him and you feel as if you’re encased in honey, with everything moving in slow motion, as you spot the glint of tears in Zayne’s eyes. He ducks, nosing his way into your hairline, but his grip never once loosens on you. 

And then, as if your ears have popped, sound rushes back into your cognition and the world begins to move again. His seed drips hot from your pussy and you feel it dribble into the water below. You wonder if it’ll pollute the temple’s ceremonial pool, or increase its spiritual strength, given its source, but the sensation of magic in the air has now subsided to a seeminly undetectable level. 

Zayne separates the two of you and carries you to the pool’s edge, where you sit and dangle your feet in the water. A harsh ripping noise breaks through the relaxed quiet and you watch as the deity dips the torn scrap of his sleeve into the water near your calves. Carefully, he wipes at the sticky remnants of your coupling, the fabric slightly rough against the sensitive skin of your upper thighs. The attention to detail as he scoops up every drop and splatter causes you to feel just the slightest bit embarrassed, but if Zayne notices, he doesn’t let on.

After wiping you down entirely, he sets the soiled scrap of linen on the warm stone by your side. There’s a moment of melancholic silence in which Zayne keeps his head bowed and his eyes on the perfumed water, rippling around your knees. You reach out to bridge the space between you, brushing your thumb against the curve of his bottom lip as you urge him to meet your gaze. 

“Was I—?” you begin, unsure of how to broach the topic with the dopamine still coursing through your veins, making everything all fuzzy and relaxed. “Was that helpful?”

“Yes,” he says quietly, his expression graver than what you’d hope for after an encounter like that.

“I’m sorry that I’m not her,” you admit with genuine remorse. “But if that made things easier…”

His mouth twists in a wry smile. “I think that your souls are more interconnected than you think,” he says, pulling at a piece of jewelry on your neck that had no doubt gone askew. “It’s not likely that a mortal soul and a mortal body would have been able to withstand our, ah, coupling.”

You blink, the weight of his words hitting you with all of the grace of a sucker punch. “I could have died?” you gasp, clutching at the skin of your arms, as if they might shrivel up and sluice off into the water below. 

“No,” he assures you. “I never would’ve allowed you to take it that far if I wasn’t sure there was some divinity within you at the moment.”

“Allowed me to— You’re the god here!” you exclaim. “You’re like eons older than me. I don’t think that I was the one in control here.” You pout, glaring up at him as he only gives you a bemused look in response. 

Around you, the petals rock along the waves in the pool.

“So…what now?” you say, unsure as the idea of parting elicits a deep twinge of sadness in your chest. “Will I ever see you again?”

He hums, “I recall someone offering me everything,” he says, stepping into your space once more to bring his mouth to the shell of your ear. “How terrible would it be if I claimed your life and kept you here with me forever?”

You swallow thickly, allowing that train of thought to run at full-speed throughout your brain. Of course, you had planned to do so much with your life, but could any of it really compare to being the lover of a god? Especially when he looks like this and fucks you stupid. But would you remain in this body, divine and radiant, or would you age and grow feeble? Could you live the rest of your life in the outside world knowing that beings like Zayne exist, but be unable to be in his presence again? 

“I’m joking,” he says, his hand resting on your forearm. “Our meeting is destined to be temporary and this body is not mine to keep. However, I am glad to know that there is a fraction of my soul that has moved on and cycled through many lives, just to finally reunite with you again.” His voice is quiet as he pulls your hand up towards him. 

Brushing his lips against your knuckles, he breathes, “You have given more than I could have hoped for tonight. I will leave this plane of existence knowing that my goddess lives on through you.” 

Your hands tremble as you face the inevitability of the end. 

“Wait—” you cry out, but Zayne covers your eyes with his hands.

“Goodnight, my love” he says, his voice a whisper beside you. 

From behind your eyelids you feel each flame around you extinguish, until you’re plunged in darkness, the only sensation being the water around your calves and Zayne’s presence. Slowly, but surely, those fade too, despite your best attempts to imprint them in your mind, and you’re soon left floating in nothingness.

Your eyes flutter open and you gasp as you’re still surrounded by darkness. 

It takes you a minute, but you soon realize that you’re able to move your limbs and that you’re hopelessly tangled within the sheets of your own bunk. Struggling in the dark, your chest heaves as you pull at the thin, sweat-dampened blankets.

You’re in the tent. And it’s still dark outside. 

You’re wearing Zayne’s sweater, which smells of his skin, his soap, and cigarettes. And not of spice and magic and lotus blossoms. 

A deep feeling of loss sits high in your throat, making it difficult to swallow, and you blink back tears as the memories of your time in the chamber run through your head like projected film. 

There was no way that that was a dream. It was much too vivid, the sensations much too strong, for it to have been anything but a real experience. 

You kick back the blankets and let the cold, dry air of the desert night wash across your clammy skin. You need more air. 

But as you lean over to find your shoes in the dark, a flash of white tucked beneath the dark folds of cotton catches your eye. Squinting, you reach down to pull it free. 

In your fingers is the smooth velvet of a lotus petal, its delicate structure still moist and bouncy, as if it was freshly plucked. Your heart hammers as you run your thumb over the impossibly soft edge.

On the other side of the tent, someone wakes with a start, knocking over something as they nearly roll out of their cot. 

You hear Zayne softly swear in the dark.

The confirmation of your hopes and suspicions is enough to send you reeling. You sit there, cradling the evidence in your shaking palm, and you inhale deeply in an attempt to stifle the overwhelming mix of disbelief and elation. However, it only serves to make you feel more wired and restless.

The shuffling noises of someone making their way towards the entrance of the tent breaks through your personal moment of panic. You hear the shifting of canvas and the soft click of a metal lighter, echoing in the moonlit desert.  

You take a deep breath.

And you stand up to follow. 

-----

Everyone says the Kingdom of Linkoln is cursed.

The whole kingdom awaited the birth of the first son, the first Prince, who would be in line for the throne as their next ruler. Instead, the cries of a healthy, baby girl was heard. And so the King and Queen tried, and tried, and tried. Three more Princesses were born – all of captivating beauty, quick wit, and irresistible charm. The four Princesses, despite not being what the people wanted, were all dearly loved for their kind hearts and generous acts. Angels, they were called. Gifts from the Skyhaven itself. No one could have known that a few years later after the youngest Princess’ birth would they see that perhaps these ‘angels’ might be carriers of misfortune.

As the Queen died of a mysterious illness, all hopes of ever having a male heir, a future King, vanished into thin air. The eldest Princess, left alone to deal with her younger sisters and mourning father, immediately took on the role as the anchor of the family. It wouldn’t be far to call her a literal anchor, not when she was the only one who kept the entire ship – the Kingdom, the royal family, the worried citizens – afloat.

Zayne could still remember that day crystal clear. You, at the mere age of twelve, officially announced as the new heir to the throne. When your father could no longer deal with matters of politics, you took all the burden on your young, naïve shoulders. Singlehandedly, you saw it through. You secured marriages for all your sisters – love marriages, which seemed impossible at the time, and unlikely for young girls with such high titles. But you succeeded.

The second Princess was wed to Crown Prince Xavier, from the neighbouring country of Philos. The third Princess was wed to Colonel Caleb, a respected pilot and military general. The youngest, wed to Sylus, a king of the Underworld who’d somehow won over your trust enough.

All of these weddings were celebrated. All of your sisters had never been happier. And, somehow, upon seeing that all the members of the royal family thriving and making their own families so your legacies wouldn’t die – your father slowly climbed his way out of the darkness. It was as if he’d remembered there was still a point in living – walking his precious daughters down the aisle, holding his grandchildren in his arms, giving love another chance and marrying again.

And everyone knew it was all thanks to you.

You’d been so selfless ever since you were young, always putting people’s happiness first before your own. And, Zayne thinks, everyone had been selfish. How could they not see how tired it made you? How was no one concerned about the toll it might’ve taken on an innocent child – the sleepless nights, being thrust in a duty that was never yours to fulfill, the fear that one mistake and everything could be your undoing? How did no one see?

How could they – your supposed family – not see the way you crumbled before their eyes? How could they let you keep taking care of everyone, when no one cared for you? How could they only notice how tired and ill you are now when it was too late?  

The massive oak doors of the keep stood closed, acting as a barrier against the perpetual gray of the northern sky, and yet they were all Zayne could see. Every shadow seemed to shift into the shape of the advance riders he’d sent out, every gust of wind from the peaks sounding like the crunch of carriage wheels against frozen gravel. He was a patient man, this he knew. He was not someone who easily gave in to nerves. He’d led troops through these unforgiving blizzards, faced down armed rebellions, and negotiated with bloodthirsty usurpers, but this waiting – this anticipation – was dismantling his composure piece by piece.

You were miles away from his home still, and with every minute you traveled through his fortress of ice and stone, a knot of cold and dread tightened in his chest.

He’d sent most of his trusted men days ahead, with explicit orders to ensure the path would be cleared of any major drifts and to procure the best available inns for any brief stops. The updates had been dutifully returned, and they’d all been good news. You were managing, even if the relentless bumps from the uneven, frozen road and the whirring noise of the nightly storms often kept you from sleep. Struggling, but holding on – the reports had said. He’d already known of your resilience, but those words offered little comfort. He knew you were coming here for the exact opposite.

Your Grace, your letter started, I hope you are doing well and staying healthy. Once again, I thank you for constantly protecting Linkon from the Northern Territory, and freeing us from the claims of the beasts and monsters that lurk around. The Kingdom of Linkon will forever be indebted to your service.

Now, I hope this will not come too much as a shock to you, but if you would so indulge me, I would like to propose a marriage. As you may know, I am not getting any younger or healthier. My health has rapidly declined, and all the physicians all say the same thing. I don’t have much time left. What better way for me to spend my last days than to live there in the North, hidden from the people so they may not see my withering state, and to be surrounded by the beauty of a never ending winter? I’m aware I don’t do well with the cold, but something about being embraced by it warms me so.

There’s no need to drag this out further than it needs to be. I’ve lived a fulfilling life, and I’m not keen on suffering a moment longer. I know the unforgiving cold of the North will make it easier for me. As your Princess, I kindly ask that you consider my offer.

If you so please, would you marry me and see me through my last days?

Like a fool, Zayne had said yes.

Now he paced the length of his study, letting this worry grip at him. This marriage wasn’t out of political necessity; it was a heartfelt request from a Princess he respected and admired. The merest thought of any harm coming to you felt like a direct threat he had to overcome, his mind playing one thing only: that he needed you here, needed you safe. Even though he’d already heard the news of your official retirement, your letting go of your duty, he had to see with his own eyes as to why.

If it was really true that you were dying.

He heard it then, a sudden commotion from the great hall below. It wasn’t the usual noise of the servants, but an unexpected flurry of voices and the heavy grate of the outer doors being pulled open. Shoving his chair back, Zayne was out of his study like an arrow being shot.

He took the grand staircase two steps at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs with a speed it hadn’t known since his youth. When he reached the lobby, he could immediately pick you out from the crowd.

You stood near the enormous stone hearth, your figure nearly dwarfed by the fur-lined traveling cloak and the sheer scale of the hall. His men where there, dusted with snow, but he only saw you. He’d always found you striking from your paintings – the elegant curve of your back, the wisdom shining behind your eyes, the sweet pout of your lips as you exhale a cloud of air – but that beauty he saw now, only looked fragile.

You were pale, the journey stripping the last remnants of color from your lips and cheeks. You stood with a weariness that went bone-deep, and when your eyes finally found his, the greeting in them was muted – faint, like the last flickering embers of a dying fire.

You stared back at him, equally silent, the space between you filling with the ghosts of unspoken words. So this was… the Princess.

The one who’d single handedly saved the entire Kingdom from its ruin. Magnificent, bright, and bold – whose beauty was described like that of a burning star. Where was this star now, he thought, as he descended the stairs.

When you looked at each other, the realization suddenly came to him that from this day forward, he wouldn’t be just a Duke, just as you wouldn’t be a Princess. You were to be husband and wife, man and woman, till death do us part. An aching sadness washed over him as he recalled the plea concealed in your letters, momentarily freezing him in place. The sight of you now, so desperately lonely yet finally home, thawed at the ice surrounding his heart.

“Your Highness.”

“Your Grace,” you smiled, and even that looked weak. Letting your eyes run over his figure, you straightened up in approval. “What a surprise. It seems that your portraits do not do you justice.”

His face heated up. He hadn’t expected a compliment, much less for you to feel completely at home to tease him this way. He hadn’t even known he had portraits. For all he knew, he was just another name and title in your books. Another Duke to keep in line, someone you occasionally wrote letters to out of formality.

Seeing him flustered, you chuckled, the sound airy and light – like your feet had already floated above ground, and you were simply hovering in the space between time. Distant, yet unnervingly close. “Oh, don’t fret now. You don’t need to return the praise. I’m well aware I’m a lot livelier in my portraits than I am in person. I truly am sorry this is the wife you will be getting. I’m sure you had someone else in mind. A younger, sweeter, and more beautiful lady perhaps.”

Zayne couldn’t help but frown. The easygoing smile on your face betrayed that apologetic tone you spoke with, like you were convinced you were inconveniencing him. Why would you ever think so, even after all you’d done for your people? 

“I have the Princess as my wife-to-be. If that doesn’t make me the luckiest man in Linkon, I don’t know what does.”

“They didn’t tell me you were a flatterer, too,” amused, you shook your head, wrapping your coat around yourself tighter. “Shall we head inside? It’s a lot colder than I thought.”

A quick surge of annoyance hit Zayne. Of course you’d be cold, it was the North. He’d been mulling over that fact for days, and simply forgot about it the moment he’d laid eyes on you. “Of course,” his voice came out rougher than intended. Moving to guide you toward the central hearth, the largest and warmest space in his manor, he glared at the invisible drafts that might chill your bones. “Let me warm you up.”

As you walked, arm in arm, you paused to look up at the soaring stone arches. Lashes kissing the curve of your cheekbones, soft-looking lips parting with an inaudible gasp. “You have a beautiful home, Your Grace. Had I known how stunning the North was, I would’ve visited earlier.”

Zayne’s throat tightened. Beautiful? He’d always regarded the keep as functional – a necessary fortress built for defense and shelter, not aesthetics unlike your Palace. It was grey slate and heavy timber, built to endure, not to charm. He’d never cared for its appearance before, but now, seeing his home through your courtly eyes, he was gripped with the worry it might be too rugged, too cold, too brutal and lifeless for someone like you. You’d been accustomed to gold and diamond chandeliers – surely his home paled in comparison to that.

He dismissed your praise, passing it off as mere politeness. You were, as he was constantly reminded, his beloved Princess. He shouldn’t have expected you to be anything but polite and amicable.

“Your Lords visited enough in your stead, Your Highness,” he replied, reverting his tone to its custom formality, despite the casual way you hung off his arm and ogled at his space. It was a defense mechanism against this… strange tenderness he felt. “I’m aware of your condition, and therefore do not expect you to brave through the brutal storms. If anything, I’m still at a loss why you chose the North to be your new home.”

The question hung heavy in the air, making you pause in your tracks. For a moment, he’d wondered if he’d offended you. Had he been too blunt again, unable to mask his confusion and desperation to learn the truth? If there was another truth that wasn’t your desire to hasten your end in the most inhospitable place, married to him, of all people. He wasn’t called a Cold Grand Duke for no reason. But cold as he was, he couldn’t wrap his head around why you – known for your bright smiles and warm laughter – wished to be rid of the world.

“I meant what I said in my letter, Your Grace,” you began, and looked up at him with a soft, tender smile.  “I don’t have much time left, and I never did well with the cold. I’m certain a few months spent here would quicken the process.”

“The process…”

“Of my death, of course,” you shrugged, as if you were merely conversing about the daily mail and not of your passing. The horror must be clear on his face from the way you giggled, the pleasant sound hidden behind a gloved hand. “Now, don’t look at me like that. It’s not as grim as it sounds like. I assure you that I’ve lived a meaningful life. I’ve ensured happy and strong marriages for my sisters, and His Majesty is expecting a son soon. Trust me when I say that I am to leave this world with absolutely no regrets.”

“But why propose a marriage?” he furrowed his brows, his arm settling around your waist before he realized himself. One moment, you were clinging to his arm, and the next, he was placing you down on a leather couch as he stood in front of you. “Did you… have another task you are left to fulfill? Do you want to leave behind a legacy before you pass?”

He hated the way he asked it – like an inexperienced, wet behind the ears cub. He prayed to whatever deity kind enough to listen to him that his ears wouldn’t turn red. And who could blame him? He had the most beautiful Princess smiling up at him, head tilted to the side like you could look at him all day. Still, his question remained unanswered. Why him? Why a marriage on your weakest moments? He couldn’t… possibly give you a child, much less touch you out of fear you’d break.

No, he shook his head vehemently, and kept his hands to himself.

Wife or not, he wouldn’t dare do that.

You sighed, burying yourself deeper into the warmth of your coat, the toastiness of the couch. “I couldn’t possibly do that to you. Besides, I wouldn’t have much time left to birth a babe,” you admitted, avoiding his curious gaze. “If you really must know… it’s that… I’ve never fallen in love before. I have read the novels. I’ve went to bed countless times dreaming of the day when a handsome Prince might come bursting through the castle gates, professing his love for me for the whole world to hear. And that – that may have been a reality, before I fell ill,” your voice grew quiet, almost small. And you never made yourself small, much less meek. The sight of it tugged at Zayne’s heartstrings – enough that it nearly made him give everything you’d ask for. But above it all, he just felt hatred. Irritation, and pure anger, that you would look so defeated when you’d been this Kingdom’s sole warrior.

And to think, all this time, all you’d wanted was to love.

You took his silence for something else, and sat up straighter. The way you often did when an older aristocrat challenged your way of thinking. “Call it childish if you want. But it is my dying wish, to have been married and become someone’s wife.”

Zayne stood still, the firelight catching the sharp edges of his coat, the warmth of the hearth failing to ease the tension coiled in his gut. He didn’t want this quiet, defeated air to settle this argument, discussion, whichever.

He was a man of action, of clear terms, yet this silence acceptance of your own imminent end nearly drove him mad. It forced a raw, and very unfamiliar vulnerability out of him.

“Your Highness…” he began, the formal address feeling like a lead weight in his mouth. He knew he had to choose his words with the care of a man diffusing a bomb. “With all due respect, I am not the cold, heartless Duke you might think me so. I am not numb enough to make you fall in love with me and have you die. Even for an isolated man like me, your wish is entirely too cruel for someone that would have to watch you go.”

Zayne didn’t speak of love, not exactly. He spoke of less, one which he knew too well after seeing his own parents. He knew the terrible human cost of connection, and the unexpected bond his deep respect for you had already forged. Admiring you from afar was one thing. Having you in his home, looking soft yet adamant to not be anywhere else – he was at a loss. He feared the void your passing would leave in his keep – and in him.

A faint, almost sad smile touched your lips.

“You say it like you fear you will fall for me,” you observed, your voice barely above a whisper.  “I don’t expect anything from you, Your Grace. We do not need to share affections, or a bed. We don’t need to have meals at the same time. You still may do so as you please. It’s just… I don’t want to be written off in history as the sad firstborn of the King who never got to marry. This is only a marriage on paper, I assure you.”

Your honesty, as always, was disarming. It stripped away all of his arguments, leaving only duty and the curious, protective need he felt for you.

“I understand,” he conceded, resigned. ““While I cannot guarantee that I will be able to be the husband you’ve dreamt of, I do swear that I won’t treat you coldly, or unkindly. A marriage on paper or not – I am yours, as you are mine. I will honor this vow until…”

He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, didn’t want to say it at all.

“Until my last breath,” you finished for him, gaze steady and without a hint of tremor.

“Yes,” he exhaled, his breath coming out shakier than what was dignified.

“Then I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement,” you beamed, reclaiming a measure of your formality – like you hadn’t just been discussing your awaited death. And as ridiculous as it sounded, Zayne’s heart still fluttered upon hearing the most un-romantic proposal. “Shall we get married? I can’t wait any longer.”

Had Zayne knew you always meant what you said, he would’ve done more preparations.

The ceremony was a hushed affair, conducted swiftly in the keep’s small, drafty chapel illuminated by the flickering glow of a few inadequate candles. No music, no grand procession – just the low murmurs of the priest, the shuffle of his most trusted retainers, and the biting cold of a winter night seeping through the ancient stones. It wasn’t a wedding befitting a Princess, nor a duke. He found himself glancing at you often, something like regret settling in his chest.

He’d imagined a different wedding for you, a vibrant one. He’d wanted flowers, a garden bathed in sunlight, a setting where you would stand out – more radiant than any bloom, your paleness transformed into joy. Instead, you stood beside him in a dress of deep winter blue, your breath ghosting visible in the frigid air.

Yet, you seemed content.

Your responses to the priest were clear, your gaze steady, your vows delivered quickly – almost eagerly. When the priest finally intoned the words, “You may now kiss your wife,” Alistair knew he was wholly unprepared. For a wife, for a kiss, for a married life – all of it.

He could feel the eyes of his men on the two of you, and a powerful, unfamiliar urge to truly claim you, to press his mouth to yours and shatter this fragile shame of a marriage, rose within him. Let them see how much you were his now. Let everyone witness how you would be his undoing. He hungered, yearned, to make this thing last. But he resisted. Had to resist, even when that voice at the back of his mind whined in disappointment.

Leaning down, his lips brushed the crown of your head. It was an act of both respect and self-preservation, a silent acknowledgment that to risk more might be to lose himself entirely. He wouldn’t underestimate the possibility that one kiss could make him want more. That if he didn’t reel himself in, he might never want to let you go.

That maybe even in your death, he might follow like your most loyal servant.

Later that night, the bridal chamber was as grand and cold as any other room. A roaring fire battled valiantly against the encroaching hill, but it was a losing fight. You sat on the edge of the vast, velvet bed, your frame shivering uncontrollably, teeth beginning to chatter.

All his carefully constructed moves, the distance he intended to maintain, evaporated like mist in the cold air. Without a second thought, he crossed the room, pulling back the heavy furs, and eased you under them. He gathered you close, hoping his arm would be an unyielding barrier against the cold that clung to you. Your head settled naturally against his shoulder – like a weary human who’d simply found its way home – until he felt the small, sharp shivers gradually subside.

Don’t do it, don’t do it, keep her away, don’t give her your heart –

Ah, Zayne admitted defeat, this might be the only battle I’d willingly lose.

Lifting his hand, he stroked your skin, leaning down to press another soft kiss to your temple. The scent of you – faint and clean, like winter air itself – filled his senses. He watched for a long time, the firelight painting shadows across your serene, sleeping face. He wondered if this might be enough for you, if his arms were truly a place you’d be happy enough to spend your last days in.

He knew that you were no longer the fierce, unwavering Princess from his letters, the one who spoke with such quiet conviction. You were a vulnerable, fragile human being, whose very presence now consumed his every thoughts, his protective instincts surging with an intensity that stunned him.

He wasn’t sure what to feel, seeing his once strong and formidable Princess reduced to this delicate state, nestled so trustingly in his arms.

But one thing Zayne knew with absolute certainty, as he felt your steady, shallow breaths against his chest: he would always care for you. He would protect you, with every ounce of his strength, against the brutal cold of his North, and against the cruel hand of fate that seemed intent on claiming you. “Please,” he begged to no one in particular, and held you tighter in the moonlight. “Please give me a little more time.”

Zayne should’ve known good things don’t last.

The silence in the keep lasted barely twenty four hours after your hasty ceremony before he was meeting with his captains, his scouts bursting through the doors and breathless and shivering. New creatures, unlike anything seen in a generation, had appeared deep in the forests, preying on the isolated villages. The threat wasn’t merely distant – it now creeped onto his lands, towards the very roads that led to his keep. Towards you.

He found you in the sunroom, a small shaft of morning sun illuminating the book in your hands. You set it down as soon as he approached, your expression calm, though your eyes held a knowing sadness. You must’ve known that had it been up to him, you would’ve still been in bed together.

“Be safe.”

“I will return very soon,” he promised, feeling his words to be utterly inadequate. He reached out, hesitating a moment before settling on a light touch to your shoulders. He’d meant to keep his distance, to honor the terms of your convenient marriage, but the sudden prospect of separation made him feel nothing but sharp pain, like thorns twisting from the insides. “Will… will you wait for me until then?”

“Always, Your Grace,” you gave a small, steady smile that was far too reassuring.

 “I’m really sorry. This wasn’t how I wanted our honeymoon to go.” The admission felt clumsy, pathetic, but it was true. He’d barely spent a night with you, and now he was abandoning you to face the world he’d sworn to keep you safe from.

You waved your hand dismissively, the movement frail but determined. “Oh, you fret too much. Go and save the world.”

He couldn’t help but look at you, at the way the sunlight hit you just right, knowing that his world was already here in this sunlit room. He was the Duke of the North, bound by duty to his people, but the thought of the miles that would soon separate him from you was agony. Leaving felt like tearing a vital piece of himself away. But to protect you, he’d had no choice but to ride out into the cold.

Giving you a curt nod, he turned quickly, before the longing in his eyes could betray the cold pragmatism of his title.

---

The first few days on the trail were a blur of harsh riding, frozen forests, and brutal confrontations with the new beasts. Zayne’s focus had to be absolute, yet his thoughts were constantly pulled back to the keep. Every spare moment was consumed by worry.

Were you eating the hearty stews he’d given orders for you to have, or were you picking at your food, too weak or weary to manage a full meal? Did you finally sleep through the night, or was the cough – that deep, rattling sound he’d grown too fear – still disturbing you? Are you okay? That simple question, the one he couldn’t ask in person, tormented him. He quickly realized just how unbearable the silence was becoming.

Unable to go another minute, he sent riders back with brief notes – not reports on the skirmishes, but clumsy inquiries about you. He needed confirmation, a lifeline. A promise and reassurance that he still had something to return home to. Something that would make the brutal work of hunting and killing a little more tolerable.

The nights were the hardest.

He found himself lying on hard pallets in makeshift camps, surrounded by the sleeping bodies of his men and the biting cold. He’d endured far worse conditions in his life; the physical discomfort was nothing. What was unbearable was the empty space beside him. He realized with certainty that he didn’t mind sleeping on a pallet, as much as he minded sleeping without you. Already, he’d missed the weight of your head on his shoulder, the clean scent of your hair, your presence that somehow had turned his barren chamber into something warm, something soft.

Then, three days in, a messenger intercepted him on the road, carrying a small sealed packet. Your handwriting. He dismissed his captains and broke the seal with unsteady hands.

Your letter was brief, direct, and entirely without self-pity. You wrote about the fire in the solar, the new pattern of frost on the windowpanes, and a funny anecdote about the cook’s cat. Ended with a simple sentence, Do not fret for me, Your Grace. The keep is warm, and my health is steady. I am here, waiting for you.

The frozen air did not seem so brutal anymore. Your words didn’t cure the monsters that lurked within, but the terrible, paralyzing fear of leaving you. Those letters were the only thing that kept him going. It made him brave enough to ride out again, facing the dangers not out of duty, but a race to return to the only warmth he now truly desired.

Zayne could not wait for the next letter.

My Lord,

The news of your success is a great relief to me and to the household staff. I am pleased to report that the harvest was indeed plentiful, and the granaries are being stocked with care. It truly is fascinating that your people found a way to farm even in this weather.

The keep is quiet in your absence. I have been spending my days in the solar, where the light is most pleasant. From my window, I can see the sparrows preparing their nests in the eaves. It is a simple thing, but a source of quiet observation. I wonder, what kind of sights do you see on your travels? I would so love to hear the stories you have to tell.

Be safe on your return.

Sincerely, your wife.

My Lady, The weather has turned, and our journey has been delayed by an unexpected storm. I write this from a small, miserable hut in the high mountains. It is a lonely place, a cold shell of a room. There is no one to speak to but the wind. My life, it seems, has been much the same. I have always lived in a place like this – a cold shell with no one inside. But your letters have been a warmth I did not anticipate. As for the sights, I cannot say. I do not always have the time to appreciate the sceneries when a beast could be waiting to pounce from behind me. Whatever stories I may have, however, are best shared in person. Perhaps we can talk about it over a cup of tea someday. With sincere respect, your husband

Zayne was a blur of steel and leather, his sword becoming an extension of his newfound bloodlust. The creature before him – all teeth, claw, and unnatural speed – met its end with a desperate, guttural shriek as his blade plunged home. “Filthy beast,” he spat out, retracting his sword with enough force to send blood splattering against his dark coat. “To think that the likes of you are roaming around, threatening the safety of my wife.”

He’d been out in the wild for days, weeks – who knew? None of it mattered. The days all blurred into one dark, cold nothingness. Every swing, every thrust, every kill was driven by his impatience to return home already.

One less beast meant another day of safety. It was what he kept telling himself each time he had to return to his pallet, each time he wiped his blade free of its blood. One less beast, and I can return home to you.

My Lord, I confess your last letter took me by surprise. I had not known that you, too, felt the weight of solitude. It is a heavy burden, even in a home with many people. I understand your words, as I have long known the feeling of being an observer rather than a participant in my own life. It has occurred to me that I’ve played an active role in the happiness of others, but when was the last time I did something for my own pleasure only? Quite a ridiculous thought, but one I intend to change very soon. Perhaps I may even start making new memories with you, if your time and busy schedule will permit. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. They are a great comfort to know I am not alone in my quiet world. I await your future conversations over steeping tea, and I shall keep a fire burning for you until you return. With sincere fondness, your wife

My dearest wife,

The roads are finally clear. We ride south, and I can think of nothing but my return. I am impatient, a feeling I had forgotten I was capable of. The men are talking about a week's travel; I am hoping to make it in five days. I am eager to embark with you on this journey of creating new memories, and worry not. You need only ask, and my days will be yours. What is it that you had in mind? Would you like to travel along the South Coast to indulge in the warm, fresh air of the sea? Or would you prefer the grand sceneries of golden towers and shimmering delights of the East? You may think about it now, and I will handle all preparations necessary.

I am also bringing a small gift for you. It is nothing grand, but I found it might be useful to you. I have begun to realize that my world is not as cold as I thought. I have you to thank for that. This journey is no longer a task to complete but a path leading me home to you.

Until soon, Zayne

“Would this make a fine gift, you think?” Zayne asked, gesturing with the tip of the knife towards the bloody mound.

The carcass was enormous, the creature’s thick, dark hide lying splayed on the packed snow. His hands were stained deep crimson, the blood steaming faintly in the cold air, but he barely registered the gore. He was too focused on working meticulously, careful to peel the pelt away from the muscle, ensuring the skin remained in a single, perfect piece. Normally, this would be the work of a trapper, not a Duke, but he needed to be sure it was done right. This fur was the finest he’d seen this season – dense, luxurious, and long enough to cover you from neck to ankle.

Zayne paused, wiping the flat of his blade clean against a patch of snow, and looked towards his Captain. “Well?”

He glanced over, his eyes wide. “Er… the beast’s innards, My Lord?”

“No. The coat. Its fur is thick and shiny. Will this suit the Princess? Will she like it?”

Zayne had never given gifts to anyone after his parents’ passing. His head maid and butler did all the polite work of sending greetings and well wishes to other nobles. But he’d been away for a while, and he wanted to bring you something of value, something that would keep the cold from your bones.

Something to assure you that he was always, always, thinking of you. (Even when he had no reason to be.)

A slow smile spread across the Captain’s face. “With a little bit of cleaning and polishing, My Lord, I believe she will love it.”

“Good,” Zayne muttered, plunging the knife back into the hide. “She wrote in one of her letters that she once wore three layers of coats and still found it cold. Why has no one insulated the walls yet while I am gone? I don’t like that she’s not warm enough.”

“The servants insisted, Sir, but Her Highness was quite adamant that no changes were required when it is your home. She wanted you to make the decisions on how the Estate will be. And I quote, ‘I do not want to impose.’”

The knife slightly slipped from his grasp. Impose. Even now, married to him, living under his roof, you still regarded yourself as a guest. Were you not the one who insisted on coming here to the North? The one who confidently claimed this would be your new home? The self-control you possessed was astounding, yet frustrating. He was at a loss of what to do to make you feel more welcome, more secure. But then again, he supposed… he was at fault, too, having left not even a day after your wedding night.

“She’s my wife, your former Princess and the Grand Duchess. She can do whatever she likes as she please,” he stated, voice unwavering with the command. Finally, he tossed the knife into the snow. The bloody work was done; he had a mighty gift to bring home. “Get me a pen and paper. I shall write to the staff that whatever she asks for, she will get without needing my approval.”

“Right away, Sir.”

“And Captain?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“What can I do to make her feel more at home? For her to understand she is welcomed in the North, and that I have no regrets she is my wife?”

The Captain’s eyes lit up in amusement, which he quickly masked into that of neutrality. “Being a little more husbandly when we return home wouldn’t hurt, Sir. Perhaps it is time you fulfill your duties that of a man meant to take care of a lovely lady.”

“Duties such as…”

“I believe you know that already, Sir. You are no longer a clueless lad.”

Zayne frowned, about to demand his Captain explained more, when the realization hit him. Cupping his mouth with his cleaner hand, he attempted to hide the way his skin flushed red. “Oh.”

For the past week, Zayne had known nothing but the smell of smoke, cold leather, and blood. When the scent of his own keep finally hit him, one of woodsmoke and aged stone – a surge of conflicting emotions swarmed over him. Nervous was a foreign feeling to him, yet it settled deep, making him clutch tighter on his horse’s reins. It’d simply been too long.

Would the weeks of distance have undone the bond you’d formed through your letters? Would you revert to the formal Princess he knew, and him as the cold Duke?

He swung down his horse, the frozen ground jarring his boots. Before the stable hands could even take his mount, the great oak doors of the keep burst open, letting a blast of frigid air into the courtyard. And then he saw you, running.

“Your Grace!” you cried out, your sweet, sweet voice sounding relieved.

A flash of pale pink fabric, a rush of movement both entirely reckless and unbefitting of the infamous frail princess. His heart leapt into his throat, his feet moving towards you before his mind even comprehended it. The frozen ground, much too unstable and slippery, caused you to stumble and lose your balance.

All those years of training took over. Zayne reached out, his arms snapping out to catch you before your head hit the cobblestones. Your body collided with his, and instinctively, your arms wrapped around his neck. For a brief moment, he considered telling you to let go, that he was still stained with blood and didn’t want to soil you. But the next, your floral scent had enveloped him, welcomed him home.

“Princess, are you alright? You’re not hurt, are you?” he demanded, holding you tight as his gaze searched your face for any signs of injury.

You shook your head, “No, I-I’m just a little out of breath. I had to run to see you when I heard you were home.”

Zayne’s previous shock melted into protective fury. “You didn’t have to. I would have gone straight to you,” he snapped, his eyes sweeping over the scattered servants. “Somebody start a fire and prepare my wife some tea. And fetch the thickest blankets!”

He was marching inside the keep before you could say another word. Into the hearth, he settled you once again on the couch just as he did on the day you met. Hesitantly, Zayne knew he had to put you down, until he felt you stiffen in his arms. Glancing down at you, he saw a shadow of hurt crossing your face, could see the way you retreated back to the way you were before… before everything.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, refusing to meet his gaze. “You seem upset. I – should I not have greeted you back? Well, I suppose you’re right. Everyone knows this isn’t a marriage of love, and now your people will think of you odd now that I’ve stepped out of line–”

“I am upset,” he sighed, opting to sit on the couch instead, and draping you over his lap. “You shouldn’t have ran and – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you. It’s just… you worry me. What if you’d slipped, and hit your head, or–” He cut himself off, the images too vivid for his liking.

But as he looked at you now, truly looked, his anger faltered.

You looked… better. The deathly pallor had lifted, your skin more radiant than it was before. Your eyes, which had been so dimmed upon your arrival, were bright. You looked happier, younger.

You placed a gentle hand against his jaw, silencing him. “Your Grace, I’m not that weak. I’ve never had a dizzy spell or fainted. I only have dysfunctional lungs and a tired body,” you whispered, your smile soft but true. “For once, though, I’d forgotten how tired I always felt. When you wrote that you would be home soon, I was beside myself with joy. I-I haven’t felt that… well, ever, I think.”

The sincerity of your confession stunned him. To think that he, a cold Duke who’d not once accepted any of your invitations to visit the Palace, would be the cause of your joy, humbled him.

His heart was now hammering for an entirely different reason. He forgot about the waiting staff – the cold, and watchful eyes of his household. He was a weak man, pulling you close until your chests were brushing. You of your softest fabrics, and him in his plated armours. Oh, the irony of you being so delicate and harmless to be the only thing to pierce through him…

“I looked forward to coming home too,” he admitted. Then, in a spontaneous gesture that surprised even him, he lowered his head and pressed a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It was cold, as he’d expected, and he smiled when he felt you scrunching it in response. Eyes widened in shock, but you didn’t resist, nor pull him away.

Zayne didn’t care anymore who was watching. He was home, and you were safe and whole in his arms. It felt like the only victory that mattered.

He continued holding you tight against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart even beneath your cloak. He didn’t care that the servants were pretending not to stare, and neither did you. You seemed entirely content, nestled against his large frame, your hands eventually reaching up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. Zayne couldn’t help but shiver, feeling your cold, whispery touch explore him with a tenderness he hadn’t known he deserved.

Finally, the tension bled out of his shoulders. His gaze drifted around the room as an excuse to not look you in the eyes, for fear he’d completely dissolve under your touch. Until he saw it – the worn leather binding, the familiar dent on the spine… It was the copy of his favorite novel he’d kept hidden away in his private library.

 “You’re reading it.”

“Oh, uh, yes,” you shifted slightly in his hold, following the path of his gaze. “You mentioned in one of your letters this was your favorite, that you got another copy so you’d have one to bring with you on your travels. I thought, what better way to know you better than to see the world you so love in these pages?”

A warm flush crept up Zayne’s neck. To have someone take the time to care about the small, inconsequential things he cared about was disarming. “I see. And what did you think of it?

“Well, the main protagonist is a sulking, downtrodden beast–” you broke off, mischief lighting your eyes, making the exhaustion from his body fall away, and a chuckle to escape him.

“No, he isn’t.”

“He is!” you tapped his chest, “But he is a sulking, downtrodden, lovesick beast who could never say no to his lover, so I enjoyed that part. I must say, though, I never took you for someone who also enjoyed romance.”

Zayne’s laughter faded away. The playful mask fell away, replaced by something far more serious. “I don’t. But that book was written by a close friend of my mother’s. It was my parents’ love story.”

“Oh,” you understood immediately, a graceful smile crossing your features. “Well, they had a beautiful love story, regardless of how it ended. A happy ever after, with the sweetest and most brilliant little boy named Zack,” you teased, and Zayne snickered at your antics. You laughed at his expression, eyes widening into saucers when you caught sight of his face.

“Zayne, you’re wounded!”

Ah. He’d forgotten the wound entirely. It was a nasty, deep scratch on his lower jaw from the last beast he’d fought. “It’s nothing,” he waved off, moving to touch the scar that only lightly stung. “It’s normal to get scratches and cuts when you’re out hunting beasts.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Zayne! You’ve been out there in the cold with no comfort or proper food, and here you are still nursing me. You probably haven’t even slept,” you reprimanded, eyes brimming with concern as your reached for him. “Here, let me–”

Zayne instinctively pulled back, not wanting to sully your precious dress further. He was already wincing at the sight of blood stains on the fabric. “It’s okay, Princess. I promise it doesn’t hurt.”

“I’m your wife,” you stated, leaving no room for argument. And a funny yet endearing sight it was – you in your fluffy petticoats, smelling like vanilla bath oils, and adorned in diamonds – trying to sound fierce. “Will you really deny me the duty of tending to my husband? Because here I thought we were starting to become good friends. Have I gotten it all wrong?”

That sentence was his undoing. You were right – he was your husband, and this was your role.

Extending his arm to you, he watched as you gently peeled away the blood-soaked collar of his coat. He took your cool hand in his, turning it over, before bringing your knuckles to his lips. The gesture was strange and new to him, an unbidden impulse, but he pressed his mouth to your skin anyway, basking in that small, delighted gasp you gave.

Deities, he’d silently prayed, thank you for this wonderful blessing.

“Deny you?” he echoed, letting his lips brush over your knuckles as he gazed up at you from under his lashes. “I wouldn’t dare dream of it.”

After spending weeks out in the wild, Zayne would never take hot water and a home cooked meal for granted again. He felt clean, full, and strangely content.

Pacing his quarters – which he now shared with you – he still struggled to wrap his mind around the fact he’d spent an entire evening talking and laughing, without a single ledger or map in sight. His usual dinners were spent in his study, buried in reports that tasted like ash. It had never been a companionate time for him. But with you, the hours seemed to go by in the blink of an eye. He couldn’t remember when the last time was when he smiled so hard, his cheeks hurt.

Zayne stopped pacing near the warm hearth, picking up the magnificent fur he’d brought home. Running his hands over the dense, cool white pelt, he twisted his fingers in the luxurious strands. Already, he could picture it. You in your regal glory, cloaked in white of snow. Him in his usual garment of dark, midnight fur. What a pair it made, he thought, quite a handsome pair.

The gift was meant to be simple – he was worried for your health, and wanted to bring back something that spoke of his concern. He was certain you must be tired of it all by now, being gifted gold, jewelry, private lands, and the like. You deserved something personal, something that said he cared. That message itself through this gift had him nervously twiddling with it, suddenly conscious of the fur’s size and its bloody origins. Would you like it? Or would you be appalled by the violence he had to exert to obtain it from you?

The bath chamber finally opened.

You stepped out, and the small breath he’d been holding was now completely caught in his chest. The sight of you was… devastating. Rid of your usual stiff court dress, you wore a simple chemise of soft, cream-colored linen. The flickering candlelight combined with the moonlight streaming through high windows made your skin glow. You moved delicately, gracefully, and in that moment, you were the most shockingly beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The portraits don’t do you justice, you once told him, completely unaware that not even the greatest carved statues were parallel to your beauty.

And to think you were his, and his alone…

Zayne cleared his throat, and forced himself to move. “Princess,” he managed through rugged breaths, still in disbelief that you were his, he was your husband, you were here, in the North, with him – he held the massive coat out to you, his eyes pointedly focused on the floor and at your bare feet. Anywhere but at your face. “This is the gift I told you about. I wanted to give it to you earlier, but I… I wanted to see you warm.”

You walked toward him, the linen clinging to your form, and took the coat from his hands. Your eyes were wide, glittering in the low light. “Zayne…” you gasped out, “This is lovely. I’ve never seen such rich fur,” bringing a section of the pelt to your cheek, you closed your eyes and reveled in its softness. “Thank you. Truly. I shall treasure it.”

That was all he needed to hear.

He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, before the inevitable awkwardness of the hour returned. After all, the gift was given, the pleasantries were done, and now that he was without the comfort of liquid courage, facing the bed seemed like his most impossible task ever.

The silence that fell was thick and sudden, filled with the crackle of the fire and the knowledge you were about to share a bed for the first time as husband and wife.

You carefully laid the fur over the back of the settee, slowly moving toward the massive, waiting bed as if you too, felt the nerves settling in. Zayne pulled the furs back, each of you taking a side as you climbed in, and – the distance was glaringly obvious. He suddenly cursed having a King’s sized bed. At any other day, he loved that he had room and plenty of space to get a good night’s sleep, but tonight? He despised that you were so close, yet so far away. He laid there, body stiff, hearts hammering together in sync. He could feel you all the way from where he stayed – the tempting scent of your soap and bare skin, the gentle rhythm of your breathing – and knew that you were only waiting for him. Waiting for him to act, to enforce the unavoidable terms of your marriage. Yet all he could manage was a whispered good night.

You broke the silence with a soft laugh, and he watched, as your linked hands began to move in sync with the way your body rumbled when you laughed. “It’s funny, isn’t it? This isn’t the first time we’ve shared a bed, and yet we’re acting like we’re strangers. I’d say we’re going backwards since you left.”

“I still am sorry about that,” Zayne said, turning on his side and resting his chin on his palm, content to revel in the sight of you – soft, sleepy, warm, and illuminated by the silver moonlight. “You know I would’ve stayed if there weren’t any rampaging beasts.” He regretted the mission, not because of the monsters, but because of the time it stole from him.

“One of the reasons I chose you was because I knew how much monsters lurked in the North. You never came to any balls or gatherings in the Kingdom because you were too occupied keeping your people safe,” you admitted, mirroring his posture as you stared at one another. “I thought my heart would be safer around someone whose face I wouldn’t have to see much. Someone I wouldn’t have to miss much, but…”little by little, you closed the distance, your cheek lightly brushing against his open palm. Lips parted, you let out a dreamy sigh, the mint of your breath fanning over him. “…Your letters kept me great company. I eagerly awaited for the next one, to live life through your eyes. I only wish I had more interesting stories to tell you, to keep you entertained while you were out there.”

Zayne brought his hand up, and gently cradled your cheek. “Even if you only wrote about the most trivial of things, I would’ve still waited for your letters too.”

Something unreadable washed over your features, akin to hesitance, doubt. “Really? You truly mean that?”

How could you ever doubt it, the way he saw you? Each time you worried you were dull and a bore, he had an urge to correct you. You were an enigma – strong yet delicate, beautiful yet broken, his and not at all his at the same time. He was falling for you, this he knew. It didn’t matter that it was too early, that you didn’t know each other very well yet. You’d always been in the spotlight, and he’d always been an eager audience. He remembered being a young teen enamored by the Princess, just around his age, yet a hundred times wiser and more experienced than he would ever be. To see you like this, to not see yourself the way he saw you – Zayne hated it more than anything.

 “Yes,” he breathed out, the honesty pouring out of me like a torrent he couldn’t stop. “You’ve the most elegant handwriting I’ve ever seen, and sometimes your hand lotion leaves a scent of roses and vanilla against the paper. And how odd it was, that I memorized your scent before I could memorize your features. The arch of your brows–” his fingers reached out, tracing the said feature, “–the slope of your nose–” trailing down, he let his fingers run over the curve of your nose, watching, in rapt, as you breathed in his scent, “–the curls of your lashes–” up, and up, he went, your lashes fanning over his skin like a butterfly kiss, “–the shape of your lips.”

His thumb smoothed over your lips, unsurprised that they were as smooth as petals. “Every night,” he confessed, brokenly, as the distance between your bodies diminished. “I wondered how soft they might feel like against mine. If they’re as warm as your smile, if your kisses are as sweet as your scent.”

Somehow, he found himself on top of you, both of his arms caging the sides of your head. You looked up at him in worship, in prayer, your legs spreading in invitation.

“You’re my husband,” you reminded him, and that title alone was grander – far more valuable – than when he became Duke. To be a Duke was to be a leader of his territory. To be a husband was to be consumed by you. And he would just let you, rip his heart out in two, stomp it into pieces. “You don’t have to wonder about all of these. You can just… know me.”

 You tilted your head, and Zayne leaned down as your lips met – that one single kiss changing everything he’d believed. You were soft, warm, and sweet. He would ravish you on this bed until the sun rose, make you whisper his name until it would be all he heard. If he had his way, you would never leave this bed, never leave his side. Until you whimpered. Pulling back, his mind screamed to him the reality of your arrangement – your declining health, the boundaries he’d sworn to maintain. He couldn’t do this – defile you and have his way with you. He didn’t want to disrespect you, but you were there, wanton and seeking his touch. Please, he nearly begged, just tell me what to do.

“Tell me to stop,” he pleaded, clenching the silken sheets under you. “Tell me to stop and I will. Your Highness, please–”

“Call me something else,” you murmured, your thumb gently brushing his bottom lip. “Something more personal to you. I don’t want to be just a mere title.”

Zayne was never good with words. There might never be an appropriate way to call you, enough to mean what his heart screamed, but his lips could never say. “Princess,” he whispered again, his voice thick with unabashed desire. “My wife. My love.”

That world alone was a catalyst. The formality you’d both put up with dissolved entirely. The coldness of the sheets was forgotten as the spaces between your bodies disappeared.

Zayne’s lips came crashing down into yours, swallowing every sound you made. You called out his name in broken, little gasps, your nails digging into his skin as you clung to him like a lifeline. And this – he could never get enough of it. Couldn’t slow down even if he wanted. He was begging, again and again, as he crawled down your stomach, reluctantly pulled his mouth away from yours. He never did stray too far, though. Soon, your chemise disappeared, thrown into a pile with his robe on the floor. His hands – rough and big – explored every inch of your body, making sure to leave a mark and not leaving a spot unkissed.

When he reached your core, he thought of heaven. Your legs were spread around his head, pinned down onto the mattress with his arms. You cried out, biting your fists. Any other time, it would’ve broken his heart to see the tears streaming down your face. Any other time, he would’ve been gentler and said he was sorry. But he was a man on a mission. He lapped you up like his last meal, kissing your most intimate parts with enough affection to have you keeling over.

“No, don’t,” he whispered against your mound, his thumb delicately flicking your peal. “Don’t push me away, sweetheart.”

“Oh, Zayne,” you gritted your teeth, your torso shooting up from the bed. He couldn’t tell if you were trying to run away from him, or if you would die were he to pull away. One moment, you were pushing his head away from your heat, and the next, you were shamelessly grinding on his face. “Zayne, please.”

“Please what, darling?” he cooed, nosing your cunt and thrusting his tongue inside. One finger, two fingers, you could take it. You were his good, loving wife. “Tell me what you need.”

“Inside! I need you inside,” you writhed, sobs wrecking your body as he closed his eyes and considered it. He would be inside you soon enough – after you came once on his tongue, another on his fingers. Pumping his fingers deep, he finally found that sweet spot. He knew he’d reached bliss when your gasps became silent, your eyes turning glassy. If he thought you were beautiful before, there was no comparing it to now.

Your nipples stood on attention, and so he lapped them up, too. Capturing one in his mouth, he fondled the other, content to let this go on forever. But he wasn’t as cold as you painted him to be. He could be merciful, considerate. Kissing you one more time, he eagerly sucked your tongue until teeth clashed, more than glad to remind you how he kissed you in other places, too.

Taking his cock in hand, he coated himself in your juices that still dripped down his fingers. He lifted one arm, brought your knee over the crook of it, and slid right home. You were hot like a furnace, velvety on the inside, and soft like a dream. Every touch confessed his longing, every kiss a long awaited answer. The fear that kept him apart was now consumed by the undeniable warmth of your body, the way you always gave too much of yourself, just like you did now. So willing, and so warm. You were a painting like this – your cheek pressed against the pillow, your teeth bullying your lower lip to muffle your moans, the screams of his name. With each thrust, your breasts bounced tantalizingly, that of course he can’t help himself but to reach down and swirl his tongue around it.

And he loved you. Loved you so much that he couldn’t bed you any other way, couldn’t do it in a manner formal and respectful enough to give you dignity still. No, he quite rather liked you like this. Crying out for him, reaching for him until he was close enough for you to wrap your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist. As if you too couldn’t handle being even an inch apart.

Chest to chest, Zayne pressed his forehead against yours. The new angle allowed him to reach your further depths, to be where no one had ever been. Mine, every thrust said, only mine, said each bruising grip on your hips. And what a blessing it was, to be so lovingly marked that there would be visible evidence the next day.

The fire pooling in his belly eventually dwindled to embers. After what felt like hours, Zayne finally grew soft, whispering sweet nothings as he sucked the shell of your ear. Already, your energy was waning, your limbs growing limp as you coated him still.

Zayne held you close, your body flush against his – the once cold and irritatingly large bed, now perfectly warm and small. He gently rubbed slow circles against your bare skin, feeling the delicate pulse beneath his fingers, the steadiness of your breathing as you began to drift off in his arms. “Zayne,” you whined sleepily, reaching between your legs to where he was comfortably nestled. “I… Are you not going to pull out?”

“I’m sorry,” he kissed your neck, and greedily licked the sweat that had formed there. You moaned once again, and tightened around him, causing him to hiss. “Sorry, love. If you mind, I’ll pull out.”

“No, it’s not that,” you mumbled, and reached behind you to play with the strands of his hair. It, too, was damp. “Just… ‘m gonna fall asleep now.”

“Sleep. I’ll be here.”

“Mhmm.” He laid awake for a time, simply holding you, utterly consumed by the marital bliss he’d never expected to find.

Sometime during the night, Zayne stirred awake. His muscles felt overused, yet the familiar burn of an exhausting hunt never came. If anything, his mind had become clearer, his hands itching to touch something – someone. With closed eyes, he reached for the warmth that clung to him. The scent of your perfume and his skin, when combined together, made for a perfect aphrodisiac. And it was slow, this morning. There were no gripping hands or teeth biting down onto perfectly delicate and smooth skin. There was only the lazy way he slipped once again into you, the way you moaned his name at the crook of his neck like a secret prayer.

Things began to change after that night. He began taking breakfast with you every morning. And it wasn’t a rushed, formal affair, either. You’d forgone rules and tradition by sitting next to him, instead of across each other from the long, wooden oak table. Afterwards, you’d spend time by the fire, nestled in Zayne’s lap, as you both discussed the day ahead. He was so enamored with you that you didn’t even need to demand attention – it would be given at any given time of the day.

Of course, this newfound intimacy extended beyond the bedroom.

Zayne quickly discovered that he preferred the sound of your humming to the vast silence of his Estate. The bath, once a solitary chore, became a safe space to share your domestic affections. He made sure to let you know he loved you in those lazy mornings, too. He’d wash your hair, run his hands all over the soap suds on your body, and bend you over the ceramic tub as he took you from behind. Afterwards, he’d wash you with delicate touches and soft kisses. There was no grand declaration in that steam-filled room, and there needn’t be. Not when his touches said enough, and your sweet lips took the words right out of your mouth.

But the most significant change, the one he loved most, happened in his study.

You began to accompany him there, sitting in the deep leather chair near the fire (there was always a fire now that you were around, the Estate bright and warmer than it had ever been), often draped in the magnificent fur he’d brought you. You wore it proudly, like a proclamation to the world that you were rightfully his.

While he pored over treaties and reports, you would read books or simply watch the flickering of the flames. At first, your presence had been distracting. He’d lost a number of paperwork when he’d carelessly thrown them aside, just so he could lay you down and make love to you. You’d crumpled his most important contracts as you fisted them each time he flipped your skirts over, only to disappear below them. But after some time, when you’d both learned to control your appetites, you became his anchor.

Your years at court had gifted you an unparalleled understanding of human nature. When he struggled with a difficult negotiation or a complicated dispute between his vassals, you would always listen to him and offer your brilliant insight. And you were always right. You were sharp, wise, yet forgiving even on the most cruel of nobles.

Zayne realized then that he was a far better leader when you were at his side.

He’d fallen for your wit and resilience when he used to only watch from afar, and then for your tenderness in bed, but he fell hardest for the brilliance of your mind – the quiet confidence in which you conquered the world. His cold pragmatism as the cold Duke of the North melted away, turning him into a tamed man who was simply deeply in love with his wife.

The seasons turned swiftly.

You watched the harsh, endless white of winter surrender to the brief, vibrant green of spring, and then to the golden decay of autumn. Your illness still remained, and your coughs never went away. But you grew happier, more vibrant with each passing month. You laughed more frequently, and your eyes regained their light. With every shared sunrise, every whispered words of affection in his library, and every night spent holding you close, Zayne prayed to every deity out there for one simple wish: just a little more time. Just one more morning.

Much as he wanted to be rid of his negative thoughts, he knew he had no time to waste.

One day, you two walked arm-in-arm along a path near the castle. The ground beneath his boots and yours were cushioned by a thick, brilliant layer of yellow and russet leaves – something he thought he’d never live to see. For centuries, his land been nothing but perpetual winter, but this year, the North had given way to a true autumn.

He’d walked this very path thousand of times, yet it was never this lush, this golden. And with you by his side, he felt like a man reborn – surrounded by beauty he’d never tire of seeing.

But that beauty was accompanied with dread. The daily walks, which he’d insisted upon to build your stamina and strength, had become less frequent. Even now, moving slowly, you struggled. He could feel the slight, involuntary hitch in your steps, the way your weight would begin to lean a little too heavily on his arm with each minute that passed by.

“Fall has always been beautiful in the Kingdom, but here up in the North… it’s magical.” You looked up at the trees, raising your free hand to catch a falling maple leaf. Even with a smile on your face, Zayne could tell the act cost you much energy.

“I have you to thank for that,” he adjusted his stride to match yours, trying to offer his support without seeming obvious. It was an unspoken agreement between you two – that he was to ignore your waning strength, and you were to pretend everything was well. A promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. He could be a great Duke and a husband, yes. But an actor? To turn a blind eye to the way you ate less and less, and slept more and more?

“Me? How so?”

If it is what you truly want, he silently thought, then I will keep up this charade with you, and humor you with idle chatter. We will talk and speak of everything except the one thing I fear most.

“I don’t know if you’ve read much about the history here in the North, but we only get winters all year round. Summer, spring, fall… it’s all but a myth. The people have all resigned that maybe the snow would be the only thing we see. The last time we’d had spring and when flowers bloomed was when my parents married,” he explained, his eyes fixated on your face, searching for any sign of strain. “Cliché, isn’t it?”

You smiled, and his breath hitched. Beautiful still. Lovely still.

“Your Grace, are you trying to imply the seasons have changed because of my presence?”

He shrugged, hoping it made him look unbothered. “You are the first born of the Crown. Priests have always said firstborn children had the most holy blessing upon them,” unable to resist, he pulled you closer. “I don’t know what it could mean. I don’t know if the weather changed because you’re here. All I know is that things haven’t been the same since your arrival, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Flattering me as always, I see.”

You took perhaps ten more pace, and then stopped abruptly, the leaf you were once clutching falling from your grasp. You raised a hand to your chest, fingers pressed into the fabric of your coat – the one Zayne had given. Even in the warmth of fall, you were bundled beneath layers. Your breathing grew rough, followed by a deep, rattling cough that tore through your chest, forcing you to fold over.

Zayne shouted your name. Immediately, he slipped his arm from yours and wrapped it around your waist, bracing himself as your body shook with the exertion.

He hated it. Hated being reminded of how frail you’d become, how useless he’d been. It seemed that no matter what he did, you could not escape your fate. “Sweetheart, I think we should head back…”

You straightened slowly, and pulled yourself upright. You’d gone pale again, your eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Though you’d never say it out loud, he’d heard enough from the physicians – how your lungs were slowly being filled with water, and even the mere act of breathing became difficult. “No, I’m fine. Just a little winded,” you looked up at him apologetically, cradling his face as worry washed over him. “Zayne… do you… regret it? Answering my marriage proposal?”

“No. Why would I?” he asked, voice tight. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” And he meant it. If only you could believe he meant it.

As always, you weren’t convinced. You took another unsteady step, placing your hand on the rough bark of a nearby tree to steady yourself. Your mouth opened in silent gasps as you tried to catch your breath, managing a small, humorless laugh in between. “It’s just… you were a coveted and handsome bachelor. You could’ve had anyone you wanted. You could’ve chosen a healthier, younger woman who would be able to accompany you on your travels–”

“We’ve already spoken of this, and my mind hasn’t changed. I want only you.”

Zayne cupped your face, hating the way it felt so cold in contrast to the hot hear that fell.

“But don’t you get tired of it?” you insisted. “Looking after me all this time, worried sick each time I catch a cold or a fever? You always act as if I’m on death’s door.” Zayne’s face fell, and you winced, turning your face away. “I’m sorry, Zayne. I didn’t mean to.”

Those words – death’s door – hung heavy in between the thick air. He was reminded, time and time again, that your luck of living longer than any of you expected, was nothing but borrowed time. Just because you’d seen another year, didn’t mean you were getting better. He despised the reality of it all – the cruelty of your illness. The absolute joke fate played on him, giving him the one thing he wanted most, and watching it slowly fade from his grasp.

Pulling you into his chest, he held you tightly, sheltering you from the cold air and your own morbid thoughts. His heart never got used to the ache – the tenderness of it so fierce it felt like a physical, present pain.

“I love you, you know,” he whispered into your hair, his vow heavier than any word he’d spoken at the chapel. He may not have loved you then, but he did now. He wasn’t going to let you go, not if he could do anything about it.

But could you? a cruel voice in his mind spoke.

“Nothing is going change that.” Change what, Zayne? “Not even you can change my mind. I will have no one else but you.” Firm in his decision, he lifted you slightly, adjusting your weight in his arms as he began the slow, careful walk back to the keep. Mindful not to bounce you too much lest you become dizzy. And he didn’t mind – that his heart was heavier than your body. He would have carried you for a thousand miles if it meant holding you for a little while longer.

That night, something akin to desperation compelled Zayne. Maybe it was the ticking of the clock, the inevitable sand falling from the invisible hour glass. The moment you were both behind closed doors, his lips were all over you. Clothes were ripped and shredded, blankets were thrown to the side. He took you hard and deep enough that the imprint of your figures would remain for days on the mattress, the scent of your hair strong enough to fill the room. When the heatedness had faced, he nestled himself close to you, his arm resting protectively around your waist, as if to shield you from outside forces that dared to take you away from him.

For a few perfect hours, all was well. You slept soundly in his arms, your soft snores reverberating against his bare chest. That peace was then shattered by the shaking of your body, the wrenching cough that sounded similar to nails clawing against a chalkboard.

He was immediately awake, helping you sit up as you leaned against his chest. Your body felt clammy and fragile in his arms. Reaching for the tonic he kept on the bedside table, he held the cup steady for you, waiting for any sort of guidance or direction on what he can do to make it all better. (He knew there was nothing he could do. Not when everyone had said the same thing: just make her happy, Your Grace. It’s really all you can do for her.)

But surely, there had to be more. There must be something.

It was an hour before the convulsions subsided. Your breathing finally eased, and you drifted back to sleep, exhausted. He held you upright for the rest of the night, unwilling to risk laying you down. It didn’t matter that his arm went numb from where you rested on him. His discomfort didn’t matter, if it meant giving a little to the aches to soothe it all away.

The next morning, he rose carefully, leaving you to get as much sleep as you needed. He moved to the dressing screen to retrieve his clothes, about to start his day and get on with the report. Until he caught a flash of white, concealed beneath a pile of soiled linens and yesterday’s rubbish.

It was one of your handkerchiefs.

He recognized the delicate lace edging, the one you always pressed to your mouth when the coughs became too severe. He reached down and picked it up, realizing a moment later it wasn’t merely soiled. Streaked against the white fabric, dark and impossible to ignore, was a patch of bright red.

And he knew it wasn’t your lipstick.

The sight of your bloodied handkerchief haunted him.

Day by day, he argued with physicians to find a cure. Night after night, he nearly threw himself in the face of monsters and beasts, finding their wrath much more comforting than the harsh helplessness he felt. He knew he’d become overbearing, too – scrutinizing the kitchen staff, practically cross-examining the cook about the fat content of the broth and the quality of the game. He hauled in every skilled physician within a hundred leagues, only to receive the same crushing verdict. The Duchess is not getting better. All you can do is make her comfortable.

Comfortable? That word alone was an insult.

How was he, a mere mortal, a Grand Duke who knew nothing but to wield swords and kill beasts, supposed to comfort a dying woman? What was he to do when you were constantly keeled over, wiping blood from your chapped lips? How was it that he nearly had all the fortune in his hands, and not a single gold coin could give you a cure?

Because you never wanted a cure, he was reminded. You only wanted to die.

He couldn’t accept it. It broke him piece by piece. And he tried, tried not to let you see the fear, the sadness that threatened to shatter his carefully constructed composure each time he looked at you. But in private, he coped the only way he knew how: burying himself in work and seeking the brutal catharsis of hunting. At least there, he had a chance to win. He fought beasts outside the walls because he couldn’t fight your sickness within. In the name of love, he was utterly powerless and weak.

It was late one evening, and he was immersed in reports, the biting cold of his study mirroring his foul mood. When the door opened softly, you slipped in. You wore one of your soft nightgowns, beautiful as ever, and walked straight to where he sat. Before he could move or speak, you’d settled yourself on his lap, arms wrapping around his neck.

“It’s late. Aren’t you heading to bed?”

“Soon, my love,” he leaned his cheek against your hair, inhaling your faint, sweet scent that always quieted the voices in his head.

“Winter is approaching. It’s getting colder again.”

“It is,” he murmured, tightening his grip on you. He was well aware of the change of seasons; your cough had gone worse, and you spent more time resting against the fireplace than in his bed. Most days, he found himself asleep on the floor next to you, where he kept a watchful eye and got an aching back. “I had a new set of coats made for you to prepare for it.”

“Let me guess, you skinned more beasts?” you teased, and Zayne shook his head.

“You know it’s nothing for me,” he replied, and he meant it. He fooled himself that he kept on hunting and killing for your sake, when in truth, it was for his. He was just too ashamed to tell you he spilled blood because his heart ached too much. “Why did you come here? Is there anything you need?”

“Actually, I was thinking… if you’re not occupied with the winter hunts, would you like to go on a vacation with me?”

A vacation… He’d thought of it, of course. At the first few months of your blissful marriage, he’d envisioned it all. He’d take you anywhere you wanted, gotten everything you wanted. You would be spoiled so much that all wives would turn green with envy, and husbands would go pale in comparison to him. But as such, your physicians had forbidden long travels, convinced it would only exhaust you and hasten your decline. So he held his breath, and buried all his plans of taking you anywhere further than the North. The fact you asked him yourself… he’d rather not ponder on what it meant.

“Vacation, huh? Where would you like to go?”

“The South Coast! Near the ocean. I haven’t been there since I was a kid,” you explained, your eyes softening at the memory.  “I’d also like to pay a visit to my Mother. Ever since she passed, I’d practically taken over her duties and never had the time. I thought now would be great. She’d get to meet you, too.”

“Your Mother wasn’t buried in the Palace grounds?”

“No. She was a local of the South. She wanted to be buried somewhere near her home,” you shook your head, amused. “I still remember her and Father getting into a huge argument about it. He felt really betrayed she didn’t want to be buried next to him in the Palace.”

“It’s good he respected her decisions in the end.”

It made him think of his own parents, happily buried side by side in the North’s graveyards. One day, he’d be buried there, too, hopefully next to you.

“I guess he loved her enough to let her go,” your eyes met his, speaking a thousand words neither of you acknowledged. “So, what do you think? Would you like to go on a trip with me?”

He saw the plea in your eyes, the need to have a last glimpse of the sun, to have one last wish fulfilled. Once the winter settled, stormy clouds would make its way through the North, and sunlight would be as scarce as fresh, green grass. Already, he could hear your physicians causing a ruckus with their protests. They’d tell him it wasn’t a good idea, especially not when you were growing weaker. But when you looked at him like that – lovingly and adoringly, like he wasn’t some scarred, infamous cold man – it was impossible to say no.

“Of course,” he kissed you then, melting into you just as you did to him. “Whatever you’d like.”

Zayne wasted no time. He allowed a few hours of preparation before pushing the small retinue south. He knew the first fall of snow in the North was imminent, and didn’t want to be held back by it. More importantly, he couldn’t bear losing a single day of the time you asked for. It wasn’t always you asked for something. But each time you did, he always said yes. He’d taken the fastest route until he felt the sudden change – the cold, thin air of the North slowly turning warmer.

In a span of only a few days, you’d crossed the border of the North and reached the South.

The scent of the air was the first shock – gone was the metallic bite of ice, replaced by a heavy, humid blend of salty sea breeze, roasted meats, and the intoxicating fragrance of foreign spices and tropical flowers.

The market town sprawled right up to the water’s edge, its warm colors a welcomed change from the bitter snow he was accustomed to. The streets teemed with people who moved in a lackadaisical rhythm he was unused. Sailors hauled ropes, merchants shouted their wares in loud dialects, and everywhere, there was uninhibited, joyous noise – the clatter of coins, the thrumming of drums, and the laughter of people who seemed to live purely in the moment.

Here, in this heat and light, you were brought back to life. The fresh, heavy air seemed to caress your lungs. Your breathing was noticeably easier, shallower, but lacked the deep, worrisome rattle that he hated to hear.

You insisted on bringing him to the night markets. It was a dizzying maze of bamboo stalls illuminated by hanging lanters, the smoky glow of cook fires. Zayne, the austere Duke who usually moved like a moonlight, let you drag him by the hand through the throng. Your energy was infectious. You pointed, giggled, and stopped to haggle playfully over bright, cheap treasures. He bought you everything you wanted, from baskets to music boxes, to sweet coconut confections that melted on the tongue. He handed over coins to eager merchants and simply watched as you lit up in bliss. He was content to live like this forever, he thought. To be your shadow, his hand resting on the small of your back like a tether that couldn’t ever be broken.

As the last golden hues of the sunset began to bleed into tranquil purples, you took him to a secluded stretch of soft, white sand. He spread the blanket he’d brought, his hands over your waist as he helped you ease into it, your back nestled against his chest. The salty breeze cooled your flushed skin, and you were so much like the sunset – warm, bright, radiant, and painful to look at all the same time. He feared that if he stared at you too long, that he’d grow blind and burn. But he’d stay – of course he’d stay.

He watched the final sliver of the sun disappear, the wide, endless horizon meeting the crash of the gentle waves. He held you close, and everything was perfect. There was no past, no illness, and no impending doom – only the souls of two lovers who’d found solace in one another.

With your head resting beneath his chin, Zayne was lulled by the warmth seeping through his tunic. He held you tighter, savoring the familiar weight of you, knowing this illusion of peace would soon shatter. Every breath you took could be your last; every beat of your heart nothing but a tease.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you told him, your voice swallowed by the sound of the crashing waves.

“You know I’d do anything you asked of me.” Would you do the same? If he’d told you there was only one thing he’d ever truly wanted from you – for you to live – would you do it for him, too?

“I was really happy today,” you looked up at him, pressing a barely there ghost of a kiss at his chin. “I’m glad it’s you who’s with me.”

In other words, you were glad you weren’t dying alone, and Zayne knew better than to ask. But he couldn’t let the moment pass without dragging the truth out there. Even if you were happy, even if you were content, he wasn’t. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he forced the words past the lump of his throat, “I saw, you know. The handkerchiefs you threw away. They were bloodied.”

He paused, praying that the tide swallowed the frantic beat of his heart. “…Did you ever plan on telling me?”

You tensed in his arms, and for a moment, he regretted it. Ruining the moment, upsetting you. The joyful mask you wore finally slipped away, sorrow washing over your hurt eyes. “Zayne… I didn’t want you to know how bad it was getting. I didn’t want to ruin the time we had left, or to drive you to avoiding me again. And–” you choked out a laugh that barely concealed your sob, “We always knew this was how it was going to end. Why are you surprised?”

He could say it was because he didn’t expect to fall for you, but he’d be lying. It was hard not to love you. Not when you were the first thing he saw every morning, the last thing he poured his heart out to every night. It didn’t even matter that maybe you didn’t feel the same. Maybe you saw him just as a way to make death less intimidating, someone to fulfill your wish. Your denial itself told him everything he needed to know – that this vacation wasn’t a hope for a cure, but a chance for him to say his final farewells.

His breath hitched, “You’re leaving me, aren’t you?”

“I was always going to,” you murmured, turning your face toward the darkening sky. For a beat, you hesitated, the most heartbreaking question coming out too weak, too vulnerable even for you. “Do you hate me?”

“Do you love me?”

If you loved me, you would stay. If you loved me, you would’ve gotten the treatments. Even if there was no guarantee you would get better, you would have tried. How was it so easy for you to say goodbye, when he was just about to say hello?

He was filled with fury – angry at your illness, at the world, at the cruel fate that brought him to you, only to rip you away.

He ran his fingers through the nape of your neck, watching as you shifted, looking up at him. “I knew I could love you,” you finally said, and it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Not quite. “And I never thought I would get to say this, but I love you, Zayne. I do. If anyone could’ve brought me back to life, it would’ve been you.”

The smile you wore lit up your face. In that instant, he was the happiest man alive. He felt that the world could end, and he’d welcome it all with open arms. But your confession was nothing but a cruel cosmic joke. You loved him, but it wasn’t enough. You loved him, but you couldn’t stay. If those three words were the last thing he heard from you, he would’ve preferred you not to say it at all. It might’ve been better if you hated him if it meant you lived.

“You look sad,” you noted, trying to smooth away his frown with your thumb. “If I’d known saying I loved you would hurt you this much, I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

He is the Duke. He is a respectable man, an honorable man. He didn’t show weakness, and yet, he broke. “Maybe I do hate you. I hate that you – you gave up so easily. I hate that you’re leaving me. I hate that I’m forced to watch you go when we didn’t even have enough time. It’s unfair. It’s cruel.” And the words almost slipped out of him – I wish I never met you.

You twisted in his arms to face him fully. Cupping his damp face with both hands, he couldn’t hold the tears back anymore.

“Zayne… I only lived this long because of you. They all said I wouldn’t see another season. I had weeks, at best. But because you always cared for me, looked out for me, loved me, I found a reason to become stronger. You pushed me to look forward to another day. You taught me how to live fully in this body. If it weren’t for you, I’d have never seen a Northern spring or summer, or this beautiful southern sunset.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t hate you. I didn’t mean it.”He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, trying to memorize the color of your eyes, the kindness in them, the softness of your lips. “Please, just tell me what to do. We can turn back, I-I can’t let it end like this. We can see another healer, anyone, anything–”

“I know, my love, I know,” you nodded, wiping his tears away and holding him as if this time, he was the delicate one, and you were the source of his strength. “You know that if I could, I would stay, right? I wanted to have a family with you. I wanted to grow old beside you, to keep doing those boring and complicated reports, to listen to the staff’s complaints with you, to… to do all the mundane little things that lovers do.”

“We can, we still can–”

“I’m tired, Zayne.”

He could hear the fatigue, could see the way you mustered all your energy just to see one more day. He wasn’t blind to how hard you fought this war you’d waged for him. You were constantly battling between love and death, him and your reprieve. He was selfish, so selfish… but was it so bad to just be greedy this once?

“I know you are,” he closed his eyes, refusing to see how much it hurt you, too.

“I want to go to sleep…”

He pulled you into his embrace, nearly crushing the fine, fragile bones of your body against his chest, wanting to absorb you if it meant you’d never go. He kissed the top of your head, accepting your final wish, the last thing you’d ever ask him to do. “Okay,” his voice broke completely, “Okay. Go to sleep. I’ll be here, always.”

It was hard not to succumb to sleep when you were surrounded by the soft murmur of the waves, the gentle warmth of bodies pressed together. He felt the exhaustion settling deep into his bones after months of worrying about you. His grip loosened, just slightly, as he too drifted into the darkness.

When he woke, it wasn’t to the sunrise. It was only the early bits of dawn, the sky dotted with indifferent stars, and the air had grown noticeably colder. Immediately, a wave of panicked guilt washed over him. How could he have slept and been careless? You must’ve been so cold, finding it hard to breathe now that it was late –

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. As carefully as he could to not wake you, he pulled his coat from his shoulders, ready to wrap it around you, to shield you from the creeping cold.

But as he moved, a heavy stillness met his touch. Your body, which had been so warm and pliant against his, was now limp and unnervingly steady. Too steady. There was no gentle rise and fall coming from your chest, no soft sighs against his collarbone. His hand, which had been reaching for his coat, froze in mid-air. He leaned back, just enough to look at your face. The pale moonlight cast its cold glow upon your features. Your eyes were closed, lips parted slightly, a serene expression blanketing you. And you were so, so still like a statue carved from moonlight and marble. You looked… free.

Free of the pain, free of the aches, so liberated that part of him couldn’t bear to disturb you.

The realization hit him then. “Oh. No,” he croaked out, ditching the coat. There was no need for warmth. No need to protect you from the cold any longer. “Oh, baby. No. Oh, God, no.”

A sound tore from his throat – a raw, guttural cry that wasn’t entirely human. He pulled you to him, crushing you hard enough, as if he could somehow breathe life back into you with the force of his grief. “Baby, please,” He buried his face in your hair, inhaling your scent one last time, his body shaking hard enough that his cries felt like they were tearing him apart from the inside. His fingers clenched, gripping the fabric of your dress so hard his knuckles turned white. “Please, I can’t do this without you… I can’t…”

A void began to form in his chest, one that would never heal. But even through the agony that blinded him, the part that had seen how hard you fought, knew this was what you’d wanted.

You were happy. You’d died in his arms, beneath a sky of endless stars. No longer fighting, no longer suffering. It may not have been the North who took you from him, but it would be where home would always be. You’d finally gone to sleep, just as you wished, knowing you were loved beyond your wildest imaginations. The first fall of winter was what welcomed you, as the last fall of winter kissed you farewell.

Zayne awoke with a gasp. His heart was slamming against his ribs, a blinding wave of grief consuming his waking thoughts. He felt, quite literally, as though he’d just died. He rubbed his chest, feeling something cold and empty tear open within him, where his heart should’ve been. He was already sitting up in bed, drenched in cold sweat, when the light flipped on and you stood in the doorway, looking painfully familiar that his chest tightened.

“Zayne!” you rushed over to him, kneeling over to his bed, your face aligned with his knees.

He blinked and tried to reorient himself. He could see faint images of starlight, felt grains of invisible sand between his fingers, while a sleeping face slowly drifted into the shadows. He could vaguely register someone else’s voice, someone’s presence, pulling him back to the present.

“Zayne,” you gasped, “You’re crying.”

“I am?” He lifted a hand, surprised to see his fingers trembling. He touched his cheeks, and found them wet with tears. “Oh…”

“What’s wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost.” You sat on the edge of his bed, your hand resting tentatively on his knee.

“It’s nothing. I just… had a long dream, is all.” He couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t even recall what it was that he’d dreamt about. The memory was too fleeting, but the pain it left behind felt utterly real.

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously, you’re getting nightmares from how hard you’re working. You had me worried sick when you suddenly came home and passed out. I thought you were never gonna wake up.” You were right; his work as a doctor took up most of his time. He couldn’t put a finger as to why he even obsessed over his job. He just woke up one day, decided he was going to become a doctor and save people’s lives. If he couldn’t save someone, then he went the extra mile to find a cure.

“Why are you working so hard anyway?” you reached over, gently flicking his bangs away from his eyes. In the dim light of his room, he saw your face in full view – the slope of your nose, the shape of your lips, and wondered… He looked away, and rubbed at his chest again.

“I just felt like I lost something dear to me. Something I should’ve protected. I don’t ever want to feel like that again.”

There was a pregnant pause before you smiled, sheepishly and knowingly. “That’s odd. So you get those dreams, too, huh?”

He looked at you, confused. You shrugged, waving your hand dismissively before settling into your side of the bed, already snug under the blankets. Smiling up at him, you patted the space beside you, beckoning him to return to bed. “Sometimes I get dreams like that as well. That I lost someone special, and I felt helpless the entire time. It makes me wonder if it’s somehow connected to why I always cry during winter.”

Right… He’d met you during winter, after a nasty fall from when you slipped on ice at the pavement. You’d came to his hospital looking defeated, eyes welling with tears. He could still remember how he felt compelled by you, gravitated to come closer and closer, as if something had awoken within him. As if he fell in love at first sight.

Enticed by your warm embrace, he shook all thoughts away and slipped under the blankets with you. Head resting on your chest, he wrapped his arm around your waist, and pulled you closer. Sighing contentedly when you began to play with his hair. And you smelled so sweet – like vanilla and roses – that he wouldn’t have had trouble going back to sleep.

Instinctively, you both turned to look out the window. Outside, the world gave way to the tiny, crystalline flakes drifting past the streetlight, settling softly on the pavement. The first fall of snow. An unshakeable ache settled over him, leaving him wondering why the simple sight of snow could feel so heartbreakingly familiar.