Xylon moved ahead with his usual calm, measured stride, and Eva kept pace beside him.
The village sprawled before them like a hidden jewel of the desert: every house perfectly designed, sunbaked stone walls gleaming in shades of amber and ochre, intricate lattices casting patterned shadows across the streets.
They were both hidden beneath loose outer robes, the fabric light but concealing, worn over their clothes to blend in.
Then, in a breathless whisper, he pressed his lips to the very palm that wove the spell holding him between wakefulness and dreams.
"Don't be angry," he whispered, the words barely more than a breath against her skin.
He lingered there a moment before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Not now…"
His lips found her palm again, this time firmer, more possessive, as if claiming that small piece of her as his own. The warmth of his breath mingled with the coolness of her skin.
"Not when I'm… under your spell," he said, voice low and rough.
