Last night's dream was worse.
We were in the feeding pasture at sunset, sitting on the volcanic rock while Azhrael grazed nearby. Lenna was leaning against me, my arm around her shoulders, her head tucked beneath my chin. We weren't talking. Just existing together inthat space with complete ease, watching the red sky darken toward night. I remember the weight of her against my side. The scent of her hair. The way my thumb traced absent patterns against her shoulder. The certainty—deep and unshakable—that this wasright. That she belonged there. That I would protect her with everything I had because she wasmine.
I woke with that same certainty still pulsing through my system, and it took several minutes of staring at my empty quarters to convince myself it wasn't real.
Three more dreams. None of them fitting the pattern of simple attraction or fantasy. All of them carrying the texture of memory—specific, detailed, emotionally resonant in ways that make no sense.
"Malrec?"
I refocus on my brother, who has turned from the window to watch me with that unsettling patience he wields like a weapon. "I'll think about it," I say, which is not agreement but not refusal either.
Damiros's expression doesn't change, but I see the calculation behind his eyes. "Good. Let me know what you decide." He returns to his desk, picking up another document. "In the meantime, let's finalize the acquisition budget for the next quarter..."
The rest of the meeting passes in strategic discussion and logistical planning. I participate automatically, years of practice allowing me to engage with auction preparations while my mind remains partially elsewhere. By the time we finish, the sun has shifted position enough that the estate below is partially shadowed by the ridge.
I take my leave, declining Damiros's offer to have a servant prepare refreshments. I need to be back at the stables, need to be in my own environment instead of this polished observatory where my brother watches everything with patient calculation.
The walk back feels longer than it should. My mind keeps circling back to Damiros's suggestion about rotating staff, and the resistance I feel toward it that I can't adequately explain. Lenna is competent with the beasts. Losing that competence would be inefficient. That's the logical justification.
But logic doesn't account for the way my chest tightens at the thought of her being reassigned. Doesn't explain the possessive edge that crept into my voice when Damiros said her name.
Doesn't explain the dreams that feel like memories of a life I never lived.
The stable entrance comes into view, and I force myself to compartmentalize. Whatever is happening with my subconscious—whatever confusion my mind is constructing around Lenna—can be dealt with later. Right now I have work to do.
I step through the entrance, and immediately hear Azhrael.
The sound is low and distressed, resonating through the lower levels in a pattern I recognize as agitation rather than aggression. Not a threat display. Something closer to... frustration.
I move quickly down the main walkway, following the sound to his enclosure.
Lenna stands outside the containment barrier, one hand hovering in front of the ward. Azhrael is on the other side, close enough that his breath would fog the barrier if it were physical glass instead of magic. His massive form shifts restlessly, and those luminous eyes are fixed entirely on her.
She's talking to him. Voice low and soothing, words I can't quite make out from this distance. Her posture is open despite the obvious tension in her shoulders, and there's something almost pleading in the way she's leaning toward him.
"Everything alright?"
My voice makes her turn, and I catch the full progression of her reaction before she can control it. Her eyes drop—tracking down my body in a sweep that feels instinctive rather than deliberate—before snapping back up to meet my gaze. Something flashes across her face too quickly to identify, immediately replaced by careful neutrality.
That look. The way her eyes traveled over me like her body was checking for something her mind couldn't articulate.
It mirrors the physical awareness I feel when she's nearby. The way my attention fragments toward her even when I'm focused elsewhere.
"He's upset," she says, her voice carrying that same careful distance she's maintained for two days now. "I can't get to him."
I approach the containment barrier, noting the way Azhrael's attention splits between her and me. His agitation doesn't diminish with my presence, which is concerning. Usually my proximity either escalates threat response or enforces submission. This restless distress is different.
"What triggered it?"
"I don't know." Lenna pulls her hand back from the barrier, wrapping her arms around herself. "He was fine an hour ago during feeding. I came back to check on him and found him like this."
The beast makes another low sound, and I see what she means. This isn't aggression or dominance. This is distress. He wants something he can't have, and the barrier is preventing resolution.
"He doesn't like that I can't reach him," Lenna continues quietly. "But I can't pass through the containment field."
The solution is obvious. I could lower the barrier myself, stay present while she enters to settle him. It's the safe option. The controlled option.
But Damiros's words echo in my mind:Maybe we should rotate staff again.
