Leila was thirteen when the first dream came.

It was the night of her birthday, though no one in the tower remembered, nor did anyone care. No one brought her cake, no one came with a candle, no one even whispered “happy birthday.” Her only company was the silence, broken now and then by the faint chirping of crickets outside her narrow window. She lay curled on her thin mattress, clutching the fraying edge of her blanket to her chest. Tears slipped down her cheeks, though she wasn’t sure what she cried for anymore.

Perhaps she cried because birthdays were meant to be celebrated. Or perhaps because she was tired of being invisible.

Exhaustion finally tugged her under, and she expected the usual nothingness of sleep. But this time her eyes opened.

The air was different here — dry and sharp, filled with dust. She stood barefoot on a hard, uneven ground, her nightgown fluttering in the wind. Around her stretched a yard of packed earth and crumbling stone walls. The sun glared cruelly overhead. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, confusion heavy in her chest.

And then she heard it.

The voices.

A chorus of boys, jeering, laughing, shouting. She turned toward the sound and froze.

There, in the center of a rough circle, was a boy. He looked no older than she was, maybe younger. His shirt was torn, his lip split, his knees already scraped and bleeding. His black hair clung to his damp face. His chest heaved with shallow breaths as if every gulp of air burned.

Around him stood a dozen boys with stones in their hands. They hurled them one after another, pelting his arms, his chest, his head. The boy staggered but didn’t fall. His golden eyes glared back at them, defiance smoldering even as his body trembled.

Leila’s heart clenched. “Stop it!” she cried, rushing forward. “Leave him alone!”

But none of them turned. None of them heard her.

She darted to grab the arm of the nearest bully, but her hand passed through his skin as though he were smoke. Panic flared. She tried again and again, but she was nothing to them.

Only the boy.

Her gaze snapped back to him just as a stone struck his cheek, bursting red across his skin. He swayed. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might collapse.

“No,” she whispered, her throat burning. She stumbled forward, tears blurring her vision. If she couldn’t stop them, then maybe—

She threw herself at him.

Her arms wrapped around his narrow shoulders from behind. She pressed her cheek to his back, squeezing with everything she had. And though she expected her body to slip through his just as it had the others, he shuddered. He stilled.

He felt her.

The stones kept flying, but something in him changed. His breathing steadied. His trembling slowed. Warmth spread beneath her palms where her hands clutched him, warmth that seemed to sink into his skin, chasing away the blood, the cuts, the bruises. His wounds closed faster than her eyes could follow. His shoulders straightened.

“I’m here,” she whispered, even though she knew he couldn’t hear. Her tears soaked into his torn shirt. “I won’t let you be alone.”

The circle of bullies blurred into shadow. The voices faded. The boy lifted his chin, the fire in his golden eyes burning brighter than before.

And then Leila woke.

Her chamber ceiling stretched above her, the stone cold and gray. Her heart thundered in her chest, her cheeks wet with tears. She sat up, clutching her blanket tight. It had only been a dream. It had to be.

And yet she felt him still. The shape of his shoulders beneath her arms, the thud of his heartbeat against her cheek.

She touched her own chest, trembling. “Who are you?” she whispered into the silence.

The dreams did not stop.

The next night she saw him again. This time he was locked in chains, his wrists rubbed raw, the iron biting so deep that skin had split. He knelt in the dirt of a dark cell, his head bowed. Rats scurried in the corners.

Leila’s throat closed with anguish. She dropped to her knees before him, clutching his face between her trembling hands. “You’re not alone,” she whispered. Her lips brushed his forehead as her tears fell, warm against his bruised skin.

And just like before, the chains bit less sharply. The blood slowed. The wounds sealed as though time itself bent around her sorrow. His breaths deepened, his strength returned. He did not know why, did not see her, but he endured because she was there.

Again and again, she found him.

Sometimes he was beaten by men twice his size, his body tossed aside like garbage. Sometimes he was starved, lying motionless on the floor of some forgotten room. Sometimes he staggered through mud, his hands raw from digging, his lips cracked with thirst.

Each time, Leila was there. She threw her arms around him when stones rained down. She pressed her face to his chest when soldiers struck him with whips. She held his hands when his wrists bled, she kissed his scars when his body shook with pain.

He never saw her. Never heard her.

But every time, he healed.

And every time, her heart broke a little more for him.

Weeks passed, months. She no longer woke startled. The dreams had become her life. By day she wandered her lonely chamber, staring at the stone walls, waiting for night. By night she lived with him, weeping with him, holding him.

She had stopped wondering if it was real. She knew it was. No dream could feel so sharp, so heavy with truth. She carried his pain inside her. She carried his heartbeat.

And somewhere between those nights of blood and tears, Leila realized she loved him.

It wasn’t the kind of love told in books or songs. It wasn’t born from gentle words or courtship or sweet promises. It was carved into her soul by suffering, by sacrifice. She loved him because she had held his broken body when no one else would. She loved him because she had seen his strength rise again and again, even when he should have fallen.

She loved him because he endured.

And she would endure with him.