The vision ended with the crack of a distant bell.
Aira gasped, lungs tightening as her soul slammed back into her body. Her back arched against the mossy earth as she blinked at the forest canopy overhead.
The man was still there—bloody, unconscious. The warmth of his touch had vanished, replaced by a chill crawling across her skin.
She'd been inside his memory. She had lived it. The courtyard, the sparring match, the smile that tugged on his lips as he laughed—it wasn't just a fragment.
It felt like home.
You stayed too long, the voice in her head whispered. You lingered.
Aira scrambled to check her pulse. Her heart was racing. Her fingertips tingled. But she was still here. Not trapped. Not yet.
Thank the Spirits.
The man groaned beside her. She checked the wound again—deep, but not fatal if cleaned quickly. Whoever he was, he didn't belong to her village, and his cloak bore no crest she recognized.
She had two choices: walk away and save herself, or drag this half-dead stranger to her home and risk everything.
She sighed.
Of course she'd drag him home.
—
They stared when she returned.
Not with awe. With fear.
The village doors parted like a wound reopening. She could hear the whispers already.
"She touched someone again."
"What if she took his soul?"
"Don't look her in the eyes."
Aira ignored them. She carried the man on her back using a makeshift sled from fallen branches and wrapped him in her own coat. Her cabin was at the edge of the cliffs—no one dared come near it unless they wanted a curse or a truth revealed.
By dusk, she had cleaned and stitched his wounds. Fever burned off him like smoke.
She sat by the fire, watching his chest rise and fall. The glow made his amber eyes flicker in sleep.
"Who are you?" she whispered, "and why does your past feel like it was meant for me?"
She didn't expect an answer.
But when the fire cracked and he turned toward her murmuring her name—her true name, the one only her grandmother used—Aira's breath hitched.
He was still dreaming.
Of her.