Page 5

Jules

Nightfall—The Eyrie

I feel like I’m floating somewhere between sleep and waking.

The air smells like smoke and silk and something older than time.

There’s no trash here.

No clinking glasses or shouted orders.

No sharp whistles or wandering hands.

Only stillness.

Only him.

He calls himself Alaric.

His voice came to me first. Low and velvet-wrapped, threading through the shadows of my mind like a lullaby meant for monsters.

Now it’s like I can feel his presence before I see him.

The hum of him.

Like a second heartbeat that isn’t mine.

When my eyes flutter open, I’m lying on a bed that looks carved from obsidian and starlight.

My clothes are gone. Not in a threatening way. Like they just went poof .

Or maybe replaced is a better word.

A silk sheet has been draped over me, fine and pale, like moonlight woven into fabric.

There he is. Standing at the foot of the bed.

Waiting for something. I don’t know what.

Maybe he’s waiting for me?

But no, that’s ridiculous. I’m nothing, just a nobody, and he, well , he’s certainly not nothing.

“You appear calm despite everything that’s happened,” Alaric says, voice dark with satisfaction.

Pride, maybe?

He lifts a hand, and with a casual flick of his fingers, a dress appears.

It unfurls mid-air. Black silk, soft and luminous, like it was pulled from the dreams of a fairytale queen.

He steps forward and lays it on the bed beside me, his gaze trailing over my body with no shame, no hesitation.

Like he’s memorizing me for some sacred purpose.

I pull the sheet tighter around myself, heart thudding.

“Wear this,” he says, voice low and firm, holding out the same silk dress he conjured earlier— out of thin air.

It’s not really a suggestion.

Not even close.

I get the distinct impression Alaric is used to being obeyed without hesitation.

Kings and CEOs have that tone.

Authoritative, absolute.

Only, I’m pretty sure this isn’t a boardroom or a palace.

And also? I’m probably either dead or unconscious.

Because none of this feels real.

The glowing walls. The dress made of starlight. The man— no, not a man —who saved me from creeps in an alley and then somehow teleported me to this place that feels more dream than dimension.

So yeah. I’m definitely making this up.

A coma fantasy. Brain misfire. Final hallucination.

Before I can spiral, though, his voice slices through my panic.

“I assure you, you are very much alive, Jules Strano. Now,” he says, giving the dress a little shake. “The dress?”

I blink. “You know my name?”

“I know a lot of things about you, Myrrin ,” he says, and it should sound arrogant, but somehow doesn’t. “Now. Will you put it on?”

I hesitate. “Could I maybe get some privacy?”

He frowns like I just asked him to explain cryptocurrency. “Privacy?”

“I’m not exactly an exhibitionist,” I mutter, tugging the blanket tighter around me. “I’m a big girl. Fat, okay? Not everyone’s seven feet tall and built like a professional athlete, for Pete's sake.”

His head tilts. Slowly. Like he’s genuinely trying to solve a puzzle.

“You think you’re big?”

“Yes,” I say, defensive now. “I know I don’t look like one of your ethereal elf women or whatever the standard is here in Nightfall, and I’m not trying to be all that. I just don’t want to, I don’t know. Make a scene or something.”

He stares at me another beat, then says, perfectly serious, “I assure you, Myrrin , you look exactly how a female should. And as for big? I am enormous. You are exactly my scale.”

I blink. “What?”

“You match me,” he adds, voice quieter. “Perfectly.”

Oh.

Oh no.

He turns, giving me his back with a quiet murmur. “If modesty calms you, I will not watch.”

But I catch him in the mirror.

A flicker.

A slight narrowing of his dark brows.

His eyes, a strange mix of silver and obsidian, glowing faintly, tracking me through the reflection like he forgot mirrors exist.

And still, despite everything, in spite of the surreal setting and the intensity of him and the creeping certainty that I’m in way over my head—I do feel calm.

Just like he said I would.

I slip the dress over my head.

It glides down, weighing nothing at all.

Like air made into fabric.

Cool. Soft. Shocking in how perfectly it fits.

As if it were made for me.

And maybe it was.

He turns towards me once I stand, smoothing the impossibly smooth fabric over my hips, and his gaze drops to my body.

I want to suck in, but really, that wouldn’t do much good in hiding the extra thirty or so pounds I carry around my middle.

So, I don’t bother.

I’m thirty-two, far too old to still feel that same old insecurity.

But what can I say? I guess it’s just a part of me.

Alaric straightens, then gestures to himself.

Broad shoulders. Towering height.

A presence that could surely blot out suns.

My mouth goes dry.

My heartbeat skips.

I’ve never seen anything like him.

“It is as I said. I am enormous,” he says simply, as if stating a fact of nature. “And you, Myrrin , are perfectly sized for me.”

My cheeks flush so hot they feel scorched.

He considers me for another beat, then nods once, turning his back again.

I sense his curiosity coiling just beneath the surface as I take a step. I wince at the cold hard stone and catch him watching once more in the mirror across the chamber.

Not with malice.

Not even simple lust.

It’s more like hunger.

And fascination.

“Wait,” he says, and before I can even ask what for, he’s right there, suddenly kneeling at my feet.

The movement is so fluid, so unexpected, it steals the breath right out of my lungs.

One minute he’s standing tall and untouchable, and the next, this massive, inhumanly beautiful male is lowering himself like I’m some kind of royalty.

Or something even more dangerous.

His hand hovers beneath my ankle, and I’m frozen, locked in his gaze.

Then he lifts one foot with surprising care and waves his hand over my skin.

A warm shimmer passes beneath his palm, like static wrapped in silk.

Boots appear.

But not just boots. These are impossible .

They mold perfectly to my feet—soft, supportive, like some glorious union of buttery leather and memory foam.

They’re heeled, which should be a crime, but somehow the three-inch wedge doesn’t feel like punishment.

It feels like power. Balance.

I gasp, blinking down at them. “What—how did you?—?”

“There,” he murmurs, repeating the same conjuring motion with my other foot. “Now your feet will be protected, Myrrin .”

That word again.

He’s said it twice now.

I know he told me what it means, and really, it’s innocent enough. But every time it leaves his lips, something inside me reacts.

Like it knows. Like it wants.

I feel like I’ve stepped inside a dream spun from someone else’s memory.

But it’s mine now.

Alaric rises in a single, elegant motion and offers me his hand.

“Come on,” he says softly, “I want you to see.”

I take his hand before I have time to overthink it. His palm is warm, strong, rough in all the right places.

He leads me to the far end of the chamber, where heavy curtains of deep indigo part at his command.

Beyond them is a glassless window, more of an arch, really, that opens to the world outside.

And, holy cow, what a world.

I step to the edge and stare.

Below, the landscape of Nightfall stretches out in eerie, breathtaking splendor.

Black grass ripples beneath a violet moon. Silver trees hum as wind moves through their branches— not rustling, but singing .

Rivers shimmer with upside-down reflections that ripple skyward instead of outward.

Winged beasts spiral across skies carved by stars that pulse like slow heartbeats.

It’s beautiful.

Terrifying.

Alien.

Like looking into the soul of a place that remembers everything and forgives nothing.

I tear my eyes from it long enough to look at him.

He’s watching me, his expression unreadable.

“So, what is all this?”

“I told you,” Alaric says, his voice almost reverent as he steps beside me at the window. “This is Nightfall. A parallel realm. A place layered just beyond the human veil.”

He pauses, watching me study the landscape like I’m trying to decide whether it’s beautiful or terrifying.

“Here,” he continues, “dreams are born. And nightmares are doled out with necessary care.”

I turn to him slowly. “You’re saying this is where dreams come from?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, gaze distant. “Good and bad. The stories you wake from and can’t quite remember? The ones that inspire paintings, books, music, even love? They begin here. Whispered from the mouths of Nightfall’s winds. Spun into the minds of mortals while they sleep.”

“And the nightmares?” I ask.

His smile is dark and quiet. “Also us. But not to torment. To warn. To shape. To keep your world, and others, from forgetting fear, or consequence. Nightmares are necessary, Jules. Without them, people would walk blindly into ruin.”

The window glass shimmers faintly in response to his words—as if the realm itself agrees.

“You speak like this place is alive,” I say softly.

He turns his eyes on me, and my breath catches.

“It is alive. It breathes. It listens. It chooses.”

My heart thuds against my ribs.

“And it chose me?”

“I chose you,” he says. “Not just the realm. The magic. The thread between us. You felt it, didn’t you? In the alley. In the way your dreams shifted the moment you woke from your sleep safely ensconced in my bed.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed. “But I’m just a bartender from New Jersey. I’m not magic. I’m not special.”

“You are,” he says, gently but without hesitation. “You’re mine, Myrrin . And that makes you part of this realm now. Whether you believe in it yet or not.”

I look at him, then back at the view.

Fields of dark grass.

A river glowing with upside-down stars.

Winged creatures curling through purple clouds like ink spilled into sky.

And somehow, impossibly, it feels like I’ve been here before.

Like I was always meant to arrive.

“But why am I really here, Alaric?” I whisper.

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t evade.

Doesn’t give me a speech full of prophecy or war.

He just says, simply, “You are here for me.”

My breath catches. “What does that mean?”

“It means you are not alone anymore. You were always meant to be here.”

His voice is low, rougher now. “In your deepest, darkest dreams you called out for someone to come to save you from loneliness and despair, Myrrin . I answered.”

The wind catches my hair. The sky shifts. The stars seem to pulse faster.

And for some reason I can’t explain, I don’t cry or scream or run.

Not yet.

Nightfall.

It feels familiar.

I don’t know how I know the name, but I do.

This place isn’t Earth.

It isn’t Hell.

It’s somewhere in between.

And I have a feeling I’ve just become a thread in a story much older— and far more dangerous —than any I’ve ever owned.