She was standing at the edge of a dried-up riverbed. The sky above was the color of bruised fruit, heavy and rotting. The ground cracked under her bare feet as she shifted, and somewhere in the distance, a crow called out—not sharp, but soft, like it had given up on being heard.

  Across from her, a man was waiting.

  He held himself like a man used to command—straight shoulders, easy confidence. His hair was dark, combed neatly back, though a few strands fell across his forehead. His mouth curved into a smirk that didn’t match the emptiness in his eyes.

  In his hand, he held a coin. Silver, thin, almost delicate. It flashed once in the dim light as he tossed it lazily into the air, caught it again with a snap of his fingers.

  Zara stepped forward, though she hadn’t meant to. The riverbed stretched wider with each step she took, the cracks in the earth yawning like mouths. Her throat was dry. Her hands hung useless at her sides.

  When she was close enough to see the fine engraving on the coin—a sun, split down the middle—he reached out and pressed it into her palm. His fingers were cold.

  “You already know how this ends,” he said. His voice was calm, almost bored.

  She tried to speak, to ask what he meant, but no sound came out.

  The man leaned closer, so near she could see the faint scar running along his temple. His breath smelled faintly of ash.

  “Next time,” he whispered, “choose better.”

  The ground splintered beneath her. Zara gasped, trying to wrench herself free, but her feet were trapped, the cracks pulling at her ankles, her calves, climbing higher and higher. The man just smiled—a wicked and ever-so-familiar smile—as she sank. The ground swallowed her whole.

  She thrashed awake with a gasp, her breath caught like a snagged thread in her throat.

  “Hey, hey—easy,” a voice murmured above her.

  Zara flinched hard and sat up, her body still reeling from the dream. Her hands scrambled at the sheets, the sensation of the muddy ground swallowing her not quite gone. She blinked fast, trying to separate shadow from shape, memory from reality.

  Emran was crouched beside her bed, brows knitted in quiet concern.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, voice low. “You were shouting.”

  The lamplight from the corner of the room flickered weakly, casting golden rings around them. Zara’s heart stuttered. Of all people to see her like this—

  Her room was a mess, still. The pile of worn scarves beside her dresser, the broken hinge on her trunk spilling clothes onto the floor, the half-eaten orange on the bedside table from two days ago—gods, even the ink-stained nightgown she had passed out in, threadbare and twisted around her legs—

  “What are you doing in here?” she blurted, wrapping her arms around her knees and dragging the blanket up. Her cheeks flushed hot.

  Emran tilted his head. “You were screaming. I heard it through the wall.” He hesitated. “It sounded… bad.”

  Zara swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t.” A pause. “You’ve had nightmares before?”

  “Yes,” she said too fast.

  Emran sat down gently on the edge of the bed, not touching her but close. “Hm. I’ve known for some time. I can always hear you: mumbling, babbling, whimpering. Even crying. I try to stay away, but tonight, I just couldn’t. Do you usually dream about the same thing?”

  “…Yes. Usually.”

  “But…not this time I assume?” he asked, his tone more careful now.

  Zara hesitated. “No…not this time.”

  It wasn’t the dark-eyed woman this time—not entirely. Not the ghost with her face, whispering from the ruins of her childhood home. This dream had been different. That man. The coin. That awful smile she knew all too well. She shivered again, hugging her knees tighter.

  “It felt like a warning,” she admitted. “Like something that hasn’t happened yet. Something real.”

  Emran watched her in silence for a moment. Then, gently: “Want to tell me what it was?”

  Zara was reluctant. She never talked about her dreams. Not with Revan, not even with Saren. It felt too intimate, too vulnerable. But now, in the hush of the night, with Emran’s eyes steady on hers and the warmth of his presence grounding her…

  She told him.

  Not everything—not the exact face of the man or the silver coin with the split sun—but the sensation of being trapped. The helplessness. The pull.

  Emran didn’t interrupt. He didn’t mock. When she finally trailed off, unsure of what she’d even said, he nodded like it made perfect sense.

  “Dreams like that,” he murmured, “sometimes they’re just noise. But sometimes… they’re something else. I’ve had them too.” His gaze met hers. “Like someone’s trying to remind you of what you forgot.”

  Her stomach fluttered. “You think I forgot something?”

  “I think we all do. Important things. Things we aren’t ready to face.” He paused, his eyes dipping to her hands. “Or things someone made us forget.”

  Zara’s breath caught.

  He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. But something in the way he said it—like he felt the truth pressing on him from just beneath the surface—made her pulse race.

  “I’m sorry I barged in,” Emran said softly. “You can kick me out now, if you want.”

  Zara should have. But instead…

  She shook her head.

  The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. Emran’s hand came to rest lightly beside hers on the blanket, close enough for their fingers to brush. Zara’s eyes dropped to it, then lifted back to his face.

  “I don’t know why I trust you,” she said quietly. “I don’t know why I…feel the way I do for you.”

  Emran smiled faintly. “What is that feeling?”

  Zara felt herself blush. “I shouldn’t say,” she whispered.

  The space between them pulled taut. Zara’s breath trembled as he reached up, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek with the backs of his fingers. His smell was a mix of musk, perfume oil, and whatever it was he liked to smoke. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and she didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

  His hand lingered, cupping her jaw gently. She turned her face toward it without meaning to, her body betraying her better judgment.

  “I care for you,” she whispered.

  Emran leaned closer, just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. “I know.”

  Their foreheads touched. The world held still.

  Zara’s hand slid up to rest on his chest. His heartbeat was fast beneath her palm, matching hers. Her nightgown slipped further off her shoulder, and Emran’s eyes flicked there—then back to her lips, to her eyes, searching for permission.

  She gave it.

  Their mouths met slowly—tentative at first, soft. Then deeper, more sure, drawn together like magnets finding their match. Zara’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and he slipped his hand into her hair.

  Other than her usual nightmares, her more pleasant dreams consisted mainly of moments like this. With him. If this was a dream, she never wanted it to end.

  But it wasn’t. Miraculously, she wasn’t dreaming right now at all.

  His tongue deepened into her mouth and Zara gasped, in shock and in pleasure. She writhed underneath him, her whole body flush, as he snaked a hand under her thin nightgown.

  She let her lips off him quick enough to pant out, “What are you doing?”

  His hands crept up her thigh, delightfully making its way to her entrance. His mouth rested near her ear.

  “Something we both severely need, my doll,” he whispered.

  The next thing she knew, his fingers were having their way with her. Zara gasped and moaned softly, growing warmer by the second. She didn’t know if she should pull away and stop this before it went past the point of no return. But she would probably never get a chance like this ever again, should she refrain from his touch now.

  Emran was leaving soon. She didn’t know when yet would be his departure, whether any of them would get a farewell or the time would be sudden. It would likely be sudden; he’d leave and none of them would be the wiser until he was miles away somewhere where she’d never see him again. Never feel him again. That uncertainty drew Zara back onto Emran’s lips. He eagerly kissed her back, not once halting his ministrations. Zara gasped into his mouth, and he stuck his tongue back inside.

  A pleasurable sensation built up inside her. It was getting to a point of release. Zara looked to Emran desperately. He gazed back at her, his eyes glimmering devilishly like gorgeous green jewels. He was so beautiful. Zara could never get tired of admiring such a man, however a mess he may be.

  The pressure grew worse. Or perhaps the right word was better.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He seemed to understand Zara’s predicament, and gave her an encouraging nod.

  “Let it go, doll,” he whispered.

  And that Zara did, unintentionally. Her body had responded instinctively at his soft coaxing voice. Zara squealed, then bit down on her lip before she got too loud. Gasping heavily, she lay on the bed like a limp rag, acutely aware of the slickness pooling between her legs.

  Emran wasn’t finished though.

  He leaned back slightly, green eyes drinking her in like she was some rare vision he’d unearthed in a storm. His fingers grazed her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips still swollen from his kiss.

  “Gods,” he murmured, voice rough. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that to you.” His eyes flicked lower. “You’re so damn pretty when you come apart. Like a real doll, you know.”

  Zara’s breath hitched. Her entire body flushed hot again, from her cheeks down to her toes. The compliment, spoken so plainly, with such quiet hunger—it undid her more than anything else might have.

  She opened her mouth to retort, to tell him he was the one looking dangerously pretty right now, but the words scattered as he moved—slow and deliberate. His hands slid along her legs, fingers curling under her knees.

  “Wait—what are you—?”

  He lifted her legs gently, spreading them across his chest as he settled between them. Her nightgown rode higher now, pooling around her hips. Zara’s heart stumbled into a sprint.

  Her breath caught. The position, the way he looked at her from there—reverent and feral all at once—made her squirm.

  “Emran…” she whispered, voice wavering with want and unease.

  He didn’t rush. He only leaned forward, bracing himself over her so they were nearly nose to nose again, his weight and warmth grounding her in place.

  “Tell me your name,” he said, almost too softly.

  Zara froze. “Um…I’ve told you before. It’s Raya…”

  It was a nickname—an alias, really—that she, Saren, and Revan had eventually agreed upon whenever Emran was around. He had been suspicious, inquiring why this wasn’t told to him sooner, but Revan shut him down, claiming that they had indeed told him, but he just couldn’t remember because he always wandered around in a “drugged up state”. Emran shut his mouth, and Zara believed that was the end of that—

  Emran scoffed. “Your real name, doll. Say it for me.”

  —but apparently not.

  His lips hovered by her cheek, his hands still firm on her thighs, but that question cut through everything like cold wind through silk. Her mind raced. She’d been careful—so careful. No one from her past in Pria could know. Not anyone.

  Because if they did… if her true name surfaced, it could undo everything.

  Emran didn’t pull away. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw. Each press of his lips stirred the heat again, but her chest grew tight. Her magic began to hum—unruly and confused. A low shimmer built beneath her skin.

  “Tell me your name,” he repeated, whispering it now like a chant. “Just your name…”

  He moved lower, kissing a path along her ribs. Her hands curled in the sheets, breath unsteady.

  “My name…” she whispered, voice breaking with something she couldn’t name. Her vision blurred at the edges. A memory tried to rise—a girl in the dark, a name whispered in icy wind—but it slid away.

  A pulse of heat surged through her limbs.

  She should stop him.

  She couldn’t stop him.

  “Z—”

  The name died on her tongue.

  Her breath hitched sharply, not from pleasure this time, but from something else—something wild and cold and watching.

  A flicker in the lamplight. A ripple in her chest.

  Her magic roared quietly, unseen but seething.

  And still, Emran’s mouth moved lower.

  The air turned thick with tension, as if the room itself held its breath.

  Then the scene began to fade—her voice caught, her thoughts lost in a blur of heat and shadow and the edge of something unknown, something inevitable.

  When Zara opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the silence.

  Not the soft, comforting kind that wrapped itself around you like a blanket. This was sharp, expectant. The kind that hummed at the edge of disaster.

  She sat up slowly.

  The air around her felt… off. Thick. Charged. Her nightgown clung to her skin with the remnants of sweat, her hair wild and damp at the temples. The room—oh sweet Mother, the room—looked like something out of a fever dream.

  The single wilting flower in the cracked vase on her windowsill had exploded into full bloom, petals opened so wide they bent backwards unnaturally, then froze mid-reach with tiny veins of frost licking up the glass behind them. A cluster of half-melted candles—ones she hadn’t lit in days—were flickering faintly in different directions, their flames unnaturally blue. Ash outlined a perfect ring around the bed.

  And the ceiling above her—split, not enough to cave, but cracked in a spider’s web right above where she lay.

  Panic surged. Zara reached out a trembling hand, trying to calm the static rising against her skin. Her fingertips buzzed.

  No, no, no. She didn’t even remember casting anything. She hadn’t meant to—hadn’t even been thinking about magic.

  Unless…

  Her face flushed instantly. The heat from her cheeks didn’t touch the cold pit forming in her stomach.

  She hadn’t had sex—of that much, she was sure. Her body didn’t ache in the ways she’d expected if Emran had gone all the way. But the warmth, the pleasure, the pull she felt last night had been real. Devastatingly so.

  And clearly, her magic had responded.

  “Damn it,” she whispered.

  A knock sounded once—sharp. Then the door opened without waiting for a reply.

  Revan stood there, his robes rumpled, his jaw tight. His eyes—dark, knowing—swept the room in one long, damning glance.

  Zara stiffened, clutching her bedsheets over herself—over the little dignity that remained of her.

  He didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked.

  At the warped flowers. The cracked stone. The smoldering candles.

  Then, finally, at her.

  “You slept in,” he said flatly.

  Zara swallowed. “I—something happened last night—”

  “I noticed,” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “Half the torches in the corridor burst into light at once. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” she said quietly.

  Revan didn’t respond right away. He stepped inside, boots crunching faintly on the line of ash. His expression twisted with displeasure.

  “Where is Emran?” she asked. The question slipped out before she could stop it.

  Revan didn’t answer.

  Her eyes widened. “Is he—did I hurt him?”

  Still nothing. Only the tightening of his jaw.

  Zara’s pulse raced. “Revan, please—”

  “Get dressed,” he said instead. “You’re late. Training starts now.”

  She stared at him. “Revan—”

  “I said now.”

  There was a warning in his tone. Not fury. Not yet. But something colder. More calculated.

  He turned and left without another word.

  Zara sat frozen for a moment longer before forcing herself to her feet. Her knees wobbled, her mind still spiraling. She reached for the nearest robe and yanked it over her shoulders, pulling her hair back into a loose knot as she tried to steady her breathing.

  Where was Emran?

  Surely if she’d hurt him badly, Revan would have said something. Right?

  But no, she couldn’t trust that. Revan was guarded at the best of times, and infuriatingly cryptic at the worst. If Emran had been wounded—or worse—there was a good chance Revan would choose silence, especially if he blamed her for it.

  The worst part was… she couldn’t blame him.

  The crack in the ceiling, the ring of ash, the arcane bloom of elemental reaction—it hadn’t been cast through ritual or intention. It had come from her. From somewhere deep inside, from that pull she couldn’t name, that hunger she’d kept buried for so long.

  Desire. Fear. Longing. Whatever last night had stirred up in her, it had clawed its way into her magic and burst free without her permission.

  She felt sick.

  She had trained. She had worked for control. She had followed Revan’s breathing exercises, his sigils, his meditations. She’d made progress.

  But somehow, Emran—Emran—was undoing her. Not by force, not even on purpose. Just by being near. By seeing her.

  By touching her.

  Her magic had responded to him like it knew him before she ever had. Like it trusted him more than she did.

  And that terrified her.

  She didn’t even know if she’d said her name. She couldn’t remember the last few seconds before she’d blacked out into sleep. His voice still echoed in her ear.

  “Tell me your name…”

  Had she?

  She clenched her fists, staring one last time at the ring of ash. Her breath fogged in the room’s strange cold.

  If she had, it could mean more than just exposure. It could mean undoing everything. The Sand Time spell. Her identity. Her very existence.

  Zara closed her eyes. The door waited.

  So did Revan.

  And maybe, just maybe, so did consequence.

  Zara wrapped her robe tighter as she stepped into the hallway, the stone floor cool beneath her bare feet. Morning light slanted through the narrow windows, casting soft gold light across the walls. It would’ve been beautiful if her heart weren’t thudding so hard in her chest.

  Revan waited at the end of the corridor, back straight, arms folded, the hem of his dark tunic barely swaying with the draft. He didn’t turn as she approached.

  Only when she stood beside him did he speak.

  “You’ve had a leak.”

  Zara blinked. “I know. I didn’t mean to—”

  “That’s not the point,” he cut in, voice clipped. “You didn’t mean to, but you did. Which means you’ve lost control.”

  The words stung more than she expected. “It wasn’t like before,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t fear. Or anger. I wasn’t even awake, I—”

  “I can smell it on you,” he said darkly, turning to face her now.

  Her heart stalled. Shame flooded her senses, and she lowered her gaze.

  Revan’s eyes narrowed, flicking over her as if seeing more than just flesh and fabric—like he could trace every thread of power that had unraveled from her the night before. “The heat. The residue. It’s everywhere. And it doesn’t take a scholar to know what provoked it.”

  Zara’s mouth went dry.

  He took a step closer. Not threatening, exactly, but heavy with something unspoken.

  “Whatever passed between you and Emran last night—it has consequences.”

  Her shoulders tensed. “Nothing happened,” she said, too fast.

  Revan arched an eyebrow. “If nothing happened, your bed wouldn’t be surrounded by a ring of scorched ash. The moonstones in the study wouldn’t be pulsing like fever dreams.”

  Zara looked away, trying to will her hot face to cool down.

  “Your connection to him is disrupting your calibration,” he went on. “That kind of emotional breach affects your alignment. And more dangerously—it weakens the barriers I’ve built around your identity.”

  She met his gaze again, but more cautiously now. “You think I broke the Sand Time?”

  Revan exhaled slowly, as if wrestling back irritation. “Not yet. But you’re testing the threads. And the more you let yourself feel—really feel—the more you’ll pull at them without realizing. And one day, Zara—” he bit off her name with deliberate weight, “—you won’t be able to stop it.”

  It stung, really. His disappointment, his anger. She thought she’d grown more used to it, but it felt different this time. She had not only failed, but also ruined her progress.

  “I’ve trained though,” she said, quieter now. “I’ve controlled it. Well…until now.”

  “And now,” Revan said coolly, “you’ve proven you’re still a risk.”

  She clenched her jaw. “So what, then? I bury everything down again? Pretend I’m not… human?”

  “You don’t need to pretend. You ARE NOT human!”

  Zara jolted at the sudden shout. Her insides quivered, and she stared at the floor in silence.

  Revan calmed down. “You do what you must,” he said. “Or you die. And believe me when I say my dear, I will not be there to save you.”

  The silence between them stretched sharp and bitter. But then, his tone softened—just barely.

  “You were doing well,” he said, quieter now. “Until he arrived.”

  Zara’s chest tightened. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Revan’s lip curled slightly, not in amusement but frustration. “That’s not the point.”

  They stood like that for a beat too long—teacher and student, mentor and guarded ward—until Revan turned away with a muttered, “Enough of this. We’ve wasted the morning already.”

  Zara followed him down the hall and into the study in silence, but the sense of unease didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened with each step.

  Then—noise.

  A strange commotion. Distant but growing.

  They paused as the sound filtered through the window: the buzz of neighbors, excited chatter rising in pitch, like gossip had teeth. Then came the telltale clinking of metal wheels and the flutter of parchment.

  The paper man.

  Revan strode forward, crossing to the terrace that overlooked the square. Zara followed.

  Below, people gathered near the fountain, murmuring with energy as the paper man handed out the morning scrolls. His bag was near empty already. The neighbors clustered close, reading over each other’s shoulders, some gasping, others already pointing and talking faster.

  The paper man turned, heading toward their building. He stopped at the gate, tucked a scroll in the brass latch, and rang the bell once.

  Revan moved first.

  Zara caught the shift in his expression—a shadow crossing his features—before he turned sharply and descended the stairwell. Something in his body language was taut. Alert.

  She didn’t hesitate. She followed.

  Her fingers brushed the banister as she moved, and she noticed it again—that tension in the air. A pull beneath her skin. Her magic was responding again, like it knew something was wrong before she did.

  The man with the coin. The dry riverbed. A warning she didn’t understand.

  And Emran. His mouth on her skin, his voice in her ear. Her name trembling on her tongue.

  All of it blurred in her mind, like the edges of a burning letter.

  She reached the bottom step and stopped.

  Revan stood with his back to her in the open foyer, unmoving.

  “Revan?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  He didn’t answer.

  She stepped forward slowly until she stood beside him, and her eyes dropped to the paper in his hand.

  The ink was fresh. The illustration a rough sketch, but recognizable.

  A girl. Dark hair. Thin frame. A sharp face, the description under it reading, “beautiful but deadly…”

  Witch.

  Wanted.

  Zara’s breath caught.

  The headline screamed up at her like a blade to the throat.

  “Capitol-Wide Bounty Issued: Witch Sighted, Reward Offered for Capture.”