Kaelen’s feral grip tightened. Elara felt the bite of his fingers on her arm, a bruising promise. His breath, hot and ragged, feathered against her face, smelling of iron and something wild, like rain on scorched earth. “My… consort?” His voice was a rasp, a broken echo of human speech. His eyes, still swirling with confusion, searched hers for answers she couldn’t possibly provide. He wanted a name for what they were. The void in his memory craved definition, even if it was a lie. “You cannot harm me,” she stated, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her stomach. “You are bound.” His eyebrows, thick and dark, knitted together. He didn’t believe it. Not an ounce of truth in her words resonated with that fractured mind, yet something in her tone held him captive. A flicker of doubt, perhaps. He leaned closer, his free hand rising, slow and deliberate. Cold dread crawled up Elara’s spine. He touched her neck, a feather-light brush that shocked her. Her pulse hammered against the soft pad of his thumb. It was a terrifying intimacy, not violent, but possessive. “Why?” he whispered, his eyes still fixed on hers. The question was a raw plea, not a challenge. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. His touch was doing things to her, a treacherous warmth spreading despite the danger. “Why can’t you do anything bad?” “Because…” Her mind raced, sifting through ancient texts, forgotten legalities, desperate for an answer that would pierce through his fog. “Because of the pact.” He didn’t move, didn’t react, just stared, waiting. She had his attention, an unsettling mix of predator and bewildered child. His fingers traced the delicate curve beneath her ear, a shiver running through her. Her thoughts flashed to the forced contract, the arcane script burned into her own flesh. The relic she’d used to bind him, to control the beast. How ironic that it was now her only shield. “It’s a blood-oath,” she improvised, pitching her voice low, invoking the gravity of old rituals. “A consequence.” “Consequence?” he echoed, the word foreign on his tongue. Her lips parted, then pressed together. Jaxx’s cynical voice echoed in her memory, ‘*Destiny’s a lie, Elara. You forge your own chains, for better or worse.*’ This chain, forged in desperation, was her only hope. Her eyes glinted, a spark of cunning igniting in their depths. This was the opening. “If you break that oath,” she continued, each word carefully placed, “if you end my life, your own will unravel. Your power… it will consume you.” For the first time since his sudden awakening, a flicker of something other than confusion crossed Kaelen’s face. A shadow of pain, perhaps. He recoiled slightly, his brow furrowing deep. His fingers, still on her neck, twitched. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, as if battling an unseen adversary. Elara’s conscience pricked, a fleeting whisper of guilt. She ruthlessly buried it. This wasn’t about morality; it was about survival. A poker face, a cold resolve. Her way of declaring intent. “You see, Kaelen,” she affirmed, her voice a low, steady hum, “I am your anchor. Your oath-bound.” He opened his eyes, the feral light dimmed, replaced by a profound, agonizing bewilderment. He didn’t drop her, but the suffocating pressure eased. His grip slackened. He looked at her, truly looked, as if seeing her for the very first time, and perhaps, for the first time, *not* seeing a threat. That night, Elara Vayne planted a seed of deceit, bitter and potent. --- Later, an unexpected downpour hammered against the rusted corrugated iron of the factory roof. Inside, dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through grimy windows. Elara crouched, her fingers tracing the arcane scars on a massive, cracked runestone, once the heart of an ancient ward-gate. “Are you certain it was a localized surge last night?” she asked, pulling a leather-bound journal from her satchel. Jaxx, her wiry, street-smart apprentice, nodded, wiping oil from his hands with a rag. “Aye. Felt it in the bones of the city. Like a gut punch. Blew the regulators in three blocks.” Elara hardened her face, examining the blackened fissures branching across the stone. It looked like a tree struck by lightning, split down the middle by an unseen force. The raw magic beneath Veridian’s streets had lashed out. A local merchant, a stout woman named Miri, wrung her hands. “This ward, Mistress Vayne, it protects my market stall. All my goods. It’s been here since my grand-mam. I have a very ill feeling about this.” “I’ll assess the damage, Miri.” Elara’s gaze swept over the fractured stone. It appeared ghastly, horribly maimed. A frown deepened on her face, as if she could feel the stone’s silent agony. “Manager, this needs more than a patch-up,” Elara muttered, using the informal title for Jaxx. “We’ll need to reinforce the fault lines with treated adamantine. Schedule a full recalibration for next cycle.” Jaxx, who followed her with a tool kit filled with enchanted chisels and tinctures, whispered, “What if it fails again? They’ll blame you.” “Its core matrix isn’t shattered, merely fractured,” Elara replied, rising. “It can be revived. Besides, Miri’s got a good heart.” She knelt again, peering closer at a particularly deep gouge. “Is there enough refined silver in the workshop? For the binding agent?” Jaxx crouched beside her. He squinted at Elara’s face. Beneath the stark workshop lights, her exhaustion was plain. Dark smudges bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Her mouth was a thin, tired line. “Mistress Vayne, lately you’ve been…” Jaxx began, but Elara’s wrist-cuff, a discreet communication device, vibrated. She checked the caller ID. A chill settled in her stomach. “Excuse me.” She moved to a quieter corner, her movements suddenly stiff. “Thorne,” she said, her voice dropping to a clipped whisper. Her calm, observant eyes, which had methodically assessed the tragic stone, sharpened. She bit her thumb, gnawing at the cuticle, her gaze darting around the cavernous factory space. The controlled facade cracked, revealing a frantic gambler running from a looming debt. “What do you mean?” she demanded, her voice rising slightly. The straw hat, forgotten on her head, trembled with the tremor that had seized her. It had been just over a week since Kaelen, the… the anomaly, had been taken back to the Synod’s specialized facility. After his bizarre collapse, the healers had worked quickly. Thorne had called to say Kaelen was… amnesiac. Again. But the subsequent call had been utterly nonsensical. “I cannot specify a timeframe for his return to full consciousness,” Thorne’s flat voice stated over the comm. Elara’s mind reeled. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog. “I don’t understand you, Thorne. Don’t play games. I was just with him. He was… awake. He was… on me.” The memory made her flush, a spark of anger mixing with her fear. She heard Thorne clear his throat, a dry rustle across the comms link. That night, when Kaelen had heard her desperate lie, “I am your oath-bound,” he had shuddered, collapsed, as if drained of all essence. Elara had immediately summoned Thorne’s contacts. This was the result. She had been on edge since, every shadow a potential Kaelen, every distant roar of the city his furious return. Sleepless nights had been her constant companion, her nerves fraying, hair-pulling close at hand. Now, the true horror of her lie dawned on her. *Oath-bound*. To a berserker with ancient power. Out of all the plausible deceptions, why such a binding declaration? “No, Mistress Vayne. It’s not as you assume. It’s… different.” “What?” “Diagnostic scans confirm brain activity consistent with full consciousness. His waking was genuine. A rare occurrence, certainly, given his previous state. Fortunately, his basic neurological responses are stable. However…” Elara held her breath. Another shock was coming. She could feel it. “We cannot ascertain when he will remain consistently lucid.” “But you just said he *woke up*!” She frowned, sensing Jaxx’s gaze on her back. He was pretending to examine a tool, but his attention was elsewhere. “The patient exhibits highly unusual symptoms, Mistress Vayne.” “Unusual symptoms? Like what, a persistent desire to strangle me?” “Hypersomnia,” Thorne answered, his voice devoid of humor. Elara touched her lips, utterly confused. Hypersomnia? It sounded like a fever dream. “It’s also referred to in ancient texts as the ‘Sleeper’s Curse’,” Thorne continued, oblivious to her internal chaos. “All tests indicate no structural brain damage. This is merely a theory, but…” Elara’s mouth hung open. She blinked, slowly, taking in the absurd information. Lately, with Kaelen, the unexpected had become depressingly routine. “We must observe him further. If this syndrome proves definitive…” Thorne paused. The silence on the comms was heavy. “Then?” she prompted, her voice barely a squeak. “He may fall asleep for days. A week. Ten days. Longer, potentially.” Hearing no immediate response from Elara, Thorne continued, “Currently, the patient has been asleep for twelve days.” Elara had no idea how to process such a thing. Twelve days? Had her desperate plea somehow triggered this? Was this the universe’s darkly cynical way of answering her unspoken wish? “For now, we’ll keep him secure, as per the Syndicate’s protocols.” Thorne moved to end the call. “D-doctor, wait!” Elara stammered, gripping her wrist-cuff. She took a deep, shuddering breath. She lifted her straw hat, letting the cool, damp air from the leaking roof caress her sweaty forehead. Her eyes darted around, then met Jaxx’s curious stare. He quickly looked away. “So, what you’re saying is,” she clarified, a strange, giddy note entering her voice, “Kaelen isn’t in a vegetative state, but no one knows when he’ll actually be *awake* awake, right?” “Precisely, Mistress Vayne. At this juncture, we can expect no sustained periods of lucidity.” “Huff.” Elara exhaled, a ragged, almost tearful sound. The knot of anxiety, which had tightened in her chest since his violent reawakening, dissolved. Her eyelids, clenched tight for a moment, trembled violently. “Thank you. Oh, thank the Void. Thank you so much.” “Pardon, Mistress Vayne?” Thorne’s voice held a note of genuine confusion. She sagged against a rusted pillar, relief washing over her. She couldn’t thank whatever higher power existed enough. *Because I’m your oath-bound.* Now, she could simply deny everything. She could tell him, if he ever woke again, that it was all a desperate fabrication. A fever-dream he’d conjured from his fractured memories. “Thank you, Thorne. Thank you!” Elara returned to the damaged runestone, a new spring in her step. She spoke optimistically to the merchant, Miri, whose face still bore the marks of despair. “Don’t worry, Miri. I’ll ensure this ward is stronger than ever!” Jaxx watched her, a puzzled frown on his face. The Mistress Vayne he knew was astute, cynical, pragmatic. Not… ebullient. He shrugged. Women, even brilliant ones, were an enigma. He just hoped she wasn’t planning anything *too* crazy this time. ---

A Breath of Sleeping Air