Lustborn

The fire was gone when she woke, but the warmth remained—coiling low in her belly, heavy and slow like honey left out in the sun.

Aeralyn lay in silence, sheets twisted around her legs, sweat chilling against her skin. The moonlight through her shutters cast silver ribbons across her bare collarbone, but she didn't move to cover herself. Not yet.

Her breath came shallow.

Her dream had felt too close this time. Too… tactile.

Not just a flicker of shadow, not a whisper between sleep and waking—but fingers. Warm and wicked. A mouth against her throat. A tongue that traced her name before she'd even spoken it aloud.

He said her name.

Not in a growl or a roar. But in reverence.

And that was the part she feared most.

Not the heat. Not the want.

The familiarity.

He knew her.

---

Her fingers moved without thought, ghosting over her neck, tracing where his lips had lingered in the dream. But the sensation didn't vanish like it usually did. Her skin… tingled.

Aeralyn sat up sharply. Eyes wide.

She could still feel it.

Like the dream hadn't ended. Like he hadn't left.

She stood, legs shaky, pulling her shift back over her head. Her reflection in the small bronze mirror near the washbasin made her pause.

Her pupils were blown wide. Her cheeks flushed.

But it wasn't that. It was what she saw in her eyes.

A glimmer of red. Faint. Almost not there.

But real.

---

A soft knock.

She jumped, spinning to the door. Her heart rattled behind her ribs.

"Who is it?" Her voice cracked.

No answer.

She stepped closer. Silence.

She opened it—slow, cautious. The corridor was empty. No torches lit. No patrolling temple guards. Just the hush of early morning, the blue hush before the first bell.

Then—faintly—something brushed against her ankle.

She froze. Looked down.

Nothing.

But something was here.

He was here.

---

By midday, she'd convinced herself she was wrong.

She walked the courtyard, helped grind the incense herbs, recited the Flame Verses alongside the others, lips moving in rhythm. Normal. Ordinary.

But the back of her neck wouldn't stop prickling. The temple's sun-warmed stones felt colder beneath her steps. She couldn't meet anyone's eyes for long without feeling that same pulse low in her belly.

Even in daylight, the dream lingered.

He hadn't left.

And he was watching.

---

She lasted until dusk.

Then she fled to the bathhouse.

Steam coiled around her skin, but it didn't soothe. She scrubbed herself raw. She whispered old rites of cleansing. But the ache wouldn't leave.

It wasn't physical. It wasn't need.

It was him.

She sat back, water lapping at her collarbone, and stared at her reflection in the rippling surface.

"You're not real," she said softly.

The water trembled.

Then it spoke.

Not aloud. But inside her.

> Real enough to want you. Real enough to touch you.

She choked on her breath. Stood up, water sluicing off her like moonlight. The bathhouse was empty. She was alone.

And yet not.

The steam grew thicker, the air warmer. Almost… humid. Like breath.

She turned—and there he was.

---

Not a full form. Not yet. But shadow, pressed into shape.

Tall. Bare-chested. Muscles sculpted from darkness. Horns absent—but power radiating.

His eyes burned—not fire, but something deeper. Something older.

She stumbled back, heart punching her ribs.

"This is a dream," she gasped.

He tilted his head.

"Then why haven't you woken up?"

He stepped forward. The stone didn't even echo beneath him. He moved like thought. Like want. Like heat.

Her back hit the bath wall. "You can't be here."

His voice was soft. Too soft.

"But I am."

---

Aeralyn's knees buckled as he reached her. Not in fear—though it should've been. But something else.

A pull. A recognition.

"You're not supposed to leave the dream," she whispered.

He touched her cheek—barely a graze.

"I never left," he murmured. "You simply opened wider."

"To what?"

"To who you are."

She tried to push him. Her hands hit his chest—and met heat. Solid. Real.

This was no longer a dream.

---

"I won't let you take me," she said, voice shaking.

His smile was slow. "Little flame," he whispered. "I don't take. I awaken."

And then his mouth was on hers.

---

Her will cracked like brittle glass.

She tried to resist. She did.

But her body moved on instinct. Memory. Like she already knew him. Like she'd always known him.

His kiss was fire and fog. She melted. She burned.

The bathhouse disappeared. Time slipped.

There was only this:

Hunger. Skin. A name she hadn't yet remembered but that he whispered into her bones.

---

When it was over, she lay curled against the stone, body slick, trembling.

Alone.

The steam had cleared.

The water was still.

But the ache remained.

The ache, and the memory.

And the truth:

He was no longer just a dream.

He had crossed.

And he would not leave again.