She bolts upright, the dream burning her veins like liquid wildfire. Her breath is thunder, her pulse a war drum that rattles through her ribcage. Scales of blackest obsidian, eyes of molten light. The beast is still there, beneath her eyelids, turning the city to ash. Above, the wooden beams of her ceiling crowd her vision like they've been blasted from another world. Smoke clings to her skin, sticking dark curls to her forehead and setting her heart ablaze.
Sweat seeps into her bones, and the ghost of fire presses down on her chest with suffocating force. Aralyn stumbles out of bed, her long legs tangled in the handwoven blankets. She's barely conscious of them hitting the floor as her lungs scream for air. This is no ordinary dream, she knows. This is something more—raw and insistent, like violet flame licking at her senses, burning too close, too real. Her palms find the cool wooden wall, bracing, but it's no use; the vision lingers, seared behind her eyes.
Fragments claw at her sanity, refusing to release their hold. The massive dragon, scales slick and dark like night itself, a fearsome beauty. The city beneath it, bent like a crescent moon, engulfed in destruction. She can still hear the roars—blood-chilling, bone-shaking—rolling like a storm across her skull. Her body vibrates with the echoes, and she doesn't know where the dream ends and she begins.
Her hands. She forces herself to look at them, expecting tremors but finding something else. The sigil shimmers, foreign and fierce, etched like a brand into her skin. Silver-gold and alive, almost pulsing. A pattern she doesn't know, doesn't trust. Her fingers trace its alien design, but the touch only confirms its permanence, and panic curls through her like flame-tongue.
The modest bedroom closes in, every simple corner a reminder of where she is and where the dream is not. It smells of dried herbs, pungent and bitter, hanging in neat clusters from the ceiling. They sway gently, serene and unaffected, unlike her, unlike her churning insides. The blankets lay crumpled, a mockery of comfort against the cold, bare walls. Each imperfection in the wood floor is familiar, grounding. But even this refuge can't quiet the storm beneath her ribs.
She grips the washbasin, porcelain against her palms, willing the water to cleanse more than just skin. It splashes and ripples, angry, disturbed, her movements jagged with frustration. She scrubs at the mark, harder, until the skin around it reddens, but it's still there, embedded like a prophecy. She slams her fist down, and the sound of it echoes, as raw as her pulse. This isn't possible. Her gifts don't do this.
She closes her eyes, inhales the night air still trapped in the room, lets it fill her until her head spins and her thoughts realign. The edges of the dream are blurring now, slipping into memory, but the mark burns as sharp as ever. She hesitates at Lyanna's door, her hand a breath away from waking her sister. What would she say? Aralyn's lips curve bitterly at the thought. I have a bad feeling? A child's excuse. She doesn't know how to name this, and worse, she doesn't know how to fight it.
Her body stills with indecision, fingers curling in, but then she draws them away, leaves her sister to the untroubled rest of the innocent or ignorant. No, she will not drag Lyanna into this confusion, not when Aralyn herself can barely understand the shape of it.
Pre-dawn shadows stalk her, stretching into the room, touching the corners with cool, unwelcome hands. The entire village sleeps, tucked under the kind of blanket Aralyn longs for, but none of them dream of dragons. Only her. Her mind is a blaze of questions—how, why, what this means—and they offer no answers, only heat. She watches the horizon creep into gray, jaw tight, eyes wider still.
Fire roars through her, even as it fades, the dying embers of a dream not yet dead. Her heart is an inferno. Her body an echo of fear and prophecy, curling into the impossible quiet. Aralyn knows she will not sleep again.
Her steps are ghostlike, more intention than substance, as she slips from shadow to shadow, cloak trailing like the night. The village sleeps, but her eyes stay sharp, hunter eyes, wide and pale against the darkness. She counts each footfall, calculating, careful. The Elders' Hall looms with ominous calm, but Lyanna never hesitates; hesitating is not in her blood. Magic spins to her will, coaxing moonlight where it shouldn't be. The guard takes the bait, and she's inside.
Velmora holds its breath behind her, the wilderness framing its humble edges like an encroaching secret. The village may dream, but Lyanna never does, not like them. She is the glint of predator teeth, and the thrill of it wraps around her spine as she moves. The air crackles with expectation, tension weaving through the simple, dirt-worn path as it guides her to her destination. Her instincts sing of caution and daring, both vital notes in her song.
The night wraps her in layers of its darkness, a cloak against the prying eyes she knows will search for her when this is done. Her magic swirls out, another disguise, a trick of false moonlight catching the guard's eye and pulling him far, far away. He'll swear he saw something, maybe a child or a beast. Maybe even her, if he lives to tell of it. Her lips quirk at the idea, but she stays the course, slipping through the doorway without breaking her fluid stride.
Inside, it's a sanctuary for words they think forbidden. The scrolls nestle in dark corners, conspiratorial. It's where they don't belong, but Lyanna is about to change that. Her heart dances to an erratic rhythm, but her hands move with purpose, threading her own web of secrets. She breathes in the pungent scent of old parchment and the thrill of unraveling mysteries kept too long.
Dust floats like ancient ghosts in the shafts of moonlight, revealing and concealing. She's learned from Aralyn the importance of relentless precision, of finding the deadly note in even the smallest detail. It serves her well here. The words on the scrolls scream significance to those who can hear, and Lyanna can. Her fingers recognize what the villagers mustn't, Binding Ceremony scrawled in sharp ink. They're hidden beneath her cloak before the air catches her breath.
The creak of the floorboard is as loud as a gunshot in the temple-quiet room. Her pulse trips, but she doesn't; even fear has its place, and she's learned to dance with it. A second of stillness and her mind blooms with the possibilities of being caught, weighed and measured in a heartbeat. Another shimmer, illusion spinning out from her fingertips. It moves like mist, like a dream, covering the crackle of tension, obscuring her escape route.
She is an echo, fading, and then she's gone, melting into the night with her prize. The guard will return to his post, but she will be a memory of shadow and silver, if even that. Velmora's humble heart beats steady, unaware that she holds it now, bundled tight against her ribs, full of knowledge they dare not claim.
Lyanna knows the thrill of danger, but the weight of it is no less pressing. The scrolls feel hot and bright against her, even though she knows their contents are neither. What she doesn't know, what makes her own heart pulse with foreboding, is what this will change, who it will undo, what it will burn. Her steps are as silent as thought as she disappears back into the darkness.
They are waiting, of course. Thessa has never managed subtlety in her life, and Jalen is already scanning the path for their approach. "Finally," Thessa calls, with exaggerated flair, her platinum curls bright in the morning sun. "We thought maybe you'd run away and left us here to fend for ourselves!" Lyanna laughs, slipping easily back into the light, teasing banter that shields. "And miss your unending enthusiasm?"
Aralyn shakes her head, and her expression softens just enough to betray affection beneath the veneer of exasperation. "Not if I have to hear it in my nightmares." Thessa pulls both sisters into a whirlwind hug, squeezing until breathlessness replaces any lingering darkness from the night before. Aralyn wonders how one person can radiate so much chaotic joy and remain unscathed.
Jalen offers a more composed greeting, but his eyes flick between them, steel-gray and too knowing. "Fashionably late," he remarks, an eyebrow raised with the slightest arch of skepticism. "Or should I be concerned?" He inclines his head with a flourish, dark locs catching the sun as he falls in step with them.
Thessa waves a dismissive hand, already bubbling over with another thought. "You don't even have to tell me. You spent all morning rehearsing how to impress the elders." Her voice is sing-song, playful. "But you two always make it look effortless, so I don't know why you bother." She links arms with Aralyn, tugging her into motion.
"Maybe we were too busy plotting," Aralyn retorts, allowing herself to be swept along, her words carrying a hint of bite even when they curve into humor. Lyanna catches the glint in Jalen's eye and mirrors it, adding a whisper of intrigue to the dance.
"Planning something scandalous for the Binding Ceremony, perhaps?" Jalen speculates, feeding into their dynamic with relish. He flicks an invisible speck of dust from his immaculately tailored robe, every movement deliberate. "Tell me, how do you intend to shock them this time?"
Thessa jumps in before either sister can reply, her laughter infectious. "Whatever it is, I'm helping. Are you two ready to finally become proper adults?" The words hover between sincerity and mockery, knowing she is needling them with just enough affection to leave no mark.
The sisters exchange glances, but the night has woven secrets into their skin, and they leave them unspoken. Aralyn hesitates, a pause so brief it's nearly lost in Thessa's excitement. "We're ready for it to be over," she says at last, choosing her words like weapons. Even the lightness in her tone can't conceal the tension beneath, not entirely.
"Aralyn and I love a good performance, after all," Lyanna adds smoothly, her voice as practiced as her illusions, guiding the subject with a gentle but insistent push. Her mind flashes to the scrolls hidden away, and she knows Jalen catches the evasive note in her words. His eyes meet hers, understanding but silent.
Their friends let it pass, as only they can, shielding and allowing the secrets to keep. "Then it's a good thing you have the world's best audience," Thessa proclaims, spinning around to walk backward and facing them, her energy unflagging. "We'll cheer so loud they won't know what's happening."
"And what is happening?" Aralyn asks, though she knows the answer. Her glance falls to where elders gather in solemn clusters, their expressions a mixture of reverence and foreboding. The Binding Ceremony has wrapped the village in invisible strings, pulling them all closer and tighter.
The sight of rare herbs, colored sands, and ancient tools being collected is both beautiful and ominous. Matron Selene directs the apprentices with a severity that matches the tension in the air, ritual symbols taking shape beneath her sharp gaze. Other villagers watch, their curiosity edged with unease.
Lyanna feels the weight of what they've begun settle heavily around them, thicker than any illusion she could weave. "Whatever it is," she says, more quietly, a note only Aralyn can hear, "it's not going to be what anyone expects."
Their laughter lingers behind them as they walk away, but the fire of doubt and prophecy walks with them.
It is all so calm. The village breathes a measured, serene rhythm, the rustle of children's play and birdsong weaving the hours together. But the pressure builds, relentless. They can feel it, like a hand tightening on their lungs. By late afternoon, Jalen calls the shift of it, his gaze sweeping from preparations to Lyanna with a knowing look. "Are we running away?" he asks, as casual as if the thought weren't impossible.
They stand near the edge of the village, where wilds threaten to reclaim Velmora and the ceremony's grip is weaker. It won't last. The elders' intent will stretch to the furthest shadows, find the darkest corners. There is nowhere the Binding Ceremony won't touch, they all know, and it will find them long before they flee.
The open space lends a false sense of freedom, each gust of wind another reminder that nothing will change until the final act. "We could," Lyanna muses, a hint of mischief, a veneer to cover the anxiety beneath. "But where's the fun in that?" She glances toward the ceremonial grounds, tension coiling.
Aralyn watches the preparations with the intensity of a predator sighting prey, but she can't stalk this danger with speed or strength. It's inside them, deep and unknown. Her hands close into fists at her sides, and she shakes her head. "This doesn't look like fun," she mutters.
Thessa throws her arms wide, claiming the sky and earth like they'll shield her from the inevitability closing in. "I'm sure it will be a thrilling drama," she assures them. "How could it not be with the two of you involved?" Her smile is bright and confident, but even she can't outshine the ceremony's gathering weight.
Jalen crosses his arms, tilting his head as he considers. "Thrilling, yes. But I have my doubts about the ending." His voice is light, but there's an edge to it, sharper than his usual wit. They all feel it. Even this distance isn't enough.
The elders work with an intensity that borders on frenzy, movements precise and unwavering. They have rehearsed this countless times, a play with stakes higher than any outsider can know. Matron Selene orchestrates the scene, an immovable figure against the flow of activity. Her commands ripple outward, the materials falling into place as if she wills them into existence.
Lush gardens and modest homes provide a serene backdrop, but they all know it's a lie. The calm is a thin shell, cracking with each breath they take. It's a trick, and Aralyn hates tricks she can't untangle. Her patience is fire, hot and dangerous.
Villagers skirt the ceremonial area, offering it wide berth, a mix of awe and apprehension etched on their faces. They're caught in the web of expectation and fear, and the friends are no different. Aralyn's foot taps in restless rhythm, the steady thud of a heart outpacing time.
The afternoon sun wanes, drawing shadows long and binding them to their fate. "Do you think they suspect anything?" Thessa asks, genuine curiosity peeking through her bold facade. The light fades, leaving their fears stark against the horizon.
"They will," Lyanna replies, quiet and certain. "But not until it's too late."
Night descends with a weight that stifles sound and air, the village sinking into uneasy slumber. Only the ceremonial grounds stay lit, a halo of candlelight casting distorted shapes of elders bent to their task. In their bedroom, the twins are alone, but the shadows do not comfort.
Lyanna unfolds the scrolls with the care of one handling explosives, each word a fuse, each illustration a spark. The inked images show more than she guessed: figures surrounded by fire and dark, bleeding into one another, transforming.
She traces them with a steady finger, the knowledge dangerous and liberating. Forbidden but now hers. But what will it cost? Aralyn's voice cuts into the quiet, bringing the unspoken fears into sharp relief.
"You couldn't sleep either?" she asks, the defiance she wears all day dropping like a mask. The sigil shimmers on her palm, bright even in the dim light. Lyanna watches it with wide, pale eyes, understanding without words.
"What is that?" Her tone is measured, but her heart is wild, unpredictable. She doesn't have to touch the mark to feel its power, as though its heat is wrapped around her chest, pressing.
Aralyn sits beside her sister, the scrolls forgotten for the moment. She speaks with a directness that gives no room for false hope. "It's been there since the dream," she confesses, eyes on the mark like it might lunge at any moment.
They exchange a glance, and in it is a world of shared fear and unspoken resolve. Aralyn knows what Lyanna stole, and Lyanna knows what Aralyn risks. Together, the magnitude of what they might uncover threatens to crush them.
"The Binding Ceremony is tomorrow," Lyanna whispers, returning the scrolls to their careful roll. Her fingers tremble just slightly, the only sign of how deeply this strikes. "And I don't think it's going to be what anyone expects."
They sit in silence, their thoughts and breaths the only sounds, until even the candles burn low, shadows drawing them deeper into the unknown.