Elara moved through the undergrowth, her fingers brushing over the alien foliage around them. Even in the dim light, she could make out vibrant patches of plant life clinging stubbornly to the forest floor and trees. Towering trunks stretched high above them, their thick canopies filtering the fading sunlight into shifting patterns of gold and green.

  She wasn’t just grabbing random samples—she was looking for something interesting. Something Lana might like.

  Darius waited a few steps behind, arms crossed, his stance relaxed but alert. The ever-present sounds of the forest surrounded them—the rustling of unseen creatures, the distant call of something predatory, the occasional drip of moisture from the foliage above.

  “You always do this?” he asked, his tone laced with amusement.

  She plucked a small, blue-veined leaf from a fern-like plant and turned it over in her palm. The texture was soft but bouncy, its scent a faint mix of earth and something sweet. “Do what?”

  “Stop in the middle of a dungeon to collect flowers.”

  She grinned. “They’re not flowers. And no, maybe. If they are pretty.”

  He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Do what you want. Just don’t let the plants kill you.”

  She crouched near a cluster of small, yellow glossy mushrooms, their round caps glistening with moisture. A faint luminescence shimmered in their centers, pulsing gently in rhythm with the breeze that whispered through the trees. They looked strange, otherworldly—exactly the kind of thing Lana would hopefully find fascinating. With that thought, she reached out—

  Pffft.

  A soft burst of pale spores puffed into her face, the air momentarily thick with their delicate swirl. She barely flinched before a sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over her. Her vision blurred. Her knees buckled. A flicker of blue light pulsed in the corner of her sight. The last thing she heard before darkness took her was Darius’ voice and lunging to catch her.

  Elara’s consciousness drifted, weightless and untethered, through an unfamiliar haze. Shadows and flickers of light swirled around her, forming indistinct shapes that pulsed and shifted as if the world itself was breathing. She stood in a vast chamber of stone and fire, staring at a figure who felt impossibly familiar—but not familiar enough. He wasn’t her. But he looked like he could have been family.

  She couldn’t see his face, only the cascade of golden hair, the firm lines of his form—so much like her own, but broader, heavier, undeniably male. Dark feathers of the Zephyrlynx adorned his shoulders like a regal mantle. He was the Warden.

  And beside him, Flamebeard, the colossal red dragon, practically radiating smugness. His molten eyes regarded them with something between pride and barely contained glee. None of this made sense.

  She watched as Flamebeard nuzzled the Warden’s shoulder, his voice dropping into a tone that could only be described as affectionate.

  “My treasure,” the great dragon rumbled. “The fire of my heart, the ember of my soul. No being in this world or the next can compare to your radiance.”

  Elara’s thoughts stuttered to a halt.

  The Warden—her male look-alike—sighed dreamily, brushing his fingers along Flamebeard’s snout in return. His voice was soft, filled with warmth.

  “Oh, my mighty and magnificent inferno,” he murmured. “Every time I look at you, I feel as if I am reborn in your flames.”

  She blinked.

  This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. And yet, the dream held her, wrapping around her like a warm, inescapable embrace. Her gaze drifted downward, following the Warden’s gentle movements as he rested a hand on his stomach—round, unmistakably swollen. A pregnant belly.

  She felt a strange sense of vertigo, as if reality itself had tilted beneath her feet. She wanted to deny it, but then—then—Flamebeard leaned closer, his great head resting near the Warden’s stomach. The dragon rumbled, a deep, reverent sound.

  “Our daughter,” Flamebeard mused, his voice filled with undeniable certainty. “She will be strong.”

  “She will be beautiful,” the Warden added, smiling as he traced light circles over his stomach.

  “She will carry the name Elara,” they finished in unison. Elara’s breath hitched.

  No. No, no, no.

  A flicker of golden light shimmered over the Warden’s stomach, and suddenly, she felt it—a pull, a connection that told her, without a doubt, that she was inside there. Or had been. Or—oh gods, she couldn’t think about this.

  Her mind spiraled, grasping at logic that simply didn’t exist in this dream. This was impossible. It didn’t make sense. Why did it feel real?

  The world around her swirled again, fire and golden light blurring at the edges, pressing in like the dream was ready to seal this ridiculous knowledge into her very soul. She had to wake up.

  Now.

  A heavy fog clung to Elara’s thoughts as she drifted back to consciousness. The warmth of the dream still curled around her like dying embers, but reality pressed in, cool and steady, unraveling the absurdity piece by piece. Her eyes opened, greeted by the dim interior of her tent. The familiar scent of earth and fabric filled her nose. For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling. That dream…

  No.

  She refused to acknowledge it. A slow, deliberate weight pressed down against her chest. Something warm. Soft. A pair of eerily intelligent eyes gleamed, peering at her with the kind of judgment that only a cat could manage. Satan.

  The grey-furred menace sat squarely on her torso, tail curling lazily around her paws, watching her as if she were the biggest disappointment she’d ever witnessed.

  Elara groaned. “What?”

  Satan didn’t blink. Didn’t move. She just stared. Elara shifted slightly, testing her limbs. Heavy, but functional. Her head throbbed, but the worst of the exhaustion was gone. No sign of Kurda or Lana.

  With a sigh, she rubbed her temples. Great. That meant Darius had dumped her here and left her to sleep off whatever those spores had done to her. Satan flicked her tail, unimpressed.

  Elara let her arm drop limply onto the bed. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  Satan’s ears twitched. Elara sighed again and forced herself upright. The cat immediately vacated her chest, hopping down with all the grace of a creature who had never inhaled poisonous spores from a mushroom like an idiot.

  She winced as the tent swayed slightly in her vision. Okay. Moving was possible. Thinking about that dream? Not possible. Ever. She dragged a hand down her face. Where the hell was everyone?

  Her gaze fell upon her body, clad in a garment unlike anything she’d worn before. It was woven from a smooth, dark blue fabric, reminiscent of polished jade, yet strangely soft. Its length reached to her ankles, flowing neatly to the ground.

  Sleeves, gathered at the elbows, hung loose, revealing embroidery depicting silver vines winding through crimson blossoms. The garment resembled a tunic, yet it appeared more substantial, almost armor-like, without feeling restrictive.

  Beside her bedroll, she saw familiar leather straps - her belt, holding her trusted dagger. Relieved, she pulled herself upright and secured the belt. Glancing at her boots, half-heartedly she considered putting them on. They felt unnecessary.

  Satan, ever the feline embodiment of exasperation, let out a long, drawn-out meow as she stood. After a moment of silent judgment, she hopped off the cot and padded towards the opening of the tent, tail held high.

  Elara followed, rubbing her eyes. A cool breeze blew through the fabric walls, carrying the scent of pine needles and damp earth. It was quiet – too quiet. The usual rustle of the encampment seemed muted.

  She spotted a sputtering lantern in the middle of the common area. She hadn’t expected to be alone. The thought of another mushroom dream prickled at her, urging her to figure out where everyone had gotten off to.

  Satan, bored with her silent watch, resumed her patrol of the tent, weaving through Kurda’s possessions with haughty grace. Elara stifled a yawn. A few moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps drummed against the ground. Lana burst into the tent, her face set in a deep frown. “Elara! You’re awake!” she exclaimed, her voice cutting through the quiet like a knife.

  She rushed to Elara’s side, her expression tight with concern. “What happened? Darius said you collapsed in the middle of the dungeon!”

  “Shhh,” Elara groaned, pressing a hand to her temple. A dull, persistent throb pounded behind her eyes. “Not so loud, please.”

  Lana, ever the relentless talker, either didn’t hear or outright ignored the request. “What happened in there? Do you remember what triggered the spores? Do you remember what happened after getting hit?”

  Elara blinked. “I don’t—” Her voice caught. The dream still clung to the edges of her mind, far too vivid, far too absurd. Just thinking about it made her stomach twist. There was no way she was telling Lana about that. “I just… blacked out.”

  Lana, bless her impulsive heart, didn’t seem convinced. Before Elara could protest, she grabbed her by the arm with surprising strength and practically dragged her toward the small, mismatched table in the tent. “Sit. You need to eat something.”

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  “Lana,” Elara protested weakly, attempting to pull her arm free.

  Lana didn’t even pause. “You’re practically transparent. Do not make it worse.”

  Elara sighed and slumped into a chair, instinctively reaching for the dagger at her hip—not as a threat, just for something solid, something real. Everything still felt slightly off-kilter, like she wasn’t fully grounded in her own body yet.

  Lana, already bustling about, set a plate in front of her—sliced bread, cheese, and a clay mug brimming with hot broth. Another steaming cup soon followed, the fragrant scent of herbs curling into the air. She pressed the mug into her hands with the same no-nonsense force as a battlefield medic.

  “Drink this,” Lana ordered. “It’s mimomile tea. Kurda says it helps with recovering from fatigue after a status effect.”

  Elara took a tentative sip. The warmth spread through her, soothing her throat, grounding her senses. She glanced up to find Lana watching her expectantly, arms crossed, waiting.

  Elara hesitated, then exhaled. “That reminds me.” She reached for her pack and rummaged through its contents, pulling out a small bundle of plants—leaves, roots, anything that had caught her attention in the dungeon.

  She placed them on the table, nudging them toward Lana. “I grabbed these for you. Thought you might find them interesting.”

  Lana’s eyes lit up with immediate delight, the earlier worry momentarily replaced by curiosity. “Oh! You actually remembered!” She picked up one of the plants, turning it over in her hands, already lost in examination. Elara allowed herself a small smile, taking another slow sip of the tea. At least this part of reality made sense.

  She ate in silence, her fingers absently picking at the bread and cheese. The warmth of the broth helped settle the lingering chill in her bones, but the weight in her chest remained. Her mind kept drifting, replaying fragments of the dream she didn’t want to think about. The Warden’s golden hair, Flamebeard’s ridiculous declarations, the undeniable swell of—

  She shoved another piece of bread into her mouth. Nope. Not thinking about that. Instead, she focused on Lana, who was hunched over the collection of plants, carefully examining each leaf and stem with an intense, almost reverent focus. She picked up a cluster of thin, silvery roots, turning them between her fingers.

  “These might be useful,” she murmured to herself. “Oh, and this—this looks like it could be distilled into something interesting…”

  At least someone was having a productive evening. She took another sip of tea before setting the mug down. Her thoughts turned to something more pressing—Darius.

  He must have carried her back. They had been deep into the dungeon, the forest dense and hazardous. The journey back couldn’t have been easy, especially with her deadweight slowing him down. A frown tugged at her lips. She hadn’t even seen him since waking up.

  “Lana,” she said slowly, “where’s Darius?”

  Lana glanced up from a particularly strange blue-veined leaf. “Oh, him? Probably off brooding somewhere.”

  Elara didn’t smile. “He carried me all the way back, didn’t he?”

  Lana hummed in confirmation. “Yeah. You were completely out of it. He looked awful, by the way. All scuffed up, I swear his armor had claw marks on it. Pretty sure he fought off half the forest getting you back here.”

  Elara’s stomach twisted. “Is he hurt?”

  “Nothing serious,” Lana reassured her. “He wouldn’t let Kurda patch him up, but—get this—he actually paid a healer from the other group to check on you.”

  Elara blinked. “He did?”

  Lana smirked. “I know, right?” She set down the leaf she was examining and leaned back. “The healer said you were hit with a sleep status effect and would wake up after it wore off. But Darius stuck around until he was sure. Then he left.”

  Elara frowned. “Left where?”

  Lana shrugged. “No idea. But if I had to guess? He’s probably off glaring at a tree somewhere.”

  This didn’t sit right with Elara. He had fought through the forest, carried her back, and then worried enough to call in a healer. A pang of guilt settled in her stomach.

  She pushed her plate away. “I should go find him.”

  Lana raised a brow. “You sure you’re up for that?”

  Elara stood, steadying herself. “Yeah. I need to.”

  Lana sighed dramatically but didn’t argue. “Fine. But if you collapse again, I’m dragging you back myself.”

  Elara stepped out into the cool night air, the damp earth pressing softly against her bare feet. The camp was quiet at this hour, the distant crackle of fire and the occasional murmur of voices blending into the background hum of insects and rustling leaves.

  A soft thump landed beside her, and she turned to see Satan trotting up, her fluffy tail flicking behind her. The cat’s grey fur gleamed under the faint torchlight, and her white chest puffed out slightly. The extra pair of small, dexterous paws near her neck shifted, adjusting the tiny spear she always carried.

  Elara sighed. “I don’t suppose you know where Darius set up his tent?”

  Satan blinked up at her, slow and deliberate, as if considering the question. Then she sniffed the air, her nose twitching. The cat took another deep inhale before setting off, paws silent against the packed dirt. She weaved between crates, tents, and scattered supplies with the confidence of a creature that belonged everywhere and was above being questioned about it.

  Elara trailed after her, careful to avoid stepping on stray twigs or loose stones. The night was cool against her skin, a welcome contrast to the lingering warmth of sleep clinging to her.

  “Your way too good at this,” she murmured.

  Satan flicked an ear, as if acknowledging the compliment, then turned sharply down a narrow path between two closely pitched tents. A small, annoyed chitter escaped her throat when Elara hesitated.

  “Alright, alright, I’m coming,” she whispered, quickening her pace.

  Satan gave her another look—the kind only cats could manage, full of exaggerated patience—before pressing forward, her spear tapping lightly against the ground as if she were a tiny warrior leading an expedition.

  Elara couldn’t help but smile despite herself. “You better be right about this.”

  Satan merely lifted her head higher, tail curling confidently as she continued leading the way.

  The camp was quiet, with most adventurers either asleep or tending to quiet conversations around dying embers. Occasional glances were cast her way, but no one stopped her.

  Satan moved with unshakable certainty, her fluffy tail swishing behind her. Every so often, she paused, sniffing the air before adjusting course, never hesitating for long. Finally, they reached a tent set a little apart from the others, its entrance loosely tied shut. The faint glow of a lantern flickered inside. Satan stopped just short of the entrance, sitting primly and looking up at Elara expectantly.

  She hesitated. It felt strange approaching like this—Darius had done so much, carrying her all the way back, paying for a healer, making sure she was safe. Now she was just going to walk in? She clenched her hands into fists, steeling herself. She needed to make sure he was alright. Taking a breath, she reached for the entrance flap and knocked against the canvas.

  “Darius?” she called softly.

  There was a long pause, followed by a rustling sound from within. Then a tired but unmistakably firm voice responded.

  “Come in.”

  Elara glanced at Satan, who flicked her tail smugly as if to say, told you so, before stepping aside to let her enter. Elara stepped inside, her gaze immediately landing on Darius.

  He was sitting on a low cot, stripped of his armor, dressed only in a loose cream coloured tunic and bandaged wraps over his arms. His long, light pink hair was undone from its usual loose braid, falling past his shoulders. Without the imposing weight of his armor, he seemed different—less like a warrior and more like a person. A painfully beautiful person.

  For a moment, she simply stared. The lantern’s glow cast a warm light over his sharp features, accentuating the firm lines of his jaw, the striking contrast of his light green eyes against his pale skin. Her breath hitched—

  Then she saw the bruising. The ugly marks blooming across his arms, the faint but noticeable tension in his posture, the way he exhaled just a little too carefully. The spell was broken.

  She moved before she could think, crossing the small space and kneeling beside him. “You’re hurt,” she said, voice tinged with worry. She reached out instinctively to touch his arm, fingers hovering just above the bruises. Then she stopped.

  She hesitated, remembering his wariness toward touch, the way he always kept a distance. She pulled her hand back slightly, meeting his eyes instead.

  “Can I heal you?” she asked softly.

  He watched her, his expression unreadable. He didn’t answer, just held her gaze. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod.

  “Yes.”

  Elara exhaled in relief, her fingers tingling with the anticipation of casting. She placed her hands carefully against his skin, channeling her magic. Warm, golden light flickered to life, washing over his wounds, easing away the pain. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch under her touch. He simply sat there, watching her work in silence.

  The silence stretched between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but something about it felt heavier than usual. She hesitated, then filled it.

  “…What happened after I passed out?”

  He exhaled through his nose, a slow, deliberate sigh. Instead of answering right away, he reached out, his hand settling on her upper arm. His grip was firm but not rough, his fingers squeezing lightly.

  She stilled.

  Her heart skipped as she looked up, caught completely off guard by the contact. Darius rarely initiated touch. If anything, he was the one always keeping his distance. But now, his fingers pressed gently against her sleeve, grounding and deliberate.

  “I was worried,” he admitted, his voice low. His light eyes met hers, steady and unreadable. “You just dropped. No warning.” His grip didn’t tighten, but he didn’t pull away either. “I thought something worse had happened.”

  She swallowed, unsure what to say to that. He released her then, leaning back slightly. His usual distance returning, but something in the air between them felt different now. Lighter.

  “I’m adding a new rule,” he continued, his tone shifting to something almost dry. “For our dungeon protocol.”

  She blinked, caught between lingering surprise and curiosity. “…A new rule?”

  “Yes.” He met her gaze, completely serious. “A ‘look first, touch never’ policy on dungeon plants. There are ways to harvest plants that do not involve letting them explode in your face.”

  She opened her mouth, then shut it. A beat of silence. Then, despite herself, she let out a small, sheepish laugh. “…Fair.”

  She shifted, trying to keep her voice casual. “So… what kind of mushroom was it?”

  He gave her a long, searching look, his pink brows drawing together slightly. “…Why?”

  She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just curious. You know, in case I ever run into it again.”

  He still looked suspicious but answered, anyway. “Honeyglow Sporecap. Nasty thing. Causes a sleep status effect, but nothing worse unless you’re exposed for too long.”

  Relief flooded through her. So it wasn’t some mystical, mind-altering, past-revealing fungus. Just a simple sleep-inducing mushroom. Good. That meant the dream was nothing more than nonsense conjured by her own unconscious mind. She could forget all about it.

  She nodded, doing her best to push the entire bizarre experience from her thoughts. But then—

  “What did you dream about?” Darius asked, his voice calm but unmistakably curious. Elara froze. Of course, he’d ask. Of course, he’d notice her reaction.

  She forced a laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing important. Just weird dream stuff, you know how it is.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “Weird how?”

  She cleared her throat. “Just… random nonsense. Doesn’t matter.”

  His gaze stayed on her, steady and unreadable. “…You’re a terrible liar.”

  Her stomach sank. Satan, lounging nearby with her tail flicking idly, let out a low, amused-sounding chuff. She pointedly ignored both of them.

  She absolutely could not tell Darius that in her mushroom-induced dream, she had seen a man that looked like her. Or that said male had been pregnant. Or that Flamebeard had been her doting, loving parent.

  Nope. She could just brush it off, lie even—but Darius was watching her with that patient, expectant stare. So, before she could think better of it, the words tumbled out.

  “I saw my mentor... and a man that looked like me... and he was pregnant. With me.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could reach out and physically shove them back in. Darius didn’t react at first. He just sat there, his expression unreadable, blinking once, slowly. Then again. A full beat of silence. Then another. Finally, he said, completely deadpan.

  “You inhaled more spores than I thought.”

  She buried her face in her hands, groaning. “I know how it sounds!”

  He exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh if she didn’t know better. “And you’re sure it wasn’t some kind of warning? Maybe a metaphor?”

  “No!” she snapped, flinging a hand in the air. “There was nothing metaphorical about my look-alike rubbing his very pregnant belly while they talked about how ‘our daughter will be named Elara.’”

  Darius looked away briefly, as if trying to process. Or suppress laughter. She wasn’t sure which. She crossed her arms. “So, do you know of any mushrooms that make you dream things that are completely fake?”

  He considered this, rubbing his jaw. “Plenty of dungeon flora can induce hallucinations,” he admitted. “But usually, they feed on memories, fears, or suppressed thoughts.”

  She froze.

  He caught her reaction immediately. “What?”

  “Nothing!” she said too quickly, snatching a piece of bread and shoving it into her mouth. Absolutely nothing. No thoughts, no implications, no further analysis needed. Darius gave her a long, assessing look but, mercifully, didn’t press further. Satan, unbothered by the chaos, just stretched out beside them, flicking her fluffy tail.