I woke up gasping, like I'd just surfaced from deep water, struggling for breath. My hands flew to my waist, expecting pain, blood—something. But there was nothing. Just the same small birthmark I'd had forever. I blinked. Once. Twice. My vision adjusted to my dimly lit room. My real room. The messy bed, the piles of clothes, the stacks of comics scattered on the floor. I was home. It was just a dream. Of course it was. I let out a shaky laugh and pressed my palm against my chest, willing my heartbeat to slow down. I needed a shower. Now! I practically sprinted to the bathroom, grabbing my shower kit like my life depended on it. The moment the warm water hit my skin, I nearly moaned in relief. Never again would I take modern hygiene for granted. God, the men in that world—how did they live like that? The dirt, the sweat, the stench—traumatizing. My nose needed rehab. I scrubbed my body raw, washing away every imaginary trace of blood, fire, and dirt.
And then, as I lathered shampoo into my hair, a thought hit me. I'm going to buy my perfume today. The one I'd always wanted but never let myself have. The one I kept telling myself I wasn't worthy of. Not anymore. I was done waiting to feel worthy. "Vivian, can you take me to the mall?" I asked, practically bouncing into the living room. "I finally decided to buy my perfume." Vivian didn't even look up from her phone. "Are you planning to buy a suicidal kit or get hit by a car behind me?" Oof. Her words hit like a slap, making me pause. Right. When was the last time I voluntarily left the house? The last time I even cared about something as small as perfume? Vivian must've sensed something was off because she dropped her phone and stared at me. "Okay, what's the occasion for the shower?" she asked, her tone suspicious. I hesitated. I'd spent months shutting everyone out, barely speaking, barely existing. And now I was suddenly hyper, talking about shopping? I had to sound crazy.
I forced myself to slow down. "I just… I want a fresh start," I said, keeping my voice even. "And I think buying my perfume will put me in a good mood. If you're busy, forget I asked." Silence. Then—"Get your shoes," she muttered. Later that night, after cleaning my entire room (who even am I?), I stood in front of the mirror, freshly showered for the second time that day. For the first time in months, I really looked at myself. No baggy clothes. No avoiding my reflection. Just me. My body. The same body I'd spent so long hating. I had convinced myself I was too fat, too soft, too… unworthy. But now, flashes of another world came back to me—The way those knights looked at me. The way their gazes lingered, dark and unreadable. A shiver ran down my spine. God, am I really this miserable? Am I seriously flattered by attention from blood-covered knights who might actually EAT me? I groaned, rubbing my face. Aly, get a damn life. Still, I took my time moisturizing my skin with floral lotion, rubbing musk oil into my wrists. For once, I felt… good. Like me.
At dinner, my family kept throwing suspicious glances at me, like I was about to announce my will mid-meal. Vivian even did a fake security sweep of my room before bed. "Clear," she muttered, then turned back to me with a smirk. "If you kill yourself, I swear I'll drag you out of hell and murder you again." I burst out laughing. It was ridiculous. But also… she wasn't wrong to worry. I didn't have the best track record. Oh, God. Not Again. I curled up in bed, eyes heavy, body relaxed.
Wait. What if I went back? My heart lurched. No. No, no, no—I shot up, eyes wide. But it was too late. A familiar cold seeped into my bones. The scent of dirt, old wood, and fire wrapped around me, thick and inescapable. My lungs filled with it, heavy and real. I clenched my fists, refusing to open my eyes. If I pretended to sleep, maybe—maybe—but I felt it: a sharp bite of pain in my waist. My stomach dropped. No. I still had the injury. Which meant—my eyes snapped open. I wasn't in my room. I was lying on a massive, Victorian-style bed draped with sheer curtains. Naked. Panic surged through me. I tried to move—pain flared at my waist, locking me in place. My breath hitched. I glanced down. A clean, white bandage wrapped around my abdomen. Someone had tended to me. I swallowed hard, taking in my surroundings. The tent was different. Larger. Luxurious. Still night. Still foreign.
Footsteps approached—heavy, purposeful. My pulse skyrocketed. I frantically searched for something—anything—to cover myself. Nothing. The steps drew closer, and I froze. The curtain parted. Instinct kicked in—I threw one arm over my chest, the other over my lower half, barely managing to shield myself. My heart pounded. The man in front of me didn't move. He just… stared. A long, silent moment passed. Slowly, he raised a hand—and gestured for me to come to him. Oh. Oh, hell no. Regret slammed into me. God, if you let me survive this, I swear I will devote my life to you and never think about men again. Please, God. Wake me up. The heaviness of this place, the air thick with the scent of fire and leather, the way the fabric of the bed felt too real against my skin—it was getting to me. I was starting to believe it. No. No. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed, vowing to burn every single one of my romance novels, to never fantasize about a man again. As if on cue, the mattress shifted beneath me. A slow, deep indentation. Heat. His heat. My breath hitched as I forced one eye open. And there he was. The same man. The same wild, burning gaze. His sharp features were illuminated by the flickering torchlight, his golden skin glowing like molten metal, his dark eyes locked onto mine like a predator scenting prey. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched. I wasn't sure if he was trying to read me or consume me. But… something in his gaze wasn't cruel. It was curious. A slow, shaky breath escaped my lips.
"It's just a dream, Aly," I whispered under my breath. "Just a dream." He stilled. The sound of my voice had his full, undivided attention, like a hunter sensing something foreign in the air. He looked like he had stopped breathing altogether. I hesitated. Carefully, I spoke again. "…Can I get a cover?" Nothing. His expression didn't change, but something in his body did. A sharp inhale. His chest rising. I realized then—I had been assuming he understood me. But now… I wasn't so sure. Did I understand him before? I thought I had. However, the language he spoke with his men sounded ancient, thick, completely indecipherable. The thought barely had time to settle before he moved. Before I could react, he was on top of me, arms caging me in, his massive body pinning me beneath him. A shudder wracked my frame. Not from fear. From the heat of him. His breath fanned over my skin—hot, ragged, controlled. Then he leaned in and smelled me. My neck, my shoulder, his nose tracing my skin like he was committing my scent to memory. I clenched my jaw, swallowing hard, my arms still desperately covering my chest. But… he never tried to move them. He was just smelling me. And God help me, in that moment, all I could think was—thank God I took that shower !!
A ridiculous thought. But real. A small, sarcastic smirk pulled at my lips. His head snapped up, and his dark gaze locked onto mine. His expression was unreadable. Damn it, Aly. Not again. You even manage to be weird in your own damn dreams. Before I could process his reaction, I was in the air. Effortlessly. Like I weighed nothing. Before I had time to react, I found myself on his lap, my legs draped over his thick, powerful thighs. Oh. He was huge. For the first time in my life, I felt… small. Soft. Cute. Okay, I could die happy now. I sat frozen, mind short-circuiting, as his hands—so large they could crush me—gently traced over my arms and legs, like he was studying every inch of me. My ears burned. He was being so gentle. Too gentle. Like I was fragile. My stomach twisted, heat creeping up my spine as I fought to control my expression.
His face was in my neck again, breathing me in. Every nerve in my body went rigid as I clenched my fists and willed myself not to react. Without warning, he pulled back and placed a tunic over my head. Oh. Okay. That's fine. I was in a steamy, hot, romance dream, and this was just part of the script, right? I obediently slipped my arms through the sleeves, adjusting the tunic over my body. It was soft, the fabric falling just below my knees. And weirdly… clean. I had barely settled into the fabric when a voice, sharp and commanding, came from outside the tent. I flinched, a sharp, involuntary reaction. His entire body stiffened as his gaze snapped to me, unreadable, as if he had just discovered something unexpected. So gently, it made my breath hitch, he placed me back on the bed and pulled the curtains shut.
I exhaled. The relief was instant. It was safer behind the curtain, hidden. A part of me wanted to believe this was just some fantasy dream I could enjoy before waking up. But the moment the soldiers entered, I knew it wasn't. Three men strode in, all dressed in armor, moving with sharp, disciplined steps. They bowed and spoke in their strange, ancient language. I barely heard them because I was watching him. He sat so calmly at the round table, scanning maps and papers, looking so… effortlessly in control. Powerful.
One of the soldiers glanced at me. Just for a second. Barely a flicker of his eyes. But that second cost him his life. A sharp, sickening sound filled the air. His body hit the ground, lifeless. My stomach lurched as blood splattered across the floor, seeping into the fabric of the tent. A deep, growling voice spoke something, and two men stepped forward, dragging the dead soldier's body out like it was nothing. A third one calmly started cleaning the mess. The whole time, he didn't even look up from his map. Did he just kill him because he looked at me? I swallowed hard. This is a dream. This is just a dream. I clenched the fabric of the tunic, staring at the growing pool of blood. But my hands were shaking because deep down, I was starting to realize—I wasn't so sure anymore.
She Wasn't of This World
The ride back to the base had been long, yet she remained asleep, nestled in his robe, undisturbed by the cold night air or the steady rhythm of the horse. Claudius dismounted, cradling her in his arms as he carried her through the dimly lit camp toward his tent. "Prepare my bath," he ordered. "And bring Roman to me."
Inside, the warmth of the tent wrapped around him. He carefully unwrapped her from his robe, expecting her to stir, but she didn't. Not even as he laid her on the round table, her small frame unmoving, her breaths slow and even. Roman, the healer sage known for his vast knowledge of both healing and ancient magics, entered moments later. Roman's role as the healer sage had been earned through decades of service, using his mastery of ethereal energy to heal wounds and ease suffering. He was a figure of importance in the army—his abilities trusted by Claudius and valued by those who depended on his skills.
As he examined the woman on the table, Roman's eyes narrowed in concentration. There was something peculiar about her, something entirely unfamiliar. "Your Highness," he murmured, stepping closer. "What… is this?" Claudius crossed his arms, gaze fixed on the unconscious woman. "That's what I want to know." Roman's eyes flickered over her body, the blood-streaked, revealing fabric, the unusual softness of her features. She was nothing like the women Claudius knew—women forged by the harsh conditions of war, shaped by the curse of Sujon and the fall of Ivory, the goddess of femininity. Women who were hardened, muscular, battle-worn. But this one? She was different. Her presence was gentle, soft, almost ethereal in nature.
"Where did she come from?" Roman asked, voice low but urgent. Claudius exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "She appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the battlefield. Lightning struck, and suddenly, she was standing in front of me." His voice dropped. "Is she from the heavens? Or something else entirely?" Roman's face was thoughtful as he examined the woman, but there was a deep concern in his eyes. "I cannot read her energy, Your Highness. Her essence… it's unlike anything I've encountered. I cannot even begin to sense where she's from or what she truly is." He paused, hands hovering over her wounded form. "I can only tend to her wounds for now. Beyond that, I am… uncertain."
Claudius frowned, his gaze flickering to the delicate wound at her side. "You may tend to her," he ordered. "When you're finished, leave, and never speak of this again—unless you wish to lose your head." Roman nodded solemnly, bowing before getting to work, his hands moving over the woman's injury with skill. Claudius watched in silence, noting the gentleness with which Roman treated her. She was different, in a way he couldn't explain, and he found himself both intrigued and unsettled by the presence of this strange woman.
Once Roman had finished, he glanced back at Claudius, his face tight with concern. "Her energy is… entirely foreign, and I cannot connect with it here. The ethereal powers I wield are locked within this realm, the Shadow Land. I will only be able to fully understand what is happening to her when we return to OJAN, where I can access the full extent of my abilities." Claudius nodded, his expression hardening. "See that she is well cared for until we return, Roman." As Roman bowed and exited, Claudius lingered for a moment, his eyes tracing the woman's delicate features. She didn't belong in this world, of that he was certain. But what was she? And why had she appeared before him?
With a grunt of frustration, Claudius moved to remove her strange garments, annoyed to find there was nothing beneath them. His face flushed, and he exhaled sharply. Stripping off his own clothes, he took a deep breath and then lifted her carefully, making his way toward the waiting wooden bath. He lowered her gently onto his lap, taking care not to disturb the bandage that Roman had placed on her wound. The water swirled around them both as her head rested against his chest, her damp curls loosening, the once-coiled locks now softening and falling straight. Her softness was… overwhelming.
He hesitated, his hands unsure as he gently began washing her. She remained unconscious, her slow breathing the only sound that filled the silence. His gaze lingered on her, and his thoughts briefly drifted to how different she was from the women of Sujon. She was delicate, fragile—nothing like the battle-hardened women he was used to.
As his hands moved over her, he tried not to focus on her curves. He had sworn to avoid such temptation during wartime, knowing it was forbidden by the customs of OJAN, where it was believed that the presence of a woman could weaken a man's strength. But this woman—she stirred something within him that he couldn't quite explain.
With an exasperated sigh, he lifted her from the bath and carelessly tossed her onto the bed, walking away to finish his own bath.
Claudius joined his men in celebration. They drank, they laughed, and the air was thick with victory. But suddenly, in the midst of the revelry, a thought struck him—he hadn't covered her up. She was still without proper clothing.
Cursing under his breath, he hurried back to his tent. The two knights guarding the entrance nodded as he passed, and inside, he heard her breathing, fast and shallow. Claudius grabbed a tunic and entered the tent, parting the curtains slowly. She was on the edge of the bed, huddled and trembling, her arms crossing over her chest as if trying to shield herself.
He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to approach her. He raised his hand, gesturing for her to come closer so he could give her the tunic. But as he watched her shiver with both cold and fear, his resolve softened. She wasn't going to run. She simply sat there, still as a statue, her eyes wide with unease.
Before he could speak, she suddenly uttered something in that strange, melodic language, her voice filled with confusion. The sound of it—so unlike anything he had ever heard—sent a chill through him. It was as though the very air changed when she spoke.
He didn't understand the words. But he had never felt more certain of one thing—whatever she was, she wasn't of this world. Her voice startled him for a moment, blending with the floral scent and a strange, fresh aroma coming from her. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered in a battlefield filled with the stench of blood, sweat, and iron. This fragrance, soft and almost ethereal, wrapped around him, easing the tension that had gripped him for so long.
Before he could even comprehend what was happening, he found himself on top of her, his body pressing against hers in an attempt to make space. His arms and legs moved instinctively as he inhaled deeply, filling his senses with the soothing scent of her skin. It was a strange reprieve from the constant chaos of war. Never had he expected to experience something so refreshing, so gentle, in such a brutal world.
As the scent enveloped him, his mind briefly wandered, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw her smile. Was it real? His heart skipped a beat. Was she a devil? Was this a trick of the gods? But then, her expression shifted abruptly, morphing into fear and worry. That was enough to jolt him out of his thoughts. He stopped himself immediately, his hand gently lifting her from her soft back. He had crossed a line, and it was time to pull back.
With a deep breath, Claudius showed her the tunic. Her eyes locked onto it, and in an instant, her expression changed again. There was a need, a silent plea, as she raised her arms toward him. She exposed her breasts without hesitation, her innocence as clear as the fear in her eyes. A small chuckle almost escaped his lips as he remembered the first time she had done something similar, cleaning blood off her body with the same recklessness.
She wasn't trying to seduce his men. No, she was just… unaware. She had no knowledge of the effect she had on those around her. Her naivety only seemed to deepen the mystery of who she truly was.
But before he could hand her the tunic, the sharp voice of one of his guards broke the silence. "The leaders of the left-wing and right-wing troops have arrived, Your Highness."
Her body jumped in fear at the sound of the announcement, her emotions shifting in an instant from vulnerability to stress. Claudius couldn't help but be intrigued by the way she reacted. She felt safe around him—at least, that's what it seemed. The notion that she might trust him more than anyone else in the camp was almost amusing. He could not fathom that she had no idea just how dangerous he truly was, how lethal his presence was in this war-torn world.
The leaders arrived around the round table, and the discussion began regarding the next stage of their invasion, a plan to strike at the heart of the enemy's forces. As they spoke, Claudius's attention flickered back to the tent entrance. He noticed a knight's assistant approaching with one of the leaders, his eyes drifting toward the bed curtains in a way that was far too eager.
The look was enough to snap Claudius back into action. Without a second thought, he grabbed a dagger from the table and threw it with deadly precision. The blade sank deep into the man's chest, splitting his heart wide open in a spray of blood. The room froze. Silence hung thick in the air.
Claudius's voice, cold and steely, cut through the shock. "This is just a warning to anyone who thinks they can get to my prey. She's mine now. And if anyone dares to come near her or touch anything that belongs to me, I will slaughter their entire bloodline."
The leaders, still frozen in disbelief, quickly bowed and filed out of the tent without a word. Their faces were a mix of horror and understanding. None of them dared to question him.
Claudius remained at the round table, his expression impassive as he continued to study his maps, the life of the man he had just killed no more significant than the ink on the parchment in front of him. As if nothing had happened, he flipped the map over, focusing on the strategy at hand. His men knew better than to speak out of turn, and those foolish enough to even glance at his 'prey' had learned the hard way. He would protect her. He would keep her for himself, no matter the cost.
His thoughts briefly turned to her again. She was still so strange, so unknowable. He couldn't help but wonder what she would do next, how she would react to the reality of the war surrounding them. But for now, he had more pressing matters. The battle was nearly over.