Ray's fists clenched at her sides, the cloak twisting around her arms as she followed him through the narrow outskirts of the village. Each step pressed her closer to the sunbaked mud walls; jagged stones jabbed at her ankles with every stride. The morning air was thick with dust, smoke drifting from distant fires, and the faint scent of cooking grains and livestock.
The stranger moved ahead effortlessly, long black hair swaying like a shadow alive. His golden earrings caught the sun in brief flashes, like sparks dancing along his sharp features. Ray forced her eyes away, but she couldn't help sneaking glances.
Every movement was deliberate, fluid, unnervingly perfect. There was something not entirely human about him, a presence that prickled the skin and slowed the pulse.
"It's so hot—I'm going to melt," she complained, shading her eyes.
"I can't control the weather," he snapped without turning back. "Deal with it."
Ray hugged her cloak tighter. Every footfall stumbled over jagged stones, but he never faltered. The way he moved—graceful, unflinching, almost predatory—made her stomach twist.
"Remind me why I'm following you?" Her voice sharpened, edged with frustration.
"Because you have to."
"No, I don't!"
A faint sigh escaped him, like wind through a graveyard. "Fine. Because I know the way. Without me, you'd be captured before even entering the village."
"Ah, right," she muttered, forcing her gaze elsewhere. He never asked questions, never lingered. He simply assumed control, moving with the authority of someone who owned not just the alleys, but the shadows within them. Frustrating—and unnerving.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Ray tried again, quieter: "What's your name?"
For a brief instant, his back tensed, subtle, almost imperceptible.
"Why?" he asked, voice low, almost reluctant.
"I told you mine. People usually introduce themselves," she said, forcing patience, as if addressing a stubborn child.
He said nothing. She let it slide, muttering internally, What have I gotten myself into?
The alleys narrowed, mud walls rising like ancient sentinels. Morning light sliced through the gaps above, painting sharp golden lines on the rough stones. Shadows twisted, stretching, making the streets feel alive, as though they were watching her. For a heartbeat, she felt almost safe.
Then: the sound of hooves, pounding relentlessly. Soldiers.
Her stomach dropped, panic curling like fire in her throat. She opened her mouth, but a hand clamped over it, another seized her wrist. He yanked her into shadow with astonishing speed.
"Shh," he hissed, low, urgent. "Move. Stay quiet."
Dust stung her eyes as he propelled her through twisting alleys. Her legs screamed, heart hammering, lungs burning. She wanted to scream, to wrench herself free—but survival anchored her. Obey. Follow. Live.
He moved with preternatural precision, ducking corners, disappearing into shadows, pulling her like water against a current. There was a lightness in his step, a speed that seemed impossible for a mortal man.
She stole a glance at his bronze skin glinting in sun, the faint curve of scars along his arms. His presence radiated power, and something darker—death, inevitably close but controlled.
At one point, they crouched behind a crate as two soldiers passed. Ray held her breath, sweat stinging her temples. He pressed closer, shoulder to hers, golden eyes scanning, calculating.
She felt the warmth of him, the barely contained strength under his skin, the subtle shiver in the air—like a warning the wind carried. He wasn't just dangerous. He was otherworldly.
Finally, they reached a small mud house tucked behind the last row of buildings. Its door blended seamlessly into the earthen walls. He pushed it open and slipped inside, pulling her after him.
Inside, the air was cool, earthy, faintly smoky, with traces of herbs lingering in corners. Ray breathed deeply, trying to steady the storm in her chest. Dust streaked her cloak darker; she brushed it away, squaring her shoulders.
"That was close," she murmured, voice shaky. "Where are we?"
"My home," he said simply, closing the door with a muted thud.
She raised an eyebrow, arms crossing. "Your home, huh? Modest," she teased, trying to mask wariness with irritation.
He didn't answer, golden eyes flickering in the dim light, unreadable. Shadows traced the sharp lines of his jaw, the subtle curve of scars on his arms. He exuded calm control, every muscle relaxed yet ready, as if danger was his constant companion.
Ray swallowed hard. The tension between them thrummed, sharp and silent. He hadn't questioned her, hadn't faltered. And yet she hadn't run.
A flicker of something—curiosity, defiance, or a dangerous pull she didn't understand—tugged at her chest.
One truth remained, unwavering: she was not anyone's captive. Not now. Not ever.