“Thorne?”

The name slipped from Aelorian’s lips, fragile as breath before vanishing into the trees without echo, swallowed whole by the hush. 

He stood barefoot in the dark woods.

The cold bit at the soles of his feet, sharp as glass, numbing and vivid all at once. Frost-laced leaves crunched beneath him, each step leaving a fleeting imprint that the moonlight seemed to lick away. Roots twisted like sleeping snakes, brambles clawed at his ankles, and yet he felt drawn forward, a subtle pull threading through the air like a spell he couldn’t resist.

The forest—not a swamp anymore—smelled of pine and frost, of wet earth and something darker, something impossible, something hungry. He shouldn’t be here. He knew the shapes of the swamp: black water and moss-choked trees, the croak of frogs, the drone of insects. But here the air was sharp with cold, the ground crisp beneath his bare feet, moonlight spilling in silvery veins through the pines.

“Thorne!” Aelorian called again, shoving past a tangle of thorny vines.

A flare of red caught his eye.

Berries hung heavy on a branch. Fat, glossy, and too ripe. They gleamed like molten rubies, nestled in the frost-laced brambles as if painted there just for him. They smelled sweeter than they had any right to, warm beneath the cold air, heady and intoxicating. His fingers itched to touch them, to pluck them free.

Memory stabbed through him: Thorne’s rough hand clamping around his wrist, dragging it back from a cluster just like these. Witchfruit, the ogre had warned him. Poison. The word struck like flint in the hollow of his chest. Still, his fingers itched to touch them. The warning was a chain, but curiosity gnawed through the links faster than fear could weld them shut. 

Aelorian knelt, brushing the thorns aside, and plucked one. The berry snapped from the stem with a sound far too loud in the silence, a wet little pop that shivered down his spine.

And then it bit him, a sting piercing the soft pad of his thumb. Aelorian gasped, startled, the sound tearing out of him before he could stop it. His voice crashed through the hush of the forest, raw and thin as glass breaking. Blood welled instantly, a ruby drop blooming in the moonlight, too bright, too red, as if it didn’t belong to him at all. 

The forest held its breath.

He felt it in the silence: too deep, too sudden—no wind, no rustle, no owls. The berry slipped from his grasp, tumbling silently into the moss. The trees seemed closer than they had been a moment ago. Their branches curled downward, sharp as spears, their shadows leaning like hunters over prey.

Something was wrong.

His pulse surged, and then—without remembering the moment he started—he was running. Bare feet slapping frozen earth, breath tearing through his chest, hair whipping across his face. Branches clawed his arms, and gnarled roots rose to catch him. The forest folded in on itself, leading him deeper and deeper into the shadows, no matter which way he turned.

Behind him, it came.

Not a creature made of flesh, with footsteps. But a sound like fire breathing: crackle, hiss, the hungry roar of wood catching flame. The air baked hot against Aelorian’s back, then cooled in cruel waves, as if teasing him with escape.

“Moonborne…”

The voice was smoke and molten gold, sliding between the trees, coiling into Aelorian’s chest like living fire. 

Aelorian stumbled, heart hammering so violently he thought it might tear free from his ribs. He fell, hands scraping against slick roots, scrambled upright, and froze. He knew that voice—had felt it whisper against his skin beneath chains, beneath vows that had never been his to give.

Seredane.

The trees ignited in sudden firelight, silver moonlight melting to gold, then bleeding into molten red. Leaves shriveled, sap hissed and boiled, smoke curling through the mist like serpents. The swamp hissed, ground blistering beneath Aelorian’s feet, shards of scorched earth flicking skyward.

The inferno split open like a stage curtain. Seredane stepped through, robes alive with flame, twisting like living fire. His eyes—twin suns of molten fire—seared into Aelorian’s soul. Every step scorched the earth; every breath he drew boiled the air. Branches reached for him, obeying Seredane’s will, writhing like the limbs of a furious god.

“Such a shame,” Seredane hissed, voice molten. “You belonged to me, yet you ran. You chose betrayal over devotion, and for that, you will burn, Aelorian Moonbeam Ithrienel…my radiant bride, my faithless traitor.”

Aelorian tried to run, but the ground itself betrayed him—roots writhed like snakes, tangling his legs, forcing him to stagger. He tore free, feet blistering on cinders, only to crash into a wall of flame. 

Through the inferno, he saw a shape slowly rise. Massive, broad-shouldered, unmistakable. 

“Thorne!” Aelorian screamed, voice cracking, raw and desperate. Relief tore through him like a sob. His guardian, his brute, his impossible shield—

The ogre lifted his head at Aelorian’s call, but his beautiful eyes burned not with gold, but rather the agonized flames of hell. His tusks gleamed molten white, but the fire didn’t burn him; it crowned him, claimed him.

Aelorian froze, horror digging its claws deep. Thorne’s skin cracked, embers spilling from the seams. His chest split, glowing like a furnace. He bared his teeth, not in a snarl of defense, but in a smile that wasn’t his. 

Seredane’s smile.

“No,” Aelorian whispered, taking a stumbling step back. “No, no, no—”

The flaming Thorne stepped forward, every movement heavy with fire and ruin. The heat blistered Aelorian’s skin. He tried to reach for him anyway, but his hand came away blistered and oozing, blood mixing with ash.

Behind the fiery mask of Thorne’s face, Seredane’s voice poured out, velvet and cruel:

“Even the beast is mine.”

The world convulsed, flame roaring higher, trees collapsing in showers of sparks. The nightmare forest screamed as it burned, and Aelorian’s knees gave, the thorny roots clawing up to drag him down into the fire, toward that terrible, smiling vision of Thorne—

Aelorian’s scream ripped out of him, raw, ragged, the sound of someone still burning. He flailed, fists and silk flying, thrashing against an unseen force. His sharp little elf teeth found flesh before sense did—and he bit down hard on the big arm that tried to hold him.

Iron bloomed sharp on his tongue.

Thorne roared. The sound shook the cave, a guttural bellow that rattled Aelorian’s bones. “By all the fucking gods—!” His tusks flashed, voice a curse torn straight from his chest. And for a heartbeat, he looked ready to fling Aelorian off like a small, sparkly raccoon gone rabid.

Instead, he pinned him, one massive hand cradling the back of the elf’s skull, the other gripping his waist, holding him down with all the careful restraint of a beast who knew one wrong move would shatter what he was trying to protect. “Lori!” His voice cracked, laced with desperation. “Wake up! It’s me—godsamn it, it’s me!”

The fire still burned in Aelorian’s mind along with Seredane’s sneer and Thorne’s face, split, molten, and wearing the Sun Priest’s smile. He gagged, sobbed, and bit harder until copper flooded his mouth.

Thorne snarled through the pain, breath hot against Aelorian’s ear. “It’s over, elf. It’s over. Bite as hard as you want, but I got you.”

Aelorian blinked, shuddered, and at last the nightmare cracked. A tusked beast filled his line of sight—not cruel, not burning, but Thorne, real and warm as a sunrise.

The elf's jaw trembled. His teeth unlatched, leaving bloodied crescents in their wake. Aelorian sagged, sobbing into Thorne’s chest as the nightmare loosened its claws. “Gods, Thorne…” His voice was barely there, a splinter of sound. “It was all so real. Seredane found me. You were there, but it wasn’t you. He’d taken over your body and wore your face.”

The ogre breathed hard, every muscle trembling with the effort of holding steady. Still, he bent his head until his forehead touched Aelorian’s, grounding him with weight and heat. “I’m here,” he murmured, rough but steady, each word dragged from the depths of him. “Do you hear me? Not that sun-bastard. Me.”

Aelorian’s fingers clutched at his chest like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. His sobs shuddered and broke, spilling raggedly into the dark. “I thought I was never going to wake up.”

“Hush now,” Thorne rumbled. One hand stroked down his back—gentle, almost hesitant, as though afraid his touch would break him further. “I’ve got you, mud petal. Nothing’s taking you while I still breathe.”

But even as he spoke, the fire at their side hissed low and strange, shadows stretching unnaturally long across the cave walls. The flames licked higher without fuel, their light burning gold instead of orange. Aelorian turned to stare, and Thorne's fierce gaze caught the reflection, and a snarl flickered in his throat. It felt like a gaze pressed against their skin, heavy and possessive. 

Aelorian shivered violently, curling tighter against the brute’s massive chest. “He’s here,” he whispered, voice tight and raw. “Gods… he’s been watching us this whole time, Thorne!”

Thorne’s free hand slammed down into the fire. Sparks exploded, the stench of singed flesh curling into the cave—but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. His palm drove down, crushing, smothering, pounding until sparks died to smoke. Seredane’s savage flames twisted, hissed, fought back like a living thing—and Thorne crushed harder.

When the last ember died, the cave plunged into heavy, suffocating dark. Aelorian’s fingers fumbled in his sleeve, clutching the small rock Thorne had pressed into his hand the first night they’d slept here—smooth, grounding, a tether to the real. "A nightmare," he whispered, "That's all it was."

Thorne’s hand shot out a second later, iron-strong and unyielding, gripping Aelorian’s wrist. “We’re leaving,” he snapped, voice sharp, dangerous, each word practically a punch.

“Leaving?” Aelorian squeaked, writhing against his grip like a caught butterfly. “We just got here! The cave—yes, it’s mold-infested, smells like a centaur’s armpit—but it’s cozy! Warm! We don’t need another fire! We could share body heat! Seredane wouldn't be able to reach us if we don't use flames—”

Thorne’s tusks bared in a feral flash. “Don’t be a fool, elf. He’s probably got his whole damn army on the way here right now. You think this place will protect you? One wrong spark, one careless flame, and his guards will find us. Staying here isn’t a comfort, it’s a death wish!”

Aelorian’s puffed up, pride flaring, chin high, and eyes sparking. But the fight bled out of him in the next breath. His voice dropped, smaller, almost broken, like something he hadn’t meant to say aloud. “I just—” His voice faltered, “It felt like home for a moment. Even with the smell of ogre sweat and bear shit in the corner.”

Thorne froze. His grip loosened on Aelorian’s wrist, though he didn’t let go. His fierce gaze caught the elf’s in the dim light, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the pulse thrumming beneath his thumb, the fragile bones beneath his palm. Too breakable. Too precious.

He leaned in without meaning to, shadow swallowing them both, tusks inches from Aelorian’s cheek, his breath ghosting across porcelain skin. So easy, so dangerous, to close that last impossible distance.

But Thorne ripped himself back like the touch had burned him, a growl cracking into something raw. “I know,” he muttered, thumb brushing once along the inside of Aelorian’s wrist before he let go. “I know it did, elf.”

Aelorian dropped his head, defeated, clutching the pebble Thorne had pressed into his hand the night before—small, grounding, a tether against the dark.

The ogre’s hand settled on his back, firm but careful, a steady weight that said you’re not alone. “Let’s go,” he murmured, voice low, grounding. “Stay close.”

Aelorian swallowed hard, spine straightening as though he could disguise the tremor in his chest as indignation. “Fine,” he said stubbornly, though his voice cracked thin. “But I’m still calling it home. Even if you insist on us leaving.”

Thorne didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The word home hung in the humid air like a wound that refused to close, something he could neither deny nor claim.

He bent his shoulders toward the cave mouth, checking the shadows with endless, predatory caution. Step by careful step, he guided Aelorian out into the swamp. The night greeted them with its humid, earthy breath, the low chorus of insects rising all around. Roots and mud threatened to catch their feet, but Thorne’s hand pressed against him, unyielding—a tether through the uneasy dark.

And even as Seredane’s gaze seemed to linger in the mist, burning through the reeds and twisted roots, Aelorian leaned into that steady pressure. The swamp whispered danger. The shadows crawled with watching eyes. But Thorne was there—unyielding, relentless, and entirely real.

Aelorian drew his cloak closed and cast a timid glance back at the gaping maw that was the cave. And for just a moment, the ashes in the fire pit pulsed with life, molten and hot, before they sputtered out, leaving nothing but a whisper in the darkness and smoke.

"Even the beast is mine."