One moment I’m asleep, wrapped in blankets that smell of pine and woodsmoke. The next, I’m back in the cell—chains on my wrists, blood on the floor, that voice echoing through the darkness.
Little Fire-Bringer. Your blood sings to me.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The chains are too tight, the darkness too thick, and somewhere in the depths of the mountain, something ancient is stirring. Something that knows my name. Something that’s been waiting.
You’re mine, little flame. You’ve always been mine.
“Aisling.”
The voice cuts through the nightmare. Hands grip my shoulders, shaking gently.
“Aisling, wake up. You’re safe. You’re here with me.”
My eyes snap open. Rurik’s face swims into focus—worried, urgent, illuminated by the dying embers. I’m sitting up, I realize. Gasping for air. My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely feel them.
“You’re okay.” His tone is low, steady. Grounding. “You’re in the camp. Not the prison. Not anywhere near her.”
“I—“ The word catches in my throat. “She was—I could hear her?—“
“She’s not here.” His palms cup my face, forcing me to look at him. “Just me. Just us. You’re safe.”
My breathing is too fast. Too shallow. I try to slow it, try to focus on his face, his voice, the pressure of his skin against my cheeks.
“Sorry.” The word comes out ragged. “I didn’t mean to?—“
“Don’t apologize.” His thumb traces my cheekbone, featherlight. “Never apologize for this.”
Movement behind him. Selene appears, wrapped in a blanket, concern creasing her brow.
“Nightmare?”
I nod. Can’t find words.
She looks at Rurik. Something passes between them—an understanding I’m too shaken to interpret.
“Go check the perimeter,” she says. “I’ve got her.”
He hesitates. His hands are still on my face, his body angled toward me as if he can’t bear to leave.
“Rurik.” Selene’s tone is gentle but firm. “Let me.”
He pulls back slowly. His touch trails down my jaw before falling away entirely.
“I’ll be nearby,” he says. “If you need me?—“
“She knows.” Selene settles beside me as he rises. “Go.”
He goes. But he looks back three times before disappearing into the tree line.
Selene doesn’t speak immediately.
She just sits there, shoulder pressed to mine, watching the dying embers. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s patient. Waiting.
“Six weeks ago,” she says finally, “I was exactly where you are now.”
I turn to look at her. In the dim light, her features are soft, shadowed.
“Nightmares?”
