On the twentieth night, once Rythe was strong enough to walk with a cane of twisted elderwood, the healer led him through the forest, beyond paths he could see, into a place that seemed untouched by time.
They arrived just before dawn.
There, veiled in morning mist, lay a hidden lake, its surface smooth as polished glass. The waters shimmered with streaks of silver and blue, and pale moonstones floated just beneath the surface like sleeping stars. The air tingled with raw, ancient essence—magic, pure and untamed.
Rythe paused, stunned.
"What is this place?"
The woman—still unnamed—finally spoke with more than her usual measured calm.
"It is a tear in the veil. A sacred wound the world chose to protect. This lake feeds on celestial energy. Here, the broken can be mended… but only once."
She led him to the water's edge, and with a wave of her hand, a ripple of light spread across the surface. The moonstones responded, circling slowly, like orbiting moons.
"Your body has healed, but your essence has not. The orb left something inside you. The lake can purify it… but it will take three days."
Rythe gave her a tired glance.
"And if I don't survive?"
She tilted her head.
"Then you will die clean."
Without another word, Rythe stepped into the water.
It was cold—freezing—but he didn't stop. He let himself be swallowed whole.
Within the lake, time bled into memory. Rythe didn't dream. He relived.
The day he first picked up the Virelian blade from the lake in his youth.
The fire-lit halls of Ardan.
The blood. The silence. The orb's hum in his ears.
On the third night, as the moon reached its highest point, the moonstones began to hum. The silver glow in the water thickened around his submerged form. His blade, resting at the edge of the lake, rose into the air, held by the currents of magic.
The crack along its hilt shimmered—and mended.
Its edge gleamed again, not just with steel but with living essence.
When Rythe finally emerged, naked, cold, and reborn, his eyes no longer bore the weariness of battle but the focus of a man preparing for the next war.
The healer stood at the bank, watching quietly.
"Your blade lives again," she said.
He took it from the air. It pulsed faintly in his palm.
"So do I," he replied.
Only then did she pull back her hood and veil.
Her face was angular, ethereal. Elven, but not of Eldoria. Her eyes glowed with that same moonlit energy.
"Who are you?" Rythe asked, voice barely a whisper.
She smiled—distant, knowing.
"You may call me Seris. I was once a guardian of the Well of Stars. Long before kingdoms. Long before names."
"Why help me?"
"Because the orb you destroyed was only one piece." Her gaze darkened. "The ones behind it have not stopped."
And then she was gone—vanished into the mist before Rythe could ask anything more.
The scent came first.
Soft. Inviting. The kind of scent that curled around instinct, not memory — omega-sweet, warm and spiced with something richer. Something that always haunted him in silence: Aurean.
Then came the heat. Not his own — Aurean's.
Aurean arched beneath him, lips parted, lashes damp, throat bared in trust and surrender. His body, radiant in moonlight, called to Rythe like a prayer dressed in skin. And Rythe—he answered.
"Please…"
The sound of Aurean's voice, fractured and silken. A whisper of need that shattered Rythe's resolve.
His rut had come violently that night. Rythe remembered the haze, remembered how he pinned Aurean down, his hand tangled in the omega's hair, the other gripping Aurean's hip like he owned it. Like he'd tear the stars apart if it meant keeping Aurean wrapped around him.
It was more than hunger. It was possession.
"You'll take it," he had growled in the dream. "You asked for this."
Aurean moaned in broken pleas, but not from pain — it was worse. He loved it. He wanted it. And Rythe… had taken that truth and used it.
And just as in reality, the dream twisted. Shifted.
The warmth was gone. The aftermath returned like a blade — Aurean curled in on himself, quiet, his eyes glassy and unreadable. Not afraid, but hollow. Shamed.
Rythe stood over him in the dream, bare-chested, expression cold, and instead of reaching out, instead of holding him…
"You got what you wanted. Now go."
Humiliation. The way Aurean looked at him.
And suddenly—
He Awoke
Rythe shot upright with a gasp, sweat beading across his skin. His chest heaved, muscles taut, the taste of rut still thick in his throat.
He was in the forest glade, the hidden vale of moonstone waters, but the dream clung to him like wet ash.
His trousers stuck to him. He didn't need to look to know he'd come undone in sleep.
"Damn it…" he rasped, dragging a hand across his face.
Fen, his ever-watchful companion, stood near the treeline, ears pinned, growling low — hackles raised. The hound paced in a slow circle, alert to a threat unseen.
"Easy," Rythe said hoarsely. "It was just a dream."
But Fen didn't stop. His eyes were on Rythe now — not with hostility, but something between concern and recognition.
As if even Fen knew.
As if even the wild could smell the shame.
Rythe sat back, head tilted toward the stars overhead, and exhaled long and slow.
"Why him?" he muttered.
Why did Aurean stay in his mind like this — not as the strategist, the noble-blood, or even the man brave enough to challenge him in words — but as the omega he broke.
Aurean hadn't screamed or wept. He hadn't cursed him or demanded justice. He simply stood afterward, quiet, spine straight, and left Rythe without looking back.
That hurt more than anything.
And now, the memory had returned in a dream soaked in rut and cruelty. Rythe hated himself for it.
Fen let out a short bark, breaking the silence.
Rythe blinked, grounding himself, then stood — bare feet pressing into the moss, the moonlight painting his scarred skin in shadows. He walked toward the lake and stared into its mirror-like surface.
The man who looked back was not a monster.
But not quite a man, either.
"He deserved better," Rythe whispered.
And he didn't mean just that night.
He meant everything.