Chapter Three: The First Dream
Sleep did not come easily.
When it finally did, it took Elara without warning.
She was standing barefoot on cold earth.
Not the forest.
Not the village.
Something in between.
The sky pressed low and colorless, stripped of stars, heavy with the sense that it was watching. The ground beneath her feet was smooth and dark, like stone worn down by centuries of waiting.
"Elara."
Her name struck through her.
She inhaled sharply and realized she hadn't been breathing.
The sound did not come from ahead of her.
Or behind her.
It came from within the space itself.
"I'm dreaming," she said quickly. "This isn't real."
A pause followed.
Then—
"If that comforts you," the voice replied, "believe it."
Her stomach dropped.
The air shifted at her back.
Not movement.
Presence.
Every instinct she had screamed at her to turn, to run—but her body refused. It wasn't restrained. It simply… didn't think escape was an option.
"You crossed a boundary," the voice continued. "Then you pretended obedience would undo it."
"I stayed away," she said. "I listened."
"You listened too late."
The words pressed against her chest, heavy and deliberate.
Fear surged, sharp and cold.
"Why are you doing this?" she demanded. "What do you want from me?"
Another pause.
This one felt closer.
"You ask as though desire is required."
The ground vibrated faintly beneath her feet.
She gasped, knees weakening.
Something held her upright.
Not hands.
Will.
Her pulse thundered as awareness wrapped around her—slow, invasive, intimate in a way that made her skin prickle.
"You felt the forest," he said. "You felt me. And still you stepped forward."
"I didn't know—"
"You did," he cut in.
The interruption was sharp enough to make her flinch.
"You knew something was watching," he continued. "And instead of turning away, you wondered why."
Heat bloomed at the base of her spine—unwelcome, humiliating.
She clenched her fists. "Stop."
A low sound followed.
Not laughter.
Amusement.
"You mistake restraint for mercy," he said. "I am being patient."
Her breath came shallow. "You're hurting me."
"No," he replied calmly. "You are reacting."
The difference terrified her.
The space behind her grew warmer, tighter, as though the air itself leaned closer. She became acutely aware of her own body—every breath, every tremor, every weakness she had never learned to name.
"You are not claimed," he said. "Yet."
The word hit like a blade.
Her voice shook. "Then let me go."
Silence.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
When he spoke again, his voice was closer—so close it felt like it brushed the inside of her thoughts.
"You don't understand what listening costs."
Something brushed her hair.
Not touch.
Pressure.
Her breath broke, a sound she hadn't meant to make.
Her fear twisted—sharpened by something darker, something she refused to acknowledge.
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered.
"No," he agreed. "You invited it."
The ground pulsed beneath her, responding to him.
Power rolled through the space—controlled, vast, deliberate.
This was not a dream meant to comfort.
This was a warning.
"You will not cross that boundary again," he said. "Not without consequence."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "Or what?"
For the first time—
The pressure turned cruel.
The air constricted, stealing her breath. Pain bloomed sharp and sudden in her chest, not enough to break her—but enough to teach.
She cried out.
The sensation vanished instantly.
She sagged forward, gasping, barely upright.
"Consider this restraint," he said coldly. "Next time, I will not be gentle."
Tears burned her eyes. "You said I wasn't claimed."
A pause.
Then—
"You are not," he said. "Which is why this ends now."
The warmth withdrew.
The presence receded.
But the power did not disappear.
It lingered.
Watching.
"You will forget details," he added. "That is intentional."
The world fractured.
Elara woke screaming.
She bolted upright in bed, clutching her chest as air tore painfully into her lungs. Her skin was soaked with sweat, heart hammering so violently she thought it might break her ribs.
The room swam into focus—the low ceiling, the window, the moonlight.
She was safe.
She was alive.
Her body said otherwise.
Her hands trembled uncontrollably. Heat lingered beneath her skin, tangled with fear and shame and something she refused to name.
"That wasn't just a dream," she whispered.
Her memory was already slipping.
Details blurred.
Edges softened.
But not the warning.
Never the warning.
She pressed her fingers to her throat—and froze.
A faint mark bloomed there, barely visible. Not a bruise.
A pressure-print, like something had rested there briefly and been satisfied.
Elara's breath hitched.
Far beyond the village, deep within the forest—
Kaelreth opened his eyes.
The echo had answered.
And next time—
He would not speak first.