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Chapter Text

Rebecca Armstrong stepped off the plane at Suvarnabhumi Airport and was immediately engulfed by the humid, sultry embrace of Bangkok. The air was heavy with heat and a melange of scents—spices, tropical fruits, and a hint of incense—that filled her senses with both exotic wonder and a twinge of apprehension. She paused at the arrivals hall, her eyes wide as she took in the riot of colors: the glossy modern décor clashed beautifully with traditional Thai motifs, and the constant hum of conversations in a language both mysterious and alluring created an atmosphere that promised secrets hidden just beneath the surface.

Adjusting the strap of her well-worn leather satchel, Rebecca allowed herself a brief moment of introspection. "This is it," she thought, her mind already racing through the itinerary of her mission. She was here to catalog ancient relics uncovered near the Chao Phraya River—artifacts that might reveal long-lost chapters of history. Yet, as she looked around, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was also stepping into a story far greater than she had ever anticipated.

Outside, a taxi waited under the soft glow of a streetlight. The driver, a middle-aged man with a kindly smile and silver hair peeking out from beneath a well-worn cap, greeted her warmly. “Sawasdee krub,” he said, his tone gentle and welcoming.

“Sawasdee ka,” Rebecca replied, offering a smile in return. “Please, take me to the excavation site near the Chao Phraya.”

The driver’s eyes twinkled with a hint of knowing amusement as he nodded and shifted into gear. As the taxi merged into the bustling flow of Bangkok’s traffic, the city unfolded before her in a dazzling display of contrasts. Towering modern skyscrapers loomed alongside centuries-old temples, their spires and intricate carvings standing as silent witnesses to the passage of time. Street vendors called out to passersby, their stalls laden with vibrant fruits and steaming bowls of noodles, while neon signs advertised everything from the latest fashion to time-honored local remedies.

Rebecca’s thoughts drifted between her purpose and the vivid tapestry of urban life around her. The heat was relentless, yet it carried a warmth that was almost comforting—a reminder that this city was alive, pulsing with energy. She found herself studying the scenes outside the window: a pair of monks in saffron robes walked slowly in quiet procession, their presence a timeless echo in the modern landscape; a motorbike weaved through traffic as effortlessly as a snake through the grass; and, far off in the distance, the glimmer of the Chao Phraya River hinted at the ancient currents that had shaped Bangkok over millennia.

The taxi ride was more than just a transfer from one location to another—it was an introduction to a city steeped in history and mystery. Every honk, every burst of laughter from the roadside, every fleeting glimpse of old colonial buildings intermingled with sleek glass facades reminded Rebecca that Bangkok was a place where the past and the present danced together in a delicate, unending ballet.

Her mind wandered to the briefing she’d received from her employer—a prestigious archaeological institute that trusted her expertise to document these newly uncovered relics. Even as she marveled at the everyday miracles of modern Bangkok, a subtle excitement stirred within her—a premonition that her journey would unveil secrets far beyond the ordinary.

The driver broke her reverie. “Miss, are you new to Bangkok?” he asked in accented English, glancing at her with genuine curiosity.

“Yes, I just arrived this morning,” she replied, turning to meet his eyes in the rear-view mirror. “I’m here to work on an archaeology project along the river.”

He nodded knowingly. “The river holds many secrets. I hope you find what you’re looking for... and more,” he said, his voice carrying the wisdom of someone who had seen many such arrivals.

Rebecca smiled softly. “Thank you. I have a feeling this city won’t let me leave unchanged.”

As the taxi neared its destination, the scenery shifted from the wide, bustling avenues of downtown Bangkok to a quieter, less polished part of the city—a neighborhood that still whispered of the past. Here, amidst aging brick buildings and narrow, tree-lined streets, she caught her first real glimpse of the river. The Chao Phraya stretched out like a silver ribbon under the afternoon sun, its surface shimmering with secrets of its own.

---

Rebecca stepped out of the taxi and onto a narrow, unpaved road that led toward a cluster of weathered buildings set against the backdrop of a sprawling green landscape. The modest base camp for the excavation project stood near the banks of the Chao Phraya River, its faded sign reading “Chao Phraya Excavations” barely visible in the humid afternoon light. In the distance, she could make out hints of ancient stone structures—partially exposed ruins that jutted out from the undergrowth, whispering secrets of long-forgotten times.

As she approached the camp, the air grew thicker with the scent of damp earth and the faint aroma of river water mingling with tropical flora. The area was alive with activity: local workers moved purposefully among tents and makeshift offices, while a few archaeologists busied themselves with careful excavation. Each sound—the rustle of palm fronds, the distant clatter of tools, even the low murmur of conversation in Thai—added layers to the mysterious atmosphere of the site.

Rebecca couldn’t help but feel a shiver of anticipation. This was not merely another assignment; it was a gateway into a realm where the present mingled with echoes of the past. The remnants of ancient civilization were all around her, promising stories yet untold.

At the entrance to a small, open-sided office constructed from corrugated metal and salvaged wood, a man in simple linen clothes greeted her with a warm, measured smile. “Dr. Rebecca Armstrong?” he inquired in clear, accented English.

“Yes, that’s me,” she replied, extending a hand. His handshake was firm and confident, yet gentle.

“I’m Dr. Ananda,” he introduced himself, his voice calm and deliberate, like a steady current. “Welcome to our site. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“It was… eye-opening,” Rebecca replied, her eyes taking in the surroundings. “Bangkok is full of surprises.”

Dr. Ananda’s smile deepened. “Indeed, it is. And so is history. Please, come in.” He led her through a narrow corridor that opened onto a spacious, yet spartan, reception area. Maps of the excavation site and large, annotated photographs of the ruins hung on the walls. A soft hum of activity and quiet conversation filled the room.

As they settled into a pair of worn leather chairs around a small, round table cluttered with notebooks and artifact catalogs, Dr. Ananda began to speak. “We’re very excited about this project. The site, discovered only a few weeks ago, has already yielded some remarkable finds. We believe it may be linked to a civilization that predated many known dynasties in this region.”

Rebecca’s interest was instantly piqued. “Have you found anything unusual?” she asked, leaning forward, her eyes bright with curiosity.

Dr. Ananda nodded. “Yes, there is one artifact in particular that has drawn considerable attention—a golden bracelet. It’s intricately engraved and appears to have been carefully crafted, possibly even imbued with symbolic significance. The local lore suggests it is connected to ancient Naga legends, although we have yet to confirm any such connections scientifically.”

Rebecca’s mind raced. “Naga legends… That’s fascinating. I was told that some of these myths speak of guardians and divine beings.” She paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “I imagine every artifact here carries its own story.”

“Precisely,” Dr. Ananda agreed, his eyes gleaming with the passion of his work. “Every shard of pottery, every piece of stone can reveal a fragment of the past. Our job is to piece together these fragments into a coherent narrative. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, we uncover something that challenges our very understanding of history.”

He reached into a protective case on the table and carefully lifted out a small, ornate object. The golden bracelet gleamed softly under the office’s fluorescent lights. “This,” he said, “is one of our most promising discoveries. Notice the delicate filigree work, the symmetry of the engravings—it’s unlike anything we’ve seen before in this region.”

Rebecca’s gaze locked onto the bracelet. “It’s exquisite,” she murmured. “And there’s an energy about it… almost as if it’s alive.”

Dr. Ananda’s expression turned thoughtful. “There have been murmurs among the local workers, tales of strange sensations when handling such relics. We remain cautious and respectful, as these objects often hold more than mere historical value.”

For a moment, the room fell silent, save for the distant sound of a radio broadcasting local news. Rebecca studied the bracelet closely, drawn not only by its beauty but by the mystery it evoked. “I can’t wait to examine it further,” she said, her voice hushed with anticipation. “Artifacts like this make you wonder about the connection between myth and reality.”

Dr. Ananda nodded. “I suspect that you, with your keen eye for detail and deep respect for history, will contribute greatly to our understanding of this piece. I’m looking forward to seeing your report.”

As they continued their discussion, the conversation drifted from technical details of the excavation to the broader context of ancient civilizations in the region. Dr. Ananda spoke with a measured enthusiasm, his explanations interwoven with references to local legends and historical texts. Every so often, he paused to let a particularly intriguing detail sink in, gauging Rebecca’s reactions.

Rebecca, for her part, listened intently, jotting down notes in her worn notebook. Every so often, she would glance at the bracelet, as if expecting it to whisper its secrets to her. There was an undeniable allure to it—a subtle promise of revelations that transcended time.

Their dialogue built a bridge between their professional realms and hinted at something deeper. As Rebecca scribbled her thoughts, she found herself not only cataloging the artifact but also cataloging the nuances of Dr. Ananda’s perspective—a blend of scientific rigor and reverence for tradition. His calm, methodical manner was a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of Bangkok outside, yet it perfectly mirrored the steady pulse of history that thrived beneath the city’s modern veneer.

Before long, a break in their conversation signaled the arrival of a local assistant with fresh supplies and a warm, respectful greeting in Thai. Dr. Ananda excused himself momentarily to attend to other matters, leaving Rebecca to gaze once more at the golden bracelet. The soft gleam of the metal in the subdued light seemed to beckon her closer, as though promising that the true mystery of Bangkok’s past was waiting to be uncovered.

In that modest office near the river, among relics and whispered legends, Rebecca felt the first stirrings of something profound. The stage was set, the ancient past mingling with the modern world, and the journey ahead promised to reshape not only her understanding of history but her very destiny.

Rebecca’s eyes remained fixed on the golden bracelet as if it held answers to secrets she had long forgotten. Her hand trembled slightly, and with a hesitance born of equal parts fear and longing, she extended a fingertip toward the gleaming metal. In that suspended moment, the bustle of the excavation site and the distant hum of Bangkok faded into silence, leaving only the soft, almost imperceptible whisper of her own heartbeat.

As her skin brushed against the cool surface of the bracelet, a jolt of electricity seemed to surge up her arm. The intricate metalwork came alive, and before Rebecca could register what was happening, the bracelet snapped shut around her wrist with an unyielding grip. A burning sensation, intense and sudden, spread through her arm and rippled outward in waves. It was as if she had touched a live wire—fire and ice colliding within her veins.

For a heartbeat, Rebecca’s mind stuttered with a cascade of emotions. A rush of fear made her pulse race, yet beneath it lay a deep, unsettling curiosity—a faint echo of familiarity that she couldn’t quite decipher. In that moment, her thoughts scattered: memories of half-forgotten dreams, the murmur of ancient legends, and a voice, distant and alluring, whispering her name. It was as if the bracelet had unlocked a door to a past she never knew she had.

Her breath caught, and the sensation intensified. Every nerve in her body sang with a mix of agony and wonder, as if she were caught between the realms of waking and dreaming. The heat on her skin grew insistent, and her eyes widened in alarm. “What... what is happening?” she stuttered breathlessly, struggling to grasp the meaning behind the overwhelming rush.

The world around her began to blur, the edges of her vision softening and dissolving into indistinct shapes. The brilliant colors of the excavation site and the sharp contours of her surroundings melted away, replaced by a kaleidoscope of burning sensations and whispered echoes. In that moment, Rebecca’s heart pounded with the wild intensity of a secret too ancient to be fully understood.

As the burning surged, it eclipsed her senses entirely. The physical agony and the rush of ancient energy became too much to bear, and the sensations began to override her ability to remain conscious. The edges of her awareness frayed; sounds turned into distant murmurs, and the overwhelming heat dimmed into an all-consuming haze.

Rebecca’s knees buckled, and the last clear thought that raced through her mind was a desperate, silent plea for understanding—mixed with an inexplicable hope that she might somehow hold the key to something greater than herself. Then, with the suddenness of a storm’s break, darkness swallowed her whole. The world around her tilted and faded into black, as if she were sinking into a deep, endless void.

In that moment of surrender, the bracelet remained locked onto her wrist—a silent, unyielding testament to a mystery that had just begun to reveal its power. The burning sensation gradually subsided into a lingering warmth that pulsed at the edge of her consciousness, even as everything else faded away.

For several long, timeless seconds, Rebecca existed in a liminal space between wakefulness and oblivion, where the boundaries of her identity and memory blurred. And then, as if by some unseen force, she slipped into unconsciousness, the last vestiges of her awareness dissolving into the silence of a forgotten dream.

---

Rebecca’s eyes fluttered open to a dim, unfamiliar space that felt both sheltered and isolated—a quiet corner of the base camp, far removed from the clamor of the excavation site. Her head pounded as if it had been caught in a relentless drumbeat, and the muted light revealed only vague shapes and shadows. For a long moment, she lay there, disoriented and struggling to piece together fragments of memory—the overwhelming heat, the searing sensation on her wrist, and then nothing.

She slowly shifted her hand, wincing as the lingering burn on her wrist pulsed with a steady, residual warmth. Every nerve seemed to hum with the memory of that sudden, electric contact. Rebecca’s mind raced, grasping at stray thoughts of the golden bracelet and the inexplicable energy it had unleashed. Was it real? Had it truly clamped onto her by itself? Questions swirled in her hazy consciousness as she tried to remember, but the details slipped away like wisps of smoke.

As she sat up against a rough-hewn wall, the silence was almost oppressive—a stark contrast to the lively chaos of Bangkok that she had been part of only moments before. The quiet of the space, punctuated by distant murmurs and the faint hum of activity beyond a closed door, was disconcerting. Slowly, as her vision cleared, she began to make out the contours of the room: a sparse, makeshift shelter furnished with a single cot and a battered wooden table. The light was low, filtered through a grimy window, and everything had a muted, sepia tone, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Then, as she turned her head toward the faint glimmer of a doorway, Rebecca’s gaze fell upon a figure standing at the far end of the room. The woman was tall and statuesque, her presence immediately commanding attention. Even in the dim light, every detail of her posture and bearing spoke of authority and an almost otherworldly poise. The woman’s dark hair fell in sleek, controlled waves around her shoulders, framing a face that was at once both beautiful and unyielding. But it was her eyes—intense, unblinking, and fixed on Rebecca—that sent a shiver down her spine.

For a long, suspended moment, the two women regarded each other in silence. Rebecca felt a rush of conflicting emotions as she met that penetrating gaze—a mix of alarm at the unfamiliar intensity, intrigue at the hints of something deeper, and an inexplicable pull that beckoned her closer despite every instinct to remain wary. There was something ancient and familiar in those eyes, as if they held the echoes of long-forgotten secrets, or a destiny that had been waiting for her all along.

Rebecca’s heart thudded in her chest as she attempted to reconcile her muddled thoughts. “Who… who are you?” she managed to whisper, her voice trembling just enough to betray her uncertainty. The question hung in the air, fragile and tentative, as though uttering it might shatter the fragile equilibrium of the moment.

The woman’s expression remained inscrutable, but there was a subtle warmth beneath the steely resolve in her eyes. “I am Sarocha Chankimha,” she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet authority that resonated in the stillness of the room. There was no overt welcome, no grand declaration—only the simple, measured introduction that seemed to carry the weight of countless unspoken histories.

As the name settled in the air, Rebecca’s mind whirled. Sarocha… That name, so evocative and unfamiliar, stirred something deep within her—a vague recollection of a past she couldn’t fully grasp. Was this the person connected to the golden bracelet? The question remained unanswered, but the feeling was undeniable.

Rebecca shifted her gaze back to her wrist, where the remnants of the bracelet’s burn still pulsed gently. Every flicker of light, every tiny sensation seemed to confirm that something extraordinary had just happened—something that defied the boundaries of ordinary history. And Sarocha’s silent, unwavering presence only deepened the mystery.

Her internal turmoil was a chaotic mix: fear of the unknown, curiosity that gnawed at the edges of her rational mind, and a strange, magnetic attraction that made her want to step forward despite every caution. The air between them felt charged, as if the space itself vibrated with the promise of revelations yet to come.

Rebecca’s thoughts tumbled together in a rush—memories of the moment before she fainted, snippets of images that danced on the edge of her consciousness, and the lingering sense that she was standing at the threshold of something life-altering. The subtle scent of incense and the faint aroma of river water that had accompanied her arrival seemed to mingle with the atmosphere, reinforcing the feeling that destiny had guided her here.

For several long seconds, neither spoke again. In the quiet, Rebecca felt her pulse in her ears, the soft thud of her heart punctuating the stillness. Sarocha’s eyes never wavered from hers, and in that look, Rebecca sensed both a challenge and a promise—a silent invitation to delve deeper into a mystery that transcended time, a mystery that might, in some inexplicable way, be intertwined with her very soul.

Though fear and uncertainty battled within her, Rebecca’s curiosity ultimately overpowered her hesitation. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she leaned forward, drawn by the magnetic pull of Sarocha’s presence and the promise of answers that lay hidden in those enigmatic eyes. Every fiber of her being vibrated with the anticipation of what might come next—a destiny she was only beginning to glimpse, a truth that would soon change everything.

In that dim, silent space, with the soft glow of the setting sun filtering through the dusty window, Rebecca felt both small and significant. The moment was fragile, pregnant with possibility. And as she extended her hand—whether out of trepidation or an inner resolve—it was clear that her journey had only just begun.

Rebecca perched at the edge of the worn cot, her wrist still tingling with that residual burn. The low light of the cramped room deepened the shadows, and every sound—the distant murmur of voices, the soft drip of water—seemed to echo the questions swirling in her mind. She pressed a trembling hand to her wrist, as if trying to soothe the mysterious energy that lingered there.

Across the sparse room, Sarocha stood apart, her posture impeccable, eyes fixed on Rebecca with a guarded intensity. There was something in her gaze—an inscrutable mix of curiosity and wariness—that sent a shiver through Rebecca. Yet, despite the unease, Rebecca felt inexplicably drawn to this enigmatic stranger.

After a long pause, Rebecca broke the silence. “I… I don’t remember much. What happened?” she asked quietly, her voice uncertain yet laced with determination. Her eyes searched Sarocha’s face for any hint of understanding, any sign that the woman might share some of the unspoken mystery.

Sarocha’s expression remained cool, her features set in an unreadable mask. “You touched something you shouldn’t have,” she replied tersely, as if that simple statement explained everything. “Or perhaps something was meant to find you.” Her tone was low and measured, carefully avoiding any direct admission of a deeper connection.

Rebecca frowned, feeling a mix of fear and curiosity welling up inside her. “I—I felt something. A rush, like… like I was being pulled into a memory I couldn’t place,” she murmured. She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “Do you know what that means?”

Sarocha’s eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, her gaze softened—but then she quickly regained her composure. “I have my suspicions,” she said, her voice steady yet distant. “There are forces here older than any of us. Not all of them are to be understood… or trusted.”

Rebecca’s heart pounded as she reached out, almost as if to bridge the gap between them. “But why me? Why did the bracelet… choose me?” she pressed, her tone mingling desperation with hope.

A long silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken truths and guarded secrets. Sarocha’s eyes flickered, betraying a trace of uncertainty before she looked away, leaving the question hanging in the air. “Sometimes,” she said slowly, “the past finds a way to resurface when it’s least expected. I only know that you are… different.”

The words, vague and unsettling, did little to settle Rebecca’s mounting questions. Instead, they deepened the enigma that now entwined their fates. As the distant sounds of the camp drifted through the room, Rebecca couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting was only the beginning of something vast and unknown.

With a final, measured glance that hinted at both promise and caution, Sarocha stepped back into the shadows, leaving Rebecca alone with her thoughts—and a single, unspoken question lingering in the dim light: What is it about Rebecca that has stirred the ancient forces, and what does Sarocha truly seek?

The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation, a fragile prelude to mysteries yet to unfold.

---

Rebecca sat on the edge of her neatly made bed, wrapped in a soft, white towel as she tried to gather her scattered thoughts. The steam from her recent shower still clung to the air, mixing with the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of bustling Bangkok below. Her eyes kept drifting to the golden bracelet on her wrist—a constant, almost magnetic presence that she couldn’t seem to remove no matter how many times she tried. The burn had faded into a persistent warmth that pulsed at the rhythm of her heartbeat, as if it were a silent reminder of something much larger than herself.

She reached for her phone and opened her laptop, determined to piece together any clue that might explain the mysterious artifact. Dr. Ananda’s measured words before she left replayed in her mind: “The bracelet… it may be linked to ancient Naga legends, a symbol of power and mystery that binds us to the past.” Though his tone had been cautious, the possibility of such an age-old connection both intrigued and unnerved her.

Rebecca typed quickly, entering the name of the excavation site and keywords like “Chao Phraya” and “Naga legends.” The search results flickered across the screen, and she began to skim through academic articles and local folklore archives. In one obscure footnote of a historical review, she found a reference to a mythical serpent spirit said to guard the banks of the Chao Phraya—a creature both revered and feared. The description was vague, hinting at a guardian whose legacy had been passed down through generations, entwined with the fate of those who dwelled near the river. Rebecca’s pulse quickened as she clicked on the link, absorbing every detail with an intensity that bordered on the desperate.

Her concentration was interrupted by the insistent trill of her phone. With a reluctant sigh, she set her laptop aside and answered. “Hello?”

“Rebecca, my dear,” came a warm, familiar voice. It was her mother, speaking in gentle Thai lilt mixed with English, a comforting blend that always made Rebecca feel at home despite the distance. “How are you settling in, sweetheart?”

Rebecca smiled softly. “I’m managing, Mama. Bangkok is… overwhelming in the best and worst ways. I’ve been at this excavation site all day and now, after a long shower, I’m trying to make sense of everything.”

There was a pause on the line before her mother replied, “I know it can be so much at once. Just remember, our family’s roots run deep there. Your heritage is as much a part of Bangkok as these ancient stories. Tell me, have you heard any of the legends about the Chao Phraya?”

The mention of legends immediately caught Rebecca’s attention, though she hesitated for a moment before replying. “A few… I came across something while doing some research. It mentioned a guardian, a creature from old tales—something about a Naga, if I’m not mistaken.”

Her mother’s tone grew thoughtful. “Yes, my dear. There are many stories, passed down through generations. They say the river is watched over by powerful spirits, and sometimes, those spirits choose to make contact in mysterious ways. It’s said that those chosen may carry a spark of that ancient power, even if they're not aware.”

Rebecca’s fingers tightened around the phone. “That’s… fascinating,” she murmured, careful not to reveal the full extent of her own experience. “I just can’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary is happening to me,” she mumbled softly, more to herself than her mother, confusion mixing with apprehension.

Her mother chuckled softly, a sound filled with both concern and maternal reassurance. “Oh, Rebecca, always the dreamer. Just be careful, love. Sometimes the past has a way of reaching out, and not all its secrets are kind. But I know you have a strong spirit. Remember, you are part of something very special.”

The call ended with her mother’s gentle reminder to keep her head and heart open, yet wary. As the line went silent, Rebecca sat back, absorbing the conversation. The legends, the research, the inexplicable pull of the bracelet—all of it converged into a single, pulsating question: What was it about her heritage, and her fate, that had brought her here?

Staring at the bracelet once more, Rebecca whispered, “I’ll figure it out,” though the uncertainty in her voice betrayed her determination. The mystery remained unsolved, a promise of revelations yet to come—a silent, compelling call to dive deeper into the secrets of Bangkok, her ancestry, and the ancient power that now pulsed through her veins.

Chapter Text

Rebecca sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed in her hotel room, the soft morning light filtering through sheer curtains and casting gentle patterns on her face. Her phone vibrated on the bedside table, its screen displaying Dr. Ananda’s name. Taking a deep breath to steady her racing heart, she answered with a measured, “Good morning, Dr. Ananda.”

His calm, measured voice came through the line. “Good morning, Rebecca. How are you feeling today?”

“I’m… a bit shaken, to be honest, but determined,” she replied. Her thoughts drifted back to the previous day—those enigmatic moments, and the elusive woman whose presence had stirred something deep within her. “I was hoping you could help me understand something.”

There was a brief pause before Dr. Ananda continued. “I assume you’re referring to Sarocha Chankimha?”

At the sound of the name, a chill ran down Rebecca’s spine. “Yes,” she said softly. “I’d like to know more about her. She was there when I… when I fainted. I need to understand what connection she might have to the bracelet—and to this site.”

Dr. Ananda’s tone grew slightly more cautious. “Rebecca, Sarocha isn’t someone to be taken lightly. She is the sole owner of the land on which the excavation is taking place. More than that, she is a formidable real estate tycoon with interests that stretch far beyond this project.”

Rebecca’s pulse quickened as she listened. “Formidable?” she repeated, a mix of intrigue and apprehension lacing her voice. “What do you mean?”

“She is not the one speaking—Sarocha, that is,” Dr. Ananda corrected gently. “Sarocha is known for her unwavering determination and an air of mystery that can be… intimidating. I must caution you, Rebecca. Be professional in your inquiries. She is very protective of her interests—and her land is not just a piece of property; it holds centuries of history, not all of it benign.”

Rebecca’s fingers tightened around the phone. “I understand. I’m only trying to gather information, nothing more,” she said firmly. “My focus is on cataloging artifacts and uncovering the historical context. I’m not here to intrude on her affairs.”

There was a soft sigh on the other end. “Just be careful. Sarocha’s reputation isn’t without merit. She can be cold, calculating, and, yes, formidable. Don’t let your curiosity cloud your judgment.”

The words resonated with Rebecca long after the call ended. She stared at the bracelet on her wrist—a silent reminder of the inexplicable force that had marked her so profoundly. A mixture of exhilaration and weariness churned inside her. The promise of uncovering secrets was as thrilling as it was daunting. Every beat of her heart echoed Dr. Ananda’s warning, and yet, her resolve only grew stronger.

In the quiet that followed, Rebecca allowed herself a moment of introspection. Despite the caution, the allure of Sarocha—and the mysteries that clung to her like a second skin—was impossible to ignore. There was much to learn, and she knew that each answer might only deepen the mystery further.

With a determined exhale, Rebecca whispered to herself, “I’ll be professional. But I won’t stop until I know what this all means.” And with that, she began to plan her next steps, the questions swirling in her mind as persistently as the heat of Bangkok itself.

---

Chankimha Holdings loomed over Bangkok like a fortress of glass and steel. The towering skyscraper reflected the golden hues of the late afternoon sun, its sleek, mirrored facade a perfect metaphor for the woman who ruled it—distant, unreadable, and utterly impenetrable. Rebecca stepped into the grand lobby, her heels clicking against polished marble as she adjusted the strap of her bag. The air inside was crisp with expensive cologne and the faint scent of jasmine, the distant hum of murmured conversations and ringing phones creating a sophisticated din of industry.

She approached the front desk, her voice steady. “I have an appointment with Sarocha Chankimha.”

The receptionist, a woman in a fitted black suit with a knowing glance, pressed a discreet button. “Dr. Armstrong, please take the private elevator to the top floor.”

Rebecca exhaled slowly as she stepped inside the elevator, watching the numbers ascend with an almost painful slowness. When the doors finally slid open, she was met with a panoramic view of the Chao Phraya River stretching beneath the vast windows. The office was an expanse of dark wood, sharp edges, and meticulous design, as cold and efficient as the woman who occupied it.

And then, there she was.

Sarocha Chankimha stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands tucked into the pockets of a tailored black suit. The crisp lines of the jacket accentuated her lean frame, the open collar of her silk blouse exposing just enough golden skin to be distracting. She didn’t turn right away. Instead, she let the moment stretch, her presence commanding even in stillness. When she finally turned, her dark eyes locked onto Rebecca with the kind of weight that made her stomach tighten.

“You found me,” Sarocha said coolly, her voice smooth but edged with something unreadable.

Rebecca squared her shoulders. “I suppose I did.”

Sarocha’s gaze flickered to Rebecca’s wrist. The bracelet gleamed under the soft light, an unspoken force crackling between them as she stared at it, her expression unreadable. But there was something in her eyes—something dark and guarded.

“You came all this way for a real estate consultation?” Sarocha’s tone was mild, but there was a sharpness beneath it.

Rebecca exhaled. “I came for answers.”

Sarocha moved then, slowly, stepping away from the window with the fluid grace of someone who never rushed but always arrived exactly where she needed to be. She circled to the front of her desk, leaning against it, arms folding across her chest.

“And what answers do you expect to find?”

Rebecca hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “The bracelet. It latched onto me when I touched it. Dr. Ananda said—”

“I know what he said.” Sarocha cut her off, eyes flickering with something almost like irritation. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here, standing in my office, expecting me to provide clarity where others cannot.”

Rebecca’s patience frayed at the edges. “I thought you might have insight. You own the land where the excavation is taking place. You were there when I fainted. And yet, you act like this has nothing to do with you.”

Sarocha’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered beneath the surface, a crack in the ice. She was unsettled, though she masked it well.

“I don’t entertain baseless speculation,” Sarocha said smoothly. “Artifacts are uncovered every day. The past is filled with mysteries, but not all of them are meant to be solved.”

Rebecca’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “So, you’re just going to pretend this means nothing?” She lifted her wrist slightly, the bracelet gleaming between them like a silent challenge.

Sarocha’s jaw tensed. “Perhaps it means nothing to me.”

Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “And yet, you can’t stop looking at it.”

A silence stretched between them, thick and charged. Sarocha’s gaze bore into her, a clash of wills that sent an unsteady shiver down Rebecca’s spine.

And then, Sarocha moved again—this time stepping forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between them with measured intent. Rebecca held her ground, refusing to shrink beneath the intensity of her presence.

“You are persistent,” Sarocha murmured. “And presumptuous.”

Rebecca arched a brow. “And you’re infuriatingly evasive.”

The corner of Sarocha’s mouth twitched, the ghost of something—amusement? irritation?—flitting across her face before vanishing just as quickly. “I protect what is mine, Miss Armstrong.”

Rebecca scoffed. “I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

Sarocha tilted her head slightly, watching her. “A foreign researcher arrives, claims an artifact that does not belong to her, and demands answers. Tell me, Miss Armstrong, what gives you the right to handle these relics? What makes you qualified to unearth what has been buried for centuries?”

Rebecca bristled. “I have degrees in both archaeology and cultural anthropology. I’ve worked on historical sites across the world. And if that’s not enough for you—” she paused, leveling Sarocha with a sharp look, “I’m also half-Thai.”

The change in Sarocha was almost imperceptible, but Rebecca saw it—the flicker of something deep and unreadable flashing across her face. Her lips parted slightly, as if forming a response that never came.

Rebecca pressed on, emboldened. “I have every right to be here, just as much as you do.”

Sarocha’s eyes darkened. “You assume much, Miss Armstrong.”

Rebecca exhaled sharply, her frustration mounting. Everything about this woman was a wall, a perfectly controlled fortress that let nothing slip. The tension between them thickened, something unspoken twisting in the air, their verbal sparring taking on a heated edge that almost felt like—

Rebecca clenched her jaw. It almost felt like foreplay.

She took a step back, suddenly needing space, needing air. “This is pointless,” she muttered. “I thought you might have answers, but all you’ve done is waste my time.”

Sarocha didn’t stop her as she turned toward the door. But as Rebecca’s hand gripped the handle, she heard Sarocha’s voice behind her—low, almost dangerous.

“Be careful what you search for, Miss Armstrong. Some truths are not kind.”

Rebecca froze for half a second before yanking the door open and stepping out. Her pulse hammered as she strode toward the elevator, her frustration mounting—but beneath it, beneath the lingering irritation and confusion, there was something else entirely.

A pull.

An undeniable, maddening pull toward Sarocha Chankimha.

---

The sun hung low over the Chao Phraya, casting long golden streaks across the rippling water. The air was thick with the scent of grilled meats and jasmine, the sounds of the city—a chaotic blend of tuk-tuks, distant chatter, and the occasional temple bell—melding into an urban symphony. Rebecca walked along the riverside promenade, the setting sun warming her skin as she tried to untangle the web of thoughts in her mind.

She had always found comfort in the movement of water. There was something ancient about rivers, something steady yet unpredictable. The Chao Phraya was no different—it pulsed like a lifeline through the city, a vein carrying both history and modernity in its depths. And yet, for all the times she had visited Bangkok as a child, for all the summers spent with her mother’s side of the family, she had never felt this connected to it.

Maybe it was the bracelet.

Her fingers drifted to the golden band still clamped around her wrist. No matter how many times she had tried, it wouldn’t come off. The metal was cool, despite the heat, and every now and then, she swore she could feel a faint vibration beneath her skin, like something alive.

Her mother had told her stories of Thailand’s mythologies when she was young—tales of powerful spirits, sacred beasts, and hidden realms beneath the waters. But she had never paid much attention back then. Now, she wished she had.

Rebecca pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of the river, capturing the way the light danced on its surface. As she lowered the camera, a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“You’re farang, but you look… different.”

She turned toward the speaker—a man in his late forties, with weathered skin and sharp eyes that gleamed with knowing amusement. He was dressed simply in a short-sleeved button-up and dark trousers, a plastic bag from a nearby market dangling from one wrist.

Rebecca smiled politely. “Not quite farang. My mother’s Thai.”

The man nodded in understanding. “Ah. A daughter of two worlds.” His gaze flickered downward—to the bracelet. His expression shifted, just for a fraction of a second. “That’s an unusual piece.”

Rebecca hesitated before answering. “It… found its way to me.”

The man hummed as if that answer made perfect sense. He turned back to the river, watching the slow-moving boats drift along the water. “You know, there’s an old story about this river,” he said. “Not the kind tourists hear.”

Rebecca glanced at him, intrigued. “What kind of story?”

“A legend,” he murmured. “About the guardians of the Chao Phraya.”

The weight of his words sent a chill through her, despite the evening warmth. “Guardians?”

The man nodded. “The Naga.”

Rebecca felt her heartbeat quicken. “I thought the Naga were only connected to the Mekong.”

“The Mekong is their kingdom,” the man agreed. “But some say the Chao Phraya has its own secrets. That in ancient times, before the city rose, the river was protected by unseen forces. Serpents that swam beneath the surface, watching, waiting.”

He turned to her then, his eyes sharp, assessing. “And sometimes… they choose.”

Rebecca felt something in her chest tighten. “Choose?”

The man smiled, but there was something knowing in it, something that sent a prickle of unease down her spine.

Before she could ask him what he meant, a surge of people brushed past them—tourists chattering, children running ahead of their parents, vendors calling out their evening specials. She turned for only a second.

When she looked back—

The man was gone.

Rebecca’s breath caught. She scanned the promenade, her eyes darting from face to face. But there was no sign of him. No trace of his presence.

She looked down at her wrist, at the gleaming gold of the bracelet.

The river lapped softly against the edge of the walkway, whispering against the stone.

---

That night, the dream came in fragments.

Rebecca was kneeling at the river’s edge, her hands submerged in the cool water. The night was thick with mist, the air humming with an unspoken power. A silhouette stood before her—a woman, regal and severe, her presence commanding even in the haze of memory.

Rebecca’s lips moved, but the words were foreign to her. A vow, whispered like a prayer.

The woman watched her in silence, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she reached out. Fingertips brushed Rebecca’s cheek—light, fleeting, like a ghost of something lost.

The scene fractured.

Water lapped at Rebecca’s knees. The woman’s eyes, dark and knowing, bore into hers.

Then—

The cold shock of waking.

Rebecca gasped as she sat upright, her body slick with sweat. The room was dark except for the neon glow of the Bangkok skyline seeping through the curtains. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like mist over the river.

She dragged a hand through her hair, trying to steady her breathing. It had felt so real.

Her wrist tingled.

She looked down. The bracelet was hot against her skin. Not burning, but radiating a distinct warmth, like something alive.

Rebecca swore under her breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed, making her way to the bathroom. The cold water helped, but only slightly. She gripped the edges of the sink, her reflection staring back at her with an expression she barely recognized. Not fear, not quite—but something close.

Then, her phone vibrated.

She turned sharply, wiping her face before reaching for it. The screen lit up.

Unknown Number: 'We need to talk.'

Rebecca’s pulse quickened.

She hesitated before typing back.

Rebecca: 'Who is this?'

A pause. Then—

Unknown Number: 'You already know.'

She scowled, fingers tightening around the device.

Rebecca: 'If you’re going to be cryptic, at least have the courtesy to introduce yourself.'

Another pause.

Unknown Number: 'Sarocha.'

Rebecca exhaled through her nose, a mix of anticipation and irritation flaring inside her.

Rebecca: 'So now you want to talk?'

Sarocha: 'I never said I didn’t.'

Rebecca: 'You acted like I was a nuisance.'

A longer pause this time.

Sarocha: 'I needed to understand what you were doing here.'

Rebecca: 'And?'

Sarocha: 'Still deciding.'

Rebecca clenched her jaw. She could almost hear the woman’s calm, unshakable voice in her head.

Rebecca: 'If you’re looking for a reason to be suspicious, I don’t have one. I’m here for my work. That’s it.'

Another stretch of silence. Then—

Sarocha: 'The bracelet.'

Rebecca’s stomach tightened.

Rebecca: 'What about it?'

Sarocha: 'Can you remove it yet?'

Rebecca stared at the words for a long moment. Something about the way Sarocha asked unsettled her.

Rebecca: 'No.'

Seconds passed. She watched the screen, waiting.

Finally—

Sarocha: 'Meet me tomorrow.'

Rebecca: 'Where?'

Sarocha: 'I’ll send you the location.'

No further explanation. No parting words. Just silence.

Rebecca let out a slow breath, gripping the phone tightly before setting it down.

Tomorrow.

She looked back at her reflection, at the woman staring back at her with wide, restless eyes.

Somewhere, deep in her chest, a feeling stirred.

Not dread.

Not even apprehension.

Something else.

---

Rebecca arrived at the rooftop restaurant just as the city began to stir. The air was crisp with the last traces of dawn, but the sky was already shifting to its signature Bangkok haze. The location pin Sarocha had sent her led her to a secluded table overlooking the Chao Phraya River, its waters glinting under the sun.

Sarocha was already there, composed and unhurried, dressed in sleek navy pants with a crisp white button-down neatly tucked. She exuded a kind of effortless control, like she had been born to occupy whatever space she entered.

Rebecca barely had time to sit before a waiter approached, but before she could open her mouth, Sarocha ordered for both of them.

"Coffee for you, no sugar. And an Americano for me." She glanced at Rebecca, something unreadable in her dark eyes. "And we'll have the kanom jeen with green curry. Unless you object?"

Rebecca frowned slightly. "I could have ordered for myself."

"Of course. But I find it… inefficient to waste time on indecision."

Rebecca leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "That’s assuming I was going to hesitate."

Sarocha's lips twitched—just a hint of amusement, almost imperceptible. "Were you not?"

Rebecca exhaled sharply through her nose, but before she could retort, Sarocha smoothly redirected. "So. Rebecca Armstrong. Born in London, educated at Cambridge, but your mother is Thai."

It wasn’t phrased as a question, but rather a confirmation of something she had already determined.

Rebecca hesitated, then nodded. "That’s right. My mother’s family is from Ayutthaya."

Sarocha hummed in response, fingers tapping lightly against the polished wood of the table. "I thought so."

"You thought so?" Rebecca narrowed her eyes. "Why do you care?"

Sarocha ignored the question. "Do you speak Thai?"

"Some," Rebecca admitted. "My mother spoke it at home, but I was raised in England, so my Thai is… rusty."

"Shame." Sarocha swirled the dark liquid in her cup, watching Rebecca over the rim as she took a slow sip. "A language is more than words. It carries memory."

Something about the way she said it made Rebecca feel exposed, like she was being measured for a weight she didn’t know she carried.

"And your mother," Sarocha continued, setting her cup down. "She never spoke of the river?"

Rebecca frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The legends."

Something cold curled at the base of Rebecca’s spine. The man from yesterday. The way he had looked at her bracelet. The way he had vanished.

"She told me stories when I was little," Rebecca said carefully. "But nothing specific."

Sarocha tilted her head, studying her. "And yet, here you are. Digging."

Rebecca straightened. "Excavating."

A slight smirk. "Semantics."

Their food arrived, steaming plates of fragrant curry over soft rice noodles. Sarocha picked up her fork with a languid ease, but Rebecca barely touched hers.

"You’re deflecting," Rebecca said. "I came here to talk about the bracelet. And you’re interrogating me like I’m the artifact."

Sarocha merely raised a brow. "Would you prefer I ignore the fact that you are walking around Bangkok with something ancient and powerful locked onto your wrist?"

Rebecca glanced at the bracelet involuntarily, the bright metal gleaming in the daylight. She flexed her fingers. "You know what it says, don’t you?"

Sarocha held her gaze for a long moment before finally speaking. "The inscription is in an archaic form of Thai script. It translates to ‘Guardian.’"

Rebecca’s breath hitched.

Guardian.

The word settled in her chest like an echo, reverberating deep, like something she had known before but forgotten.

"How do you know that?" she demanded.

Sarocha took a sip of her coffee before answering. "I make it my business to know what is valuable."

Rebecca frowned. "That’s not an answer."

Sarocha’s expression remained unreadable. "And yet, it’s the one you’re getting."

Rebecca inhaled sharply, frustration bubbling beneath her ribs. "You own the land. You could have stopped the excavation at any time. Why allow it at all?"

For the first time, something flickered in Sarocha’s eyes—something close to hesitation, though it was gone before Rebecca could name it.

"I hired the excavation team," Sarocha admitted finally.

Rebecca blinked. "What?"

"Everything found there belongs to me."

A slow realization settled over Rebecca, cold and sudden. "So you already knew something was buried there."

Sarocha didn’t answer.

Rebecca leaned forward, voice lower now. "If you already knew, then why allow me to be the one to find this?" She lifted her wrist slightly, the bracelet catching the light. "Why not take it yourself?"

Sarocha’s gaze dropped to the bracelet. For the first time, her mask slipped just slightly. Not enough to be obvious—just a flicker of something dark and knowing.

"I suppose," she murmured, "because it didn’t choose me."

The weight of the words pressed against Rebecca’s chest. 'Chose.'

Sarocha sat back, regarding Rebecca with an expression she couldn’t place—one that made her feel both trapped and inexplicably… drawn in.

Rebecca swallowed. "And now what?"

Sarocha smiled. Not warm. Not reassuring. Something else entirely.

"Now," she said smoothly, "you and I are bound together, Dr. Armstrong. Whether you like it or not."

A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t sure whether the feeling was dread—or something far, far more dangerous.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun bore down on the excavation site, turning the air thick with humidity. Rebecca wiped a streak of sweat from her forehead as she crouched near the exposed stone, brushing away the last of the fine dirt that clung to the weathered inscription. The carvings were shallow but deliberate, the script ancient and curling like the coils of a serpent.

Her fingers traced the etched words. 'The Guardian Bloodline…' 'Naga Royalty…'

The phrasing was incomplete, fragmented by time and erosion. But something about it made her stomach tighten.

She pulled out her phone and snapped several pictures, making sure to capture the entirety of the inscription. She thought she'd ask Sarocha about this later.

If she answers.

Rebecca exhaled sharply, trying to push aside the growing unease. There was something here, something just beyond her reach, like a name on the tip of her tongue—something she should understand but didn’t.

"Dr. Armstrong."

She turned at the sound of Dr. Ananda’s voice. He stood just beyond the dig site, arms folded, his usual easygoing demeanor tinged with something more restrained.

"Have a minute?"

Rebecca dusted off her hands and rose to her feet, following him a few paces away from the others. The excavation site was lively, but no one paid them much attention.

"You’ve been spending time with Sarocha Chankimha," he observed.

Rebecca frowned. "That’s not exactly by choice."

Dr. Ananda chuckled softly, but it lacked humor. "No, I imagine it wouldn’t be." He paused, glancing toward the river, the golden light of the late afternoon catching in his glasses. "What do you know about her?"

Rebecca hesitated. "That she’s powerful. Controlling. Not exactly forthcoming."

Dr. Ananda hummed. "Yes. And yet, she is much more than that."

Rebecca folded her arms. "You sound like you’re telling me a ghost story."

"In Bangkok, ghosts and stories are often one and the same," he mused. He turned back to her. "The Chankimha family has always been… elusive. Their wealth is vast, but no one quite knows its origin. Landowners, traders, power brokers—they’ve existed in the shadows of history for generations. And Sarocha?" He let out a breath. "She is the first of her line to step fully into the modern world, to operate in the open. But still, she remains an enigma."

Rebecca frowned. "So you’re saying she’s… what? Old money?"

Dr. Ananda hesitated. "There are rumors."

"What kind of rumors?"

He looked at her carefully, as if gauging how much to say. "That the Chankimha bloodline is older than anyone realizes. That their fortune was not merely inherited, but rather… protected."

Rebecca’s skin prickled. "Protected by what?"

Dr. Ananda gave her a small, knowing smile. "Or who."

A breeze stirred, carrying the scent of damp earth and river water. Rebecca shook her head. "That’s vague."

"As all good legends are."

She exhaled, frustrated. "Alright, then what about this excavation? Why did she hire us? I mean, I appreciate the opportunity to catalog these artifacts, but what’s the real reason she’s having us dig here?"

Dr. Ananda sighed, rubbing his chin. "The official explanation was that she wanted to fund research into Bangkok’s early settlements, to better understand the origins of the city’s trade routes."

Rebecca arched a brow. "That’s what we were told."

"Yes." His expression darkened slightly. "But I suspect Sarocha is not interested in trade routes."

A slow chill crept up Rebecca’s spine. "Then what is she interested in?"

Dr. Ananda glanced back at the dig site, watching as workers carefully uncovered more fragments of the ruins. "There are whispers, of course. That this land holds something ancient. That it belongs to the river in ways that cannot be measured in deeds or property lines."

His gaze flicked to her wrist.

Rebecca tensed. "The bracelet?"

He didn’t answer directly. "I think you should be careful, Dr. Armstrong."

Rebecca’s grip tightened around her phone, the image of the inscription still fresh in her mind.

The Guardian Bloodline. Naga Royalty.

She had come to Bangkok for answers.

Instead, she was finding only more questions.

---

The excavation site hummed with activity as the afternoon sun sank lower in the sky. Rebecca was knee-deep in cataloging the latest finds—ceramic shards, rusted bronze tools, fragments of what might have been temple carvings. Yet, despite her attempts to remain focused, her mind kept circling back to the inscription.

'The Guardian Bloodline.' 'Naga Royalty.'

She checked her phone again, staring at the image she had taken of the worn stone. Her fingers hovered over the screen, tempted to text Sarocha and demand answers, but something about their last interaction had left her wary.

Then, as if summoned by thought alone, a hush fell over the excavation site. The subtle shift in atmosphere sent a ripple of awareness down Rebecca’s spine.

Sarocha Chankimha had arrived.

Rebecca looked up just in time to see her stepping out of a sleek black car, her presence commanding without effort. She was dressed in crisp, tailored slacks and a fitted linen shirt, its sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the lean strength in her forearms. Dark sunglasses shielded her eyes, but Rebecca didn’t need to see them to know they were scanning the site with sharp, calculated interest.

She didn’t belong here, not among the dust and ruin of history, yet she moved through the space as if it bowed to her presence.

Rebecca wasn’t sure why it unsettled her so much.

As Sarocha approached, a sharp pulse shot through her wrist.

Rebecca inhaled sharply. The bracelet—it was reacting.

She flexed her fingers, trying to shake the odd warmth now radiating from the metal. Was it… humming? The sensation was barely perceptible, but it felt like an invisible thread had suddenly connected her to Sarocha, tugging, pulling her in some inexplicable way.

Then Sarocha hesitated.

A flicker of something passed over her face—something almost imperceptible, but Rebecca caught it. A momentary unease, a faintness that softened the sharp edges of her usual impassivity.

"Dr. Armstrong," Sarocha said smoothly, though there was a slight pause between the words, as if it cost her some effort to push through the moment. "I wasn’t expecting you to still be here."

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "I could say the same."

Sarocha exhaled, tilting her head toward the river. "Walk with me?"

Rebecca hesitated. She knew better than to be alone with Sarocha. Yet, she found herself nodding, curiosity winning out over caution.

---

They walked along the riverbank in silence for a while, the air thick with the scent of water and earth. Boats drifted in the distance, their lights beginning to flicker on as dusk approached. The Chao Phraya carried the echoes of the city in its currents—distant laughter, the hum of engines, the occasional call of a boatman.

They found a shaded spot beneath the outstretched limbs of an old banyan tree. Sarocha sank onto the stone ledge first, stretching one long leg out before resting an arm over her knee. She looked as if she belonged there, as if she had sat by this river a hundred times before, in a hundred different lifetimes.

Rebecca folded her arms, watching her.

"I heard you’ve been asking about me," Sarocha said after a moment, her voice low, unreadable.

Rebecca met her gaze evenly. "People talk."

A flicker of amusement ghosted over Sarocha’s lips. "They always do."

Rebecca hesitated before pressing forward. "Who are you, Sarocha? And don’t give me the property mogul answer."

Sarocha’s expression didn’t change, but the air around them did.

The river lapped at the shore with a sudden shift in rhythm, as if responding to the tension between them. The wind stirred, cool and damp against Rebecca’s skin.

She felt Sarocha’s silence before she heard her answer.

"A woman with a long history," Sarocha said finally, her tone almost gentle.

Rebecca frowned. "That’s not an answer."

Sarocha exhaled through her nose, looking away, as if the water itself held something worth studying. "History has a way of binding people to it. Whether they want it to or not."

Rebecca narrowed her eyes. "You sound like you’re speaking from experience."

Sarocha didn’t confirm or deny it.

Rebecca exhaled sharply, frustrated. She pulled out her phone and brought up the image of the inscription. "Fine. Then answer this—do you know what this means?"

She turned the screen toward Sarocha.

For the first time, Sarocha’s carefully crafted indifference cracked. It was subtle—a slow inhale, a shift in the set of her jaw.

She sighed, then took the phone from Rebecca’s hand, tilting it slightly as she studied the markings.

"'The Guardian Bloodline will be reborn,'" she murmured, almost to herself. "'The Naga Royalty will resurface.'"

Rebecca studied her. "And?"

Sarocha handed the phone back. "And it means what it says."

Rebecca scowled. "That’s not helpful."

Sarocha gave her a sidelong glance, a small smirk playing at her lips. "And yet, it’s the truth."

Rebecca exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple. "So you’re just going to sit there and act like you don’t know what this is referring to? Because I get the feeling you do know."

Sarocha leaned back slightly, watching her with the quiet intensity that made Rebecca feel seen in ways she wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

"You want a legend, Dr. Armstrong?" she said at last. "Then here it is: Long ago, before Bangkok was Bangkok, the river was ruled by the Naga—a royal bloodline of water deities, powerful and divine. The land flourished under their protection. But to maintain balance, they needed to form covenants—noble families bound to them by fate, sworn to serve and protect their lineage."

Rebecca’s breath hitched. "Guardians?"

Sarocha’s gaze flicked briefly—almost knowingly—to the bracelet on Rebecca’s wrist.

Rebecca followed her gaze, swallowing hard.

"This legend," Rebecca said carefully. "Is it just a story?"

Sarocha’s lips parted slightly as if she was about to answer, but then—

The river shifted.

Not just the tide, but the water itself. It rose ever so slightly, the ripples curving unnaturally, as if something beneath the surface had stirred.

Rebecca’s breath caught. "Did you see that?"

Sarocha didn’t move, but Rebecca swore she saw her pupils dilate for just a fraction of a second. The humidity in the air thickened, droplets forming against her skin despite the absence of rain.

Sarocha finally stood, brushing off her pants with practiced ease. "Be careful, Dr. Armstrong. Sometimes, when you dig too deep, you unearth things best left undisturbed."

Rebecca’s stomach twisted.

She looked down at the bracelet, at the way it still pulsed faintly against her wrist.

Guardian.

She was in far deeper than she had ever intended to be.

---

Rebecca sat on the edge of her hotel bed, her laptop balanced on her knees, the glow of the screen casting pale light across her face. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the bustling cityscape of Bangkok beyond the glass, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the quiet hum of the air conditioning.

She scrolled through articles, documents, and old manuscripts, her fingers clicking restlessly against the trackpad.

The Chao Phraya River: Legends and Lore.
Ayutthaya and the Lost Bloodlines.
The Guardian Clans of Siam.

She had started with the river. It was the simplest place to begin, considering how much of her strange encounters with Sarocha seemed tied to it. Every legend, every half-forgotten tale, spoke of the Naga, the serpent deities who ruled the waters, guarding the cities and villages that thrived along their banks.

But it was the mention of guardians that kept her searching.

Old Thai scriptures referenced noble families who had pledged themselves to the Naga, sworn protectors who would serve them through generations. Some stories hinted at a bloodline, a lineage destined to be chosen—or bound—to the Naga’s will.

Rebecca rubbed her temple, staring at the flickering cursor on her screen.

The Guardian Bloodline will be reborn. The Naga Royalty will resurface.

Her gaze flicked down to her wrist.

The bracelet remained firmly clamped around her skin, its presence now a constant weight. It wasn’t uncomfortable anymore, but she swore it felt warmer at times, as if responding to her thoughts.

With a sigh, she grabbed her phone and dialed her mother.

The line rang twice before the familiar voice answered.

"Rebecca, sweetheart! It’s late there, isn’t it? Are you getting enough rest?"

Rebecca smiled despite herself. "Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. Just… thinking a lot."

"Thinking? That’s dangerous." Her mother chuckled. "What’s on your mind?"

Rebecca hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I’ve been digging into our family history. Ayutthaya, mostly. You always said we had roots there. How far back does it go?"

There was a pause, just long enough for Rebecca to notice.

"Oh, you know, centuries. Your great-grandfather used to talk about it, but those records were lost when the city fell. Why the sudden interest?"

Rebecca exhaled slowly. "I don’t know. Something I found while working on-site just got me thinking."

Her mother hummed in response. "You always had a habit of getting too deep into things. You’re like your father in that way."

A pang of something unspoken passed between them. Rebecca swallowed it down.

"Mom… did we ever have any strange family heirlooms?"

Her mother laughed lightly. "Not unless you count your grandmother’s awful porcelain cat collection. Why?"

Rebecca bit her lip. "No reason. Just curious."

There was another pause, but this one felt heavier.

"Rebecca, is something wrong?"

Rebecca forced a smile into her voice. "No, Mom. Just doing some research. I’ll call you later, okay?"

Her mother sighed, not entirely convinced, but she let it go. "Alright, love. Take care of yourself."

As soon as the call ended, Rebecca tossed her phone onto the bed and ran a hand through her hair.

She had learned nothing. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that her mother knew something but wasn’t saying it.

Frustrated, she pulled her laptop back onto her lap and opened a new search tab.

If she wasn’t getting answers about her family, maybe she’d have better luck with Sarocha Chankimha.

---

Sarocha Chankimha was exactly what one would expect from a name of her stature—wealthy, powerful, and impossible to truly know.

Rebecca scrolled through article after article, but everything she found was too perfect, too curated.

Sarocha Chankimha, CEO of Chankimha Holdings, one of Bangkok’s most powerful real estate empires.
Daughter of the late Phan Chankimha, a man whose influence helped shape the modern city.
Harvard-educated, multilingual, a face often seen at elite charity galas and exclusive political gatherings.

There were photos of her at events, dressed in elegant silk gowns, her signature cool expression intact as she stood beside politicians, business moguls, and royalty.

But there was nothing personal.

No childhood photos. No interviews where she spoke of her past. No mentions of a mother, siblings, or extended family.

Just her, standing alone in a legacy that seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

Rebecca frowned. That wasn’t normal. Even the most powerful families had some traceable history.

She opened a separate window and started cross-referencing—business filings, land deeds, anything that might show a timeline of the Chankimha family’s rise.

But there was a gap.

Before Phan Chankimha, there was… nothing. No older relatives, no ancestral records that should have existed for a family with such wealth.

As if they had appeared from thin air.

Rebecca’s fingers tightened around the edge of her laptop.

Instinct told her she was onto something.

Sarocha wasn’t just a wealthy woman with a convenient interest in this excavation. She was something else entirely.

And Rebecca intended to find out what.

---

Rebecca had expected Sarocha’s office to feel the same as before—cool, controlled, an extension of the woman herself.

But today, the air was heavier, thick with something unnamed. The polished wood, the panoramic view of Bangkok stretching behind Sarocha’s desk, the faint scent of sandalwood—everything felt the same, yet different.

And then there was her.

Sarocha sat in her leather chair, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on the armrests. She was the picture of ease, but her sharp eyes tracked Rebecca’s every movement, assessing, waiting.

Rebecca refused to be intimidated.

She took a breath, adjusting the strap of her bag before stepping forward. "I was thinking," she began, forcing a casual tone, "we should have lunch together."

A beat of silence.

Sarocha blinked once, then tilted her head, like she hadn’t quite heard correctly. "You were thinking," she echoed, voice smooth. "And this is what you arrived at?"

Rebecca suppressed a sigh. "Yes. Lunch. You, me, food. I at least know you eat."

That earned her a quirk of the lips, just shy of amusement. "I do."

"Great." Rebecca folded her arms. "Then what’s the problem?"

Sarocha studied her, eyes dark and unreadable. "You’ve been trying to pry into my affairs since the moment we met. And now you wish to—what? Start fresh?"

"Something like that."

Sarocha leaned back, fingers tapping idly on the armrest. "Why?"

Rebecca exhaled sharply. "Look, I get it. You don’t trust me. You don’t want me asking questions. Fine. But I don’t want to keep butting heads with you, and I figured a neutral setting might help. No excavation talk. No bracelet talk. Just…" She hesitated, searching for the right word. "A truce."

Sarocha’s expression didn’t change, but something in the room did.

The air shifted.

Rebecca couldn’t place it, only that suddenly, it was harder to breathe.

Sarocha’s gaze was too steady now, too knowing. Like she could see the cracks in Rebecca’s reasoning, like she felt the hesitation in her words.

And then, in one slow, fluid motion, she stood.

It was unnerving how effortlessly she moved, how she could make the simple act of rising to her feet feel like something significant. She took her time rounding the desk, until she was close enough that Rebecca could see the faint golden shimmer beneath her skin, barely perceptible in the light.

Rebecca swallowed.

"You want me to step into your little plan," Sarocha murmured, voice like silk over steel. "Your control." She tilted her head. "Do you think I’d allow that?"

Rebecca’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected this—this shift in the dynamic, this sudden weight in the air pressing against her.

She squared her shoulders. "It’s just lunch."

Sarocha’s lips curled into something almost—almost—like a smirk. "No."

Rebecca blinked. "What?"

"If we are to engage in something… civil," Sarocha said smoothly, "then I will dictate the terms."

The bracelet on Rebecca’s wrist pulsed, just for a second.

Sarocha’s gaze flicked down to it before returning to Rebecca’s face.

"Dinner," she said, voice carrying an undeniable finality. "Tonight. And you will promise me one thing."

Rebecca barely managed to find her voice. "What?"

Sarocha stepped even closer, just enough that Rebecca had to tilt her chin to meet her eyes.

"You will not mention the excavation," she said softly. "Or the bracelet. Not once."

The room was too warm. The space between them too small.

Rebecca felt trapped—not in a bad way, but in a way that made her pulse quicken, her thoughts stumble.

This was control.

Not forced, not demanding—just the sheer weight of Sarocha’s presence pressing against her like an invisible force, making her realize that she had never been in charge of this conversation to begin with.

Rebecca opened her mouth to protest, to push back, but the words died in her throat.

Instead, she exhaled slowly. "Fine."

Sarocha watched her for another moment, as if ensuring there would be no rebellion. Then, with the barest tilt of her head, she stepped back. The air loosened.

"Very well." She turned, moving back toward her desk. "I’ll send you the details."

Rebecca barely managed to keep her composure as she nodded and made for the door.

But as she left, she couldn’t help but glance down at the bracelet.

Still clamped around her wrist. Still warm.

And as much as she hated to admit it…

A part of her knew she wasn’t escaping Sarocha anytime soon.

---

The evening air in Bangkok was thick with the scent of rain on warm pavement, the remnants of an afternoon drizzle clinging to the city like a whispered secret. Neon lights flickered against the slick roads, their reflections dancing across puddles as the hum of life carried on—street vendors calling out their wares, the occasional waft of sizzling satay, the melodic chatter of passing strangers.

Rebecca had intended to keep things casual. It’s just dinner. That’s what she had told herself. And yet, here she was, inside a boutique tucked away in one of Bangkok’s high-end shopping districts, flipping through racks with a furrowed brow.

She barely knew why she was doing this.

It’s not a date.

But that didn’t stop the small knot of nervous energy in her stomach.

She sighed, running her fingers over the silks and chiffons, pretending not to care about what would best complement the golden cuff that still refused to leave her wrist.

"Phee-sa-nee loei! Absolutely fated!"

The voice was smooth, lilting, and far too close. Rebecca turned, startled, to find an impeccably dressed man watching her with an amused expression. He was slight in build, his sharp cheekbones accentuated by the warm lighting of the boutique, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"Excuse me?" she asked, blinking.

He grinned, stepping forward with a fluidity that suggested he was more than comfortable in his own skin. "Your hesitation. The way your fingers linger. You care more than you want to admit." He gestured to the rack. "And yet you sift through these choices with such reluctance. It’s quite the sight."

Rebecca narrowed her eyes, though there was no real heat in it. "Do you always analyze strangers in fitting rooms?"

"Only the interesting ones," he said smoothly. Then, without waiting for permission, he plucked a dress from the rack—a delicate cream-colored cocktail dress with clean lines and subtle elegance.

Rebecca arched a brow. "That looks… simple."

He hummed knowingly. "Simple, yes. But timeless. And sometimes, subtle is what truly captures attention." He glanced at her bracelet, his gaze lingering just a second too long. "Besides, you already have gold on your wrist. No need to overcomplicate things."

Rebecca stiffened.

There was something in the way he said it—like he knew more than he should.

"You—"

"Try it on first," he interrupted, ushering her toward the fitting rooms with a graceful wave of his hand. "Then we’ll talk."

Rebecca huffed but did as he suggested.

Inside the fitting room, she slipped the dress on and turned to the mirror.

It fit like it had been made for her. The cream fabric complemented her complexion, draping effortlessly over her frame. And the bracelet—she hesitated, lifting her wrist. The gold caught the warm boutique lighting, standing out against the neutral tone of the dress in a way that was almost… deliberate.

She exhaled.

When she stepped out, the man’s grin widened.

"See? Fated."

Rebecca rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t deny the small thrill of satisfaction.

"You never did tell me what this dinner is about," he mused, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Though I suspect it’s someone rather than something that has you fussing."

"It’s not a date," Rebecca snapped, too quickly.

His smirk deepened. "Oh, darling. That was far too defensive."

Rebecca scowled, grabbing the price tag.

"I’ll take it."

The man simply smiled, stepping behind the counter as she completed her purchase. But just as he handed her the bag, his fingers brushed lightly over hers—just a fleeting touch, but enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Careful, khun-noo," he murmured, voice softer now, almost… knowing. "Some things—some people—are not meant to be easily forgotten."

Rebecca swallowed, an inexplicable shiver running through her.

When she finally left the boutique, stepping back into the warm Bangkok night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the man’s words were going to haunt her far longer than she’d like.

---

Rebecca had been expecting Sarocha to send a driver. Instead, when she stepped out of the hotel lobby, she was greeted by the gleam of a sleek black car, its polished surface reflecting the golden glow of the city lights. The tinted window rolled down, revealing Sarocha in the driver’s seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, the other propped against the door.

"Get in," Sarocha said smoothly, her voice as composed as ever.

Rebecca hesitated only a second before sliding into the passenger seat, the soft leather cool against her skin. She glanced at Sarocha, who was dressed in an effortlessly elegant black ensemble, her usual sharp edges somehow softened in the dim interior lighting.

"This feels an awful lot like a date," Rebecca remarked, buckling her seatbelt.

Sarocha’s gaze flicked toward her, unreadable in the shadows of the car. "It isn’t."

Rebecca smirked. "If you say so."

Sarocha didn’t respond, but Rebecca swore she caught the briefest twitch at the corner of her lips before the car eased into motion.

Chapter Text

The restaurant was a vision of understated opulence, nestled against the banks of the Chao Phraya. Its architecture blended modern elegance with traditional Thai aesthetics—dark wood, golden accents, lotus motifs carved into the railings. Their table was set on a private terrace overlooking the river, the city skyline shimmering in the distance.

As Rebecca settled into her seat, a cool breeze rolled off the water, making the candle flames waver in their glass holders. Sarocha was quiet as they were served wine, her fingers tracing absent patterns along the stem of her glass.

Rebecca, determined to honour their truce, leaned back and exhaled. "Fine. No talk of the excavation, no talk of the bracelet. That leaves… me."

Sarocha’s gaze lifted. "A favourite topic of yours?"

Rebecca huffed a laugh. "Hardly. But you seem interested, so… what do you want to know?"

Sarocha took a measured sip of wine before answering. "Your upbringing."

Rebecca shrugged. "Nothing too remarkable. Grew up in London mostly, but like I said before, my family’s from Ayutthaya—roots run deep there. My mother never lets me forget it."

Sarocha’s expression didn’t shift, but something in the air did. The faintest ripple in the humidity, almost like a silent inhale from the city itself.

Rebecca hesitated. Did that mean something to her?

She took a sip of her own wine before continuing, subtly watching Sarocha’s reaction. "I spent summers in Thailand as a kid, learned about my family’s history, some old myths, the traditions. I suppose that’s what led me to archaeology—always felt like the past had a way of whispering to me."

Sarocha tilted her head slightly. "And what is it whispering now?"

Rebecca let out a small, dry laugh. "That you know more than you’re letting on."

Sarocha’s lips parted slightly, just for a moment, before she exhaled and set her glass down. "Rebecca—"

"I mean, your family," Rebecca pressed, watching her closely. "Where are you from?"

The shift was immediate. The warmth in Sarocha’s expression cooled, her gaze sharpening with quiet disapproval. "You’re doing it again."

Rebecca blinked. "Doing what?"

"Pushing," Sarocha said simply.

Rebecca leaned forward slightly, gripping the stem of her glass. "You can’t blame me for being curious. It’s not every day someone hires a team to dig up ancient ruins on their land and then refuses to talk about why."

Sarocha’s fingers drummed once against the table, slow and deliberate. "Curiosity is a dangerous thing."

The statement sent a chill down Rebecca’s spine, though she refused to let it show. "So is secrecy."

For a long moment, Sarocha just watched her, unreadable as ever. And then—without warning—she changed tactics.

"You really don’t see it, do you?"

Rebecca frowned. "See what?"

Sarocha leaned in slightly, her presence suddenly closer, the space between them evaporating. Her voice dropped, low and smooth. "The way you look at me."

Rebecca’s breath hitched.

Sarocha tilted her head, studying her with lazy interest, like a predator toying with its prey. "You ask all these questions, you dig and you pry, but you’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are."

Rebecca swallowed hard. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sarocha smirked. "Liar."

Heat crawled up Rebecca’s neck, and she fought the urge to shift in her seat. She wasn’t used to being read so easily, so thoroughly.

Sarocha lifted her hand then, slow and deliberate, reaching across the table. Before Rebecca could react, she took her wrist, fingers brushing over the golden bracelet.

The moment their skin made contact, something happened.

A sudden pulse of energy. A crackling in the air.

The candles on the table flickered violently, the water in their glasses rippling as if struck by an unseen force. The river behind them stilled for the briefest second before shifting again, a whisper of motion that seemed wrong.

Rebecca gasped, her wrist jolting slightly in Sarocha’s grasp. "What—?"

Sarocha, too, looked startled, her brows furrowing as she immediately let go. The energy between them dissipated, leaving only the night air thick with unanswered questions.

Silence stretched between them, tense and uncertain.

Finally, Sarocha sat back, her expression carefully composed once more. "That," she murmured, "was unexpected."

Rebecca stared at her, breath still uneven, her pulse thrumming against the weight of the bracelet.

She wasn’t sure what had just happened.

But she knew, without a doubt, that she wasn’t imagining things anymore.

Rebecca’s heart raced as she stared at the empty space where Sarocha’s hand had just been. The aftershock of the strange, crackling energy still hung in the air, thick and palpable, like the moment before a thunderstorm. She didn’t know what to say, her thoughts a chaotic jumble of confusion and frustration.

She tried to keep her breathing steady, but it was impossible. The intensity of the sensation left her feeling like she was teetering on the edge of something vast and ungraspable.

"You’re not going to leave me like this, are you?" she finally asked, her voice more fragile than she intended. She needed to know—anything. She needed to understand what had just happened.

Sarocha was silent for a long moment. She didn’t seem the least bit unsettled by the incident, but her gaze lingered on Rebecca with an intensity that felt more predatory than comforting. The air around them felt heavier now, the soft light of the candles flickering more rapidly. Even the distant sound of the river seemed to shift, the waters moving in a rhythm that wasn’t quite natural.

Then, just as Rebecca’s anxiety began to bubble over, Sarocha leaned forward, her presence enveloping her like a blanket of power. "Calm yourself," she said, her voice low, but there was something about it—something in the way she spoke—that made Rebecca’s pulse slow, the panic that had gripped her lessening, if only slightly.

Sarocha’s eyes were steady, her gaze unwavering, but it wasn’t just the words that calmed Rebecca. It was everything. The way Sarocha moved, the subtle, unspoken command in her posture, the quiet confidence that radiated off her like a distant storm. It was otherworldly, almost hypnotic, and Rebecca found herself leaning back into the chair, though every instinct screamed at her to not relax.

As if sensing her hesitation, Sarocha continued. "I don’t fully understand it either," she admitted, her voice softer now, though still laden with a presence that couldn’t be denied. "This... connection between us. This... bond. Whatever it is, it wasn’t supposed to happen."

Rebecca swallowed, feeling both relieved and more unsettled than before. "So... you’re saying you didn’t know?" she asked, trying to grasp the edge of the situation.

Sarocha gave a small, bitter laugh. "Of course not. The last time I felt something like that... it was nothing like this."

Rebecca frowned, still not sure what to make of this admission. "But you do know something, don’t you? You know something about what’s going on. About us."

Sarocha didn’t answer right away, her eyes flickering to the water, which was still moving in strange ripples, as though stirred by some unseen current. There was a tension there, as if even the river itself was reacting to their proximity. "Something has changed," she murmured, almost to herself. "But I can’t say what. Not yet."

Rebecca felt a flicker of frustration. She had so many questions, and yet, Sarocha remained as closed off as ever, her answers always just out of reach.

Sarocha finally looked back at her, her expression unreadable, but there was something—something about the way her lips parted, the way her gaze locked onto Rebecca’s—that felt too intimate. "What I do know," she continued slowly, "is that whatever this is between us... it’s not something either of us can escape from."

The weight of her words settled in the space between them, heavy and thick.

Rebecca could feel it. Something had changed. Something unseen. A shift, an invisible force binding them together. And despite all her resistance, she couldn’t deny that she could feel it too, like an invisible thread woven through their very souls.

She had always been a skeptic when it came to the supernatural, but now—now, with the golden bracelet pulsing lightly against her wrist and the air humming with an energy she couldn’t understand—she found herself questioning everything.

Rebecca leaned forward, her voice barely a whisper. "You’re not going to just leave me to figure this out alone, are you?"

Sarocha’s gaze softened, just for a second, before it hardened once more. "What do you expect me to do?" Her words were steady, but there was an edge to them, something sharp. "I can’t offer you any answers. Not yet."

Rebecca’s chest tightened. "Then why are we even here, Sarocha? Why keep me around if you’re not going to tell me what’s happening?"

Sarocha’s eyes flickered briefly to the server, who had come to take their orders. With a simple gesture, Sarocha gave her a nod, and the server began taking down their choices—her choices. It was only after the woman had left that Sarocha’s gaze returned to Rebecca, sharp and unwavering.

"I told you," she said, her voice cool, "that you need to let go of the need for control."

Rebecca blinked, caught off guard by the bite in Sarocha’s tone. "Control? What do you mean?"

Sarocha’s lips curled, a hint of something darker in her smile. "You, Rebecca. You’re trying too hard to hold on to something. You think you can control everything around you. Your work. Your choices. Your thoughts." She leaned forward, and the power in her presence intensified, settling between them like a heavy weight. "But you can’t control me. You can’t control what’s happening now. And you certainly can’t control how you feel."

Rebecca was silent for a moment, the tension in the air suffocating, but also undeniably thrilling. She felt exposed in a way she hadn’t anticipated, as if every thought, every emotion, was being laid bare for Sarocha to see.

She opened her mouth to argue, to push back, but found herself stopped by the cold realization that Sarocha was right—she had no control. The power dynamic between them was clear, and she was too far gone to turn back now.

Before Rebecca could respond, Sarocha’s hand reached for her wrist again, but this time, there was no lingering touch. Sarocha gripped the golden bracelet firmly, her fingers wrapping around it as though she could extract something from it. The sudden physical contact jolted Rebecca, but instead of pulling away, she felt a strange warmth spreading from her wrist, moving up her arm, like Sarocha’s touch was both soothing and commanding.

"Do you understand?" Sarocha asked softly, her voice almost imperceptibly softer than before.

Rebecca’s heart raced again, her breath coming faster. No. She didn’t understand. She didn’t know what was happening, or why Sarocha had such power over her. But one thing was undeniable—this wasn’t just a dinner. This wasn’t just a conversation.

They were caught in something far larger than either of them could predict. And for the first time in a long while, Rebecca wasn’t sure whether she wanted to break free—or let the currents carry her wherever they were going.

The soft hum of the restaurant's ambiance, the quiet murmur of conversation, and the clinking of silverware seemed distant, as though muffled by an invisible barrier. In the low light, Rebecca could hardly focus on the food in front of her. Each bite seemed tasteless, each word in her mouth an effort.

Sarocha sat across from her, poised and unbothered, but Rebecca could sense the subtle currents shifting beneath her calm exterior. Every movement Sarocha made, every glance, every shift in posture, felt like a magnet pulling at Rebecca’s very being. It was as though the very air had thickened with Sarocha's presence, each breath feeling heavier than the last.

Rebecca tried desperately to keep herself together. Just stay calm, she told herself, but it was impossible. Sarocha’s aura was overwhelming, an intangible force that filled the space between them, clawing at her senses. It was no longer just physical attraction—it was something more. It was as if the very elements of the room bent to her will, and Rebecca was drowning in it.

"Is the food not to your liking?" Sarocha asked, her voice smooth, every syllable coated in something Rebecca couldn’t quite place. Her gaze didn’t leave Rebecca’s face, and the pressure only increased. It was as though Sarocha’s eyes were locked on her soul.

Rebecca blinked, snapping out of the haze for just a moment. "No, it’s fine." She forced herself to take another bite, though she barely tasted it.

Sarocha’s lips curled into a smile, a fraction of a smirk, and Rebecca’s stomach tightened at the unspoken challenge in the expression. She was becoming aware of the way Sarocha was studying her, the deliberate ease with which she moved, as though every action was made to command attention and awe. The power radiated from her, visible now in ways Rebecca couldn’t ignore—wouldn’t ignore.

“You’re being unusually quiet, Rebecca,” Sarocha continued, her tone casual but layered with intent. “Is it the food, or something else that’s distracting you?” Her voice dipped low, like a ripple across still water.

Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat. Was it just her, or did Sarocha know exactly what was happening?

“I—" Rebecca hesitated, trying to pull herself back from the brink of whatever had overtaken her. "I just... find it hard to focus with you around. With... all of this." She waved her hand between them, though her gesture felt weak, small in comparison to the weight pressing down on her.

Sarocha's smile deepened, but there was something more to it now—a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “All of this?” She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering further. "What exactly do you mean by that, Rebecca? Is it just me, or is it... something more?"

Rebecca flinched, though she quickly masked it with a deep breath. She couldn’t deny it—Sarocha was doing something to her. There was an invisible thread between them now, pulling her closer against her will, tightening with every passing moment. It was hard to think, to breathe, to act without her attention being drawn to Sarocha’s every movement. The air felt thicker, the temperature rising ever so slightly.

"Don’t play games," Rebecca snapped, her voice coming out more sharply than she intended. "I can’t keep up with this. I don’t even know what’s happening between us. Every time I think I’m starting to get a grip, it slips away. You slip away." She shook her head, frustration building. "I can’t figure you out, Sarocha. I can’t even keep a conversation going without feeling like... like you’re controlling everything. I want some honesty for once!"

The words left her before she could stop them, her emotions spilling out in a tide of frustration. Rebecca had spent most of her life in control of every situation, every conversation. And yet, here she was, unraveling in front of someone who wasn’t even trying to make her feel like this.

Sarocha’s expression shifted, but not in the way Rebecca expected. It wasn’t anger, nor was it discomfort. No, it was something far more dangerous—amusement. A dangerous, knowing look flickered in her eyes as she slowly sat back, her body language shifting to something more relaxed, yet still undeniably authoritative.

"You think you’re the only one who’s confused, Rebecca?" Sarocha’s voice was like velvet, but there was an underlying edge to it, sharp as a knife hidden in the softness. "I’m not playing games. I’ve never played them. You’re the one who can’t see the truth, aren’t you?"

Rebecca opened her mouth to argue, but the words faltered. She didn’t know what the truth was anymore. Everything felt like a twisted reflection, each glance at Sarocha making it harder to untangle.

“I’ve told you before,” Sarocha continued, her tone now unyielding, her eyes never leaving Rebecca’s face. “You can’t control me. You can’t control what’s happening between us. You can’t control how you feel.”

Rebecca’s breath hitched, something inside her breaking at the unspoken words between them. "Stop," she said, but the command was weak. Weak against the pull, weak against the force of the woman across from her.

Sarocha's gaze darkened, and with it, the air in the restaurant seemed to shift. The weight of her presence expanded, no longer something subtle but powerful, undeniable.

Rebecca looked away, feeling the rush of something dangerous unfurling inside of her. 'She can’t do this', she thought. 'She can’t keep doing this to me.'

But even as the words floated through her mind, they felt hollow. Because Rebecca knew, on some level, that she didn’t want Sarocha to stop.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with the tension they’d created, both caught in an unspoken standoff. Then, finally, Sarocha broke it with a smooth, deliberate movement. She reached across the table, her hand almost gliding through the space between them. Her fingers brushed against Rebecca’s, the contact sending a jolt of energy through the air.

Sarocha’s touch wasn’t gentle. It was commanding, and it left Rebecca breathless. There was a moment of stillness—Rebecca frozen, unable to look away, as Sarocha’s grip tightened ever so slightly, a subtle pull that drew Rebecca closer.

“I never said I wanted you to understand, Rebecca,” Sarocha whispered, her voice low but laced with a hint of something dangerous. "You don’t need to understand. All you need to do is accept that I’m the one in control here."

The finality in her tone left Rebecca reeling, her head spinning as the weight of Sarocha’s words sank in. Her thoughts raced, but no clarity came. Only the overwhelming presence of Sarocha and the strange pull between them remained—an unspoken power that neither could deny.

Rebecca felt a flush of heat rise to her face, her frustration now mingling with something else—something she couldn’t name, something dangerous, something irresistible.

She wanted to snap back. She wanted to fight.

But deep down, she knew. She knew that this battle wasn’t one she could win.

---

The car hummed quietly through the streets, the city lights casting fleeting shadows across the leather seats. Rebecca sat stiffly beside Sarocha, her hands curled tightly in her lap, her mind a flurry of confusion and desire she couldn’t control. The tension from the evening had followed them back into the car, thick and palpable, wrapping around them like an unspoken promise neither could escape. Every inch of space between them felt charged, as if the air itself was crackling with anticipation.

Rebecca wanted to say something, anything to break the silence, but every word seemed to stick in her throat. The events of the evening—Sarocha’s overwhelming presence, her touch, the strange force between them—had left her disoriented. The moment when Sarocha had gripped her wrist, sending a shock through her body, still lingered on her skin. It was as if a spark had ignited, one she couldn’t put out, no matter how hard she tried.

As the car slowed outside her hotel, the headlights cast long shadows, making the night feel even more intimate. Sarocha turned off the engine, but neither of them moved. The silence between them was heavy, thick with something unspoken. The magnetic pull between them had only intensified.

Sarocha’s eyes, dark and unreadable, met Rebecca’s gaze. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the air heavy with anticipation. Then, without a word, Sarocha’s hand slid across the console, fingers brushing against Rebecca’s knee in a smooth, deliberate motion.

Rebecca flinched slightly, a wave of nervous energy rushing through her. She immediately shifted away, her heart racing as her mind scrambled for some form of control.

“What are you doing?” she managed to ask, her voice barely a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile balance between them.

Sarocha didn’t move, her eyes locked onto Rebecca’s, unwavering. “What I’ve been doing all night,” she replied, her voice low and smooth, a subtle edge of command underneath. “You can’t pretend you don’t feel it, Rebecca. The pull. The attraction.” Her hand remained where it was, hovering close to Rebecca’s skin, waiting for permission. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Rebecca swallowed hard, her pulse thundering in her ears. She was torn—part of her wanted to lean into the pull, to let Sarocha’s touch wrap around her like a coil, while another part of her screamed for clarity. She knew she should pull away, should tell Sarocha to stop, but something inside her, something deep and primal, wanted to be touched. Wanted to feel that rush again.

Her chest tightened, and for a moment, the world outside the car seemed to disappear. It was just them, in this small, enclosed space, trapped in the magnetic field of their own desires.

“Please,” Rebecca breathed out, her voice raw, “What do you want from me, Sarocha? What is this?”

Sarocha’s eyes softened just slightly, but the intensity never left her gaze. She shifted, her body drawing closer as she took a breath. The tension was thick enough to slice with a knife. “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly, her hand inching closer, brushing just along the edge of Rebecca’s arm, as if testing the waters. “I just... when you’re near me, Rebecca, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.” Her voice faltered for a brief second, as if the words were hard to admit. “Something I thought I had long buried.”

Rebecca’s chest tightened, her breath catching as she felt the weight of those words. Her heart pounded in her ears, and despite herself, she felt the heat of Sarocha’s presence in her veins, her skin burning where their proximity met. Every nerve in her body seemed alive, each one aching for the touch Sarocha offered. And yet, there was a fear bubbling beneath it all, a fear of losing control, a fear of giving in to something she didn’t understand.

Sarocha reached out once more, this time her fingers gently grazing Rebecca’s wrist, her touch warm and deliberate. It was an invitation, soft but undeniable. She was no longer asking for permission—she was claiming the space between them, asserting her dominance in the most subtle, most intimate way.

Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to pull away, wanted to tell Sarocha to stop. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Her body betrayed her, leaning in, just a little, her lips parted as she stared into Sarocha’s eyes. The moment between them felt endless, suspended in time, as if the entire universe had faded away, leaving only them in this charged, electric space.

Sarocha’s gaze flickered down to Rebecca’s lips, her own parted just slightly, her breath steady but quickening. The tension between them hummed, thick and undeniable, as if the very air around them had become a living thing. It was all too much, and yet, it was exactly what Rebecca had been craving. Something she couldn’t name. Something she couldn’t resist.

And then, just as the distance between them closed and their lips were mere inches apart, a sharp knock on the window shattered the moment, sending them both jumping apart in surprise.

Rebecca blinked rapidly, her heart racing, her thoughts spinning. A hotel valet was standing outside the car, holding his hand up in a polite but unsure gesture.

Sarocha’s expression darkened for a moment, but she quickly masked it, offering a polite nod in response. She glanced at Rebecca, her eyes dark and full of unspoken words.

“Seems we’re not quite done yet,” Sarocha murmured, her voice husky. She leaned back into her seat, eyes lingering on Rebecca for a beat longer before she shifted into the driver’s seat and started the car again, the tension between them still hanging in the air.

Rebecca, still reeling from the near kiss, didn’t know whether she wanted to scream or sink into the chair. She could still feel the heat of Sarocha’s touch lingering on her skin, the magnetic pull of her presence too strong to resist. She wanted to know more. She wanted answers.

But for now, all she could do was stare into the night, breathless and burning, as the car pulled away from the hotel, the evening stretching before them like an endless promise.

Chapter Text

The moonlight gleamed brightly over the river in Rebecca’s dream, the water shimmering like liquid silver, flowing swiftly through the untouched land. She was standing near its edge, the cold air brushing against her skin, though the dream had a strange warmth to it. The air felt dense, charged with something ancient, something she couldn't name but somehow felt in her bones.

The world around her was both familiar and foreign, a surreal blend of past and present, like an old memory twisted with time. The setting wasn’t modern—everything seemed older, more primal. The riverbank was lined with thick trees that seemed to pulse with life, their branches heavy with blossoms that glowed softly in the moonlight. The stars were far brighter, and the air heavier, saturated with a tangible energy that whispered of something other. Something ancient.

In the haze of it all, a woman appeared—her presence both graceful and commanding. Rebecca couldn’t see her clearly; her features blurred and shifting, as though the woman was more of an idea, a feeling, than a real person. The woman’s form was striking, ethereal, with dark, flowing hair that caught the light, moving with an unnatural fluidity. Her eyes, though, they were unmistakable—dark and knowing, filled with a depth that reached into Rebecca’s very soul.

The dream woman moved closer, her steps light but purposeful. She spoke, but the words were like a song—a melodic hum in the air that resonated deeply within Rebecca’s chest, yet the words themselves were impossible to catch.

Before Rebecca could move, the woman’s hands were on her. They were warm, impossibly soft, like silk sliding over her skin, yet with a force that was unmistakably dominant. The touch was like fire and ice, igniting something deep within Rebecca that she couldn’t control.

In the next moment, they were pressed against each other, the dream woman’s body melding with hers as though they had always been one. Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding wildly. There was a moment of clarity in the haze: this was not just a dream. This was something deeper, something more intense, and it was real. The woman’s aura shimmered around them, an otherworldly glow that seemed to bend reality itself. She moved as if in perfect harmony with Rebecca’s own body, guiding her, leading her into something that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

Then, the moment fractured—snapping in and out, like a shattered reflection on the surface of the river.

Rebecca could feel herself losing focus, unable to keep up with the blurred fragments of sensations and images. The woman’s eyes were still locked onto hers, but everything else felt distorted. The river churned, its water becoming darker, thicker, as the sound of distant, whispering voices echoed around them. The dream became fractured, slipping in and out of clarity. The woman’s form began to twist, shifting—at one moment an ethereal beauty, and the next, something darker, more serpentine, as if the water itself was coming to life.

Rebecca tried to move, tried to break free from the swirling sensations, but she couldn’t. She was trapped in the feeling—the undeniable weight of the woman’s presence, the heat of her touch. A sharp breath caught in her throat, and her body froze.

Who was this woman? What was this place?

But before she could grasp any of it, the dream shattered completely. The river’s surface rippled violently, splitting like glass, and everything fell away into darkness.

---

Rebecca woke with a start, gasping for breath as if she had just come up for air after being submerged for too long. Her body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, her pulse thundering in her chest. For a moment, she lay still, disoriented, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream.

But something in her gut told her it was more than just a dream. The air around her felt heavier now, like the weight of the night had settled deeper into her skin. And there, just as she reached for the blanket to pull it closer, she felt the unmistakable pressure of the bracelet on her wrist.

It was glowing. Not intensely, but there was a subtle, pulsing warmth emanating from it, as if it had awakened from its slumber—just like she had. The sensation was faint, almost imperceptible, but it lingered, buzzing beneath her skin, reminding her of the dream. Of the woman. Of the Naga.

Rebecca’s fingers instinctively reached for the bracelet, her breath catching as she traced the golden links. The warmth she had felt in the dream seemed to be seeping into her, winding its way through her veins. What was happening?

Her mind was still spinning with the images of the dream—the intensity, the foreignness, and that feeling, that connection. The woman, the dream, the river... It was all so real, but it didn’t make sense.

And then there was Sarocha.

Her name reverberated in Rebecca’s mind, unbidden. It wasn’t just her name—it was her presence. Even in the stillness of the room, it felt like Sarocha was there, like her aura, her energy, was woven into the very air Rebecca breathed.

Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the sensation away, but it was futile. The feeling of Sarocha’s presence was inescapable. That magnetism—that pull. The dream, the bracelet, the energy—they were all linked. But how?

She sat up slowly, her body still trembling, her skin humming with the lingering sensations of the dream. Her head was spinning with questions, but one thing was clear—whatever this was, whatever was happening between them, it was no longer just some fleeting attraction. This was something far beyond her comprehension, something tied to her very core. To the bracelet. To the Naga.

And, more than anything, she couldn’t seem to get Sarocha out of her mind.

---

The excavation site was quiet, the usual hum of activity subdued in the heat of the afternoon. The workers were taking a break, some sitting under shade tents, others pacing around in the dry dirt. Rebecca stood by the edge of the site, staring out over the dig, trying to process everything that had been happening lately.

Her fingers gently traced the golden bracelet on her wrist as she thought back to the night before—her dream, the strange, almost otherworldly connection she felt with Sarocha, and how it seemed to have only deepened after their interactions.

Why couldn’t it just be simple?

A soft rustle broke her concentration, and she turned to find Dr. Ananda approaching. The archaeologist was holding his notebook in one hand, his brow furrowed in thought, as usual.

“You’re not looking too well, Rebecca,” he said gently, giving her a concerned look. “Have you been sleeping?”

Rebecca forced a smile, her exhaustion evident but hidden behind her usual demeanor. “Just fine. I’m fine.”

Ananda gave her a skeptical look before glancing down at her wrist, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the bracelet. “It’s still on, then?”

Rebecca hesitated before nodding. “Yes. Still on. Doesn’t seem like it’s coming off.”

Ananda looked pensive, his gaze flicking back to her wrist before returning to meet her eyes. He adjusted his glasses and took a step closer, lowering his voice just slightly, as if the topic was too sensitive to discuss openly.

“I don’t mean to pry, but… what did Sarocha think of this?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and caution.

Rebecca felt a rush of heat to her face at the mention of Sarocha’s name. Her mind immediately flashed to the dinner, the charge in the air between them, the strange, inexplicable pull she felt whenever Sarocha was near. She didn’t want to reveal too much. There were already too many questions she didn’t have answers to.

“I’m not sure,” she said, her voice deliberately neutral. “I haven’t exactly had the chance to ask her about it.”

Ananda’s gaze was sharp. “Interesting,” he mused, almost to himself. “They say the Naga are highly attuned to these kinds of things. They’ll sense the bracelet’s presence, the connection it holds.”

Rebecca swallowed, biting her lip. She knew Ananda was right. Sarocha’s presence always seemed to heighten when she was near the bracelet. But there was no way she was going to share the full extent of what had been happening between them—not yet, at least. There was still so much she didn’t understand. And every time she tried to unravel the threads, they seemed to pull tighter.

Noticing her unease, Ananda shifted the topic. “In any case,” he continued, “I’d suggest you continue to be careful. The bracelet’s power is not something to underestimate. Its ties to the Naga are ancient and deep.”

Rebecca nodded but said nothing, unsure of how to respond. She hadn’t even begun to understand its significance, let alone how it was so intricately linked to her current predicament. Her thoughts lingered on her dream, the woman by the river—the Naga—and how her presence had seemed to bleed into the real world, as though she and the bracelet were calling to Rebecca in some way.

Her curiosity burned brighter than before, and she couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that the legends were somehow connected to her. The Naga were creatures of mystery, tied to the land and water in ways that made them seem part of the very fabric of nature. But there was more to it than that, something far darker, a curse that had been sealed away long ago, yet its effects seemed to persist, and now Rebecca seemed caught in its web.

“I’ve been thinking,” Rebecca started, her voice steady but quieter now. “You mentioned the legends of the Naga before. About the human guardians who protected them, right?”

Ananda’s expression softened, and he nodded. “Yes. According to the texts, the Naga were once protected by human guardians—chosen individuals who were bonded to them. The guardians’ role was to maintain the balance between the human and Naga worlds, ensuring peace. But… one of those guardians failed. They were unable to keep the balance, and as punishment, the Naga were cursed. And from that moment, their powers became bound, chained to some curse.”

Rebecca furrowed her brows, trying to piece the fragments together. “And what happened to the guardian who failed?”

Ananda hesitated before answering. “The records are unclear. Some say the guardian perished in the attempt to protect the Naga, others say they vanished, exiled for their failure. But one thing is certain—the failure of the guardian set the Naga’s curse in motion. The bond between them and the human world was severed.”

Rebecca’s pulse quickened as she felt the weight of the words. A guardian who failed? That idea seemed so far removed from her reality, but now, with the bracelet around her wrist, she couldn’t help but wonder.

Could it be that one of the Naga’s guardians had… failed? Could that be why she’s here? Why the bracelet is so determined to stay with her?

The thought twisted in her chest, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow she was connected to that failure, that curse. But how? Why? And what did it all mean for her and Sarocha?

Ananda continued, unaware of the storm of thoughts brewing inside Rebecca. “I can’t offer much clarity. The records were destroyed long ago, lost to time. What’s left are only the fragments, pieces of a story so old no one can fully understand it.”

Rebecca was quiet for a long moment, the fragments of the dream and the uneasy connection between her and Sarocha pressing on her mind. The pieces didn’t fit. She didn’t know how to make sense of any of it, but she couldn’t stop trying. Every new piece of information seemed to only add more questions. The answers felt just out of reach, like trying to catch a shadow.

“Thank you, Dr. Ananda,” Rebecca said after a long silence. “I appreciate your help. I think… I think I need some time to think all of this through.”

Ananda gave her a nod, his gaze lingering on her thoughtfully. “Of course. Just be careful, Rebecca. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, it might be far more dangerous than you realize.”

Rebecca watched him walk away, his words echoing in her mind as she stood there, staring out at the excavation site once more. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and unanswered questions, and in the middle of it all, Sarocha’s image lingered, both tantalizing and terrifying.

She had no answers, only the feeling that something was coming—something that would bring all of this to a head. But until then, all she could do was keep searching for the truth. Even if it meant losing herself in the process.

---

As the day came to a close at the excavation site, Rebecca was preparing to leave when Dr. Ananda approached her, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“I almost forgot,” he said, pulling a small envelope from his jacket. “We’ve been invited to a charity event this evening. It’s at a rooftop bar in the city. It’s a fundraiser for the university’s archaeology department. Sarocha’s using some of our findings to garner support. She’s been quite generous.”

Rebecca froze for a moment, her thoughts immediately racing. Sarocha. The name alone caused an involuntary flutter in her chest. The idea of seeing her again had both excited and terrified her. Every encounter left her feeling like she was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something she didn’t fully understand.

“Oh,” Rebecca replied, trying to keep her voice steady, though her pulse quickened. “That sounds… great. I guess I’ll go.”

Ananda, ever the observant one, didn’t miss her sudden shift in demeanor. “You sure? I’d understand if you—”

“No, it’s fine,” Rebecca cut him off, forcing a smile. “I’ll go. It’s just… I don’t know. It’s been a lot lately.”

“I understand,” he said, giving her a sympathetic nod. “But it could be good for you. A bit of a distraction.”

Rebecca nodded absently as her mind swirled. She wanted to see Sarocha again, but the thought of being near her again, especially with the growing intensity between them, was making her feel increasingly anxious. The bracelet on her wrist seemed to pulse, almost as if it was aware of the impending proximity between them.

---

As the evening approached, Rebecca found herself rushing through the hotel room, quickly getting dressed and making herself presentable for the event. Her mind kept returning to Sarocha—What would she wear? How would she act? The last time they’d been together, their connection had been electric, charged with something neither of them could explain. The unknown seemed to draw her in even as it repelled her.

When Rebecca arrived at the rooftop bar, the city sprawled beneath them, the lights of Bangkok twinkling like a million tiny stars. The bar was upscale, the kind of place where everything was sleek, polished, and almost too perfect. Guests were mingling in clusters, sipping cocktails and laughing in soft, polite tones. Yet despite the beauty of the evening, Rebecca couldn’t shake the tightening sensation in her chest.

She hadn’t been able to avoid the curiosity and the unease for long. As soon as she stepped onto the terrace, she spotted Sarocha across the room, standing in the middle of a circle of guests. Her presence seemed to fill the space, though she didn’t speak much. She was dressed in a deep wine red off-shoulder dress that complimented her sharp features, her hair perfectly styled. The lights reflected off of her in an almost otherworldly way, as if she were glowing, her aura pulsing with a quiet power that was impossible to ignore.

Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t help herself—she stared.

She’s stunning. The thought was almost too simple to describe how Rebecca felt in that moment. There was something about Sarocha that seemed more ethereal, more commanding than before. It was as if her power, whatever it was, was becoming stronger, more tangible.

But despite the overwhelming allure, something felt off. Sarocha wasn’t approaching. She wasn’t seeking Rebecca out as she had before. Instead, she stood there, in the midst of the crowd, but her eyes—those intense, dark eyes—kept drifting over to Rebecca.

The unspoken tension was palpable, the pull between them unmistakable, yet Sarocha made no move to bridge the gap. Rebecca, feeling the heat of her gaze, tried to stay composed. She tried to focus on the event, on the conversation she was having with a few of the other guests, but every time she glanced across the room, she found Sarocha’s eyes on her, watching her from a distance.

Sarocha… The name echoed in Rebecca’s mind like a silent song, a melody that threatened to drown out all the noise around her.

As the minutes stretched into hours, Rebecca began to feel the weight of the silence between them. Sarocha hadn’t moved closer. She’d stayed aloof, distant, as though some invisible boundary had been drawn between them. Rebecca couldn’t understand why. She thought they’d shared something—a connection that went deeper than either of them could admit. But now, Sarocha seemed content to remain where she was, watching Rebecca with a gaze that was both unreadable and intensely magnetic.

Rebecca, already on edge from the earlier chaos in her thoughts, felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She tried to convince herself it didn’t matter, that she wasn’t here to chase after answers from Sarocha. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Sarocha’s distance was a test—and she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sarocha turned and walked toward the balcony, her back straight and proud, her movements smooth and purposeful. Rebecca’s breath hitched, and her legs moved before she could even think, drawing her toward the woman who seemed to haunt her every thought.

But Sarocha never looked back. She continued on her way, leaving Rebecca standing in the middle of the bar, feeling strangely bereft, as if something she hadn’t even realized she’d wanted had just slipped through her fingers.

Rebecca stood there for a long while, watching her, her heart heavy with the weight of the unspoken. What was happening? Why was Sarocha pulling away? Or was this something else entirely?

---

The music from the rooftop bar thumped steadily in the background, the beat of it like a pulse beneath the cool night air. Rebecca felt the rhythm pull her in, the atmosphere vibrant with the laughter and chatter of the guests. But despite the lively energy, she couldn’t ignore the gnawing emptiness inside her. Sarocha’s absence, or rather her distance, felt like a physical weight on Rebecca’s chest, a subtle pressure that made it hard to breathe freely.

And then, as if to fill the void, a stranger approached.

He was tall, with an easy smile and eyes that sparkled like polished amber. He asked her to dance, and before Rebecca could even think, she found herself in his arms, letting him guide her onto the floor. The dance was light, playful even, a far cry from the storm swirling inside her.

But no matter how much she tried to focus on the stranger—on his charm, his laughter, the way his hand rested casually at her waist—she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Every step, every shift of her body, she could almost feel it. Sarocha’s gaze was like a smoldering flame from across the room, sharp and intense, locking onto her as if Rebecca were the only person who mattered in the crowded space.

The air grew thicker around her. The moisture in the atmosphere seemed to shift, the beads of condensation on the glasses on nearby tables becoming restless, vibrating as if responding to an unseen force. Rebecca’s pulse quickened, and she found herself pulling away from the stranger slightly, her body instinctively reacting to the invisible tension in the room.

The man didn’t notice, of course. He was still smiling, still attempting to make small talk as they swirled on the dance floor. But Rebecca couldn’t hear his words anymore. All she could hear was the steady thrum of her own heart and the suffocating weight of Sarocha’s presence.

And then it hit her—it was jealousy.

Sarocha’s jealousy.

It was something primal, something so raw that Rebecca felt it clawing at her insides, the possessiveness of it making her breath catch in her throat. But Sarocha remained silent, unmoving. She didn’t act, didn’t make her move—she just watched, like a predator assessing the situation from the shadows.

Rebecca knew what she had to do next. She needed to get away from the stranger. She needed to see Sarocha, feel that heat between them once again.

When the stranger led her to the bar, ordering drinks with a smoothness that only added to his polished charm, Rebecca barely noticed the drink in her hand. She could only focus on the feeling of being trapped between two forces, each pulling her in opposite directions. But the moment the first sip touched her lips, it was as if the world had slowed down.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sarocha approaching.

And then, like a storm rolling in, Sarocha’s presence descended upon the bar. The air seemed to grow colder, the space around her constricting with a suffocating intensity. Her aura was overwhelming, a quiet power that made it impossible to look anywhere else. The stranger, who had been charming Rebecca with his flirtations, suddenly stiffened, aware of the shift in the atmosphere. He straightened, forcing a smile, though it looked more like an awkward grimace.

“Ms. Sarocha,” the stranger said, his voice smooth but cautious, as he turned toward her, clearly intimidated by the woman who loomed behind him. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

Sarocha’s gaze was cold, calculating, and she didn’t even look at the man. Her eyes locked onto Rebecca, a silent command that made Rebecca’s pulse jump. Her voice was cool, almost polite, as she addressed the stranger.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Sarocha said, her tone smooth as silk but laced with an underlying authority. “Rebecca is not interested.”

The stranger stammered, caught off guard by the abruptness, and for a split second, Rebecca almost felt sorry for him. But the moment passed in an instant, replaced by the familiar ache of desire that burned in her chest. As if sensing Rebecca’s discomfort, Sarocha turned her full attention to the stranger, her voice slipping into a smooth, venomous edge.

“I’m sure you understand. Rebecca is... occupied.”

Rebecca was frozen. She had no idea why she felt a sudden need to explain herself, to offer some kind of defense, but before she could, Sarocha was already steering the situation in her direction. With one final, cutting glance at the stranger, Sarocha took Rebecca’s arm with a force that made her pulse race. She didn’t say another word to him; she just moved Rebecca through the crowd, her fingers firm around Rebecca’s wrist, guiding her into a dimly lit hallway.

The moment they were alone, the air between them shifted, thickening with an electric intensity. Rebecca’s heart raced, her breath shallow, as she tried to process everything that had just happened. Her eyes met Sarocha’s, and in that gaze, Rebecca saw everything—desire, frustration, and something darker, something she couldn’t name.

Sarocha stepped closer, her presence overwhelming. Rebecca’s breath caught as Sarocha’s fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, sending a shock of heat through her veins. It felt like fire, and suddenly Rebecca couldn’t think, couldn’t move, only feel. She was acutely aware of every inch of Sarocha, of the way she stood so close, the smell of her skin, the heat emanating from her body.

For a moment, everything went still.

Then, in a breathless whisper, Sarocha’s lips were a fraction of an inch from Rebecca’s, their breath mingling in the space between them. Their gazes locked, and Rebecca felt like she was falling, like the ground beneath her had been ripped away, leaving only the pull between them, the unrelenting gravity of whatever force bound them together.

Just as Rebecca leaned in—helpless, burning—Sarocha pulled back.

"You don’t know what you’re playing with," she murmured, her voice tight, controlled, but laced with something raw beneath it.

The abrupt retreat sent a jolt of frustration through Rebecca, snapping her out of the trance. She blinked, breath ragged, anger and desire swirling in equal measure.

"Then tell me," Rebecca snapped, stepping forward, closing the gap Sarocha had created. "Tell me what the hell this is, why you keep doing this—pulling me in just to push me away."

Sarocha’s jaw clenched, her fingers flexing at her sides as if she were restraining herself. For a moment, it looked like she might answer. But then something flickered in her gaze—hesitation, or maybe fear—and she turned away instead.

Rebecca let out a sharp exhale, a bitter laugh escaping before she could stop it. "Right. Of course. More mystery. More silence." Her hands curled into fists. "You don’t want me to play with fire, but you’re the one lighting the damn match every time we’re near each other."

Sarocha stiffened, shoulders tense, but she still didn’t turn around. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

And then, without another word, Sarocha walked away.

Rebecca stood there, heart pounding, still burning with everything left unsaid. She hated how badly she wanted to go after her, to demand answers, to demand that Sarocha stay. But she didn’t.

Instead, she pressed a hand to her wrist, where the skin still tingled from Sarocha’s touch. The bracelet was warm, pulsing faintly, as if it had absorbed the fire between them.

Rebecca closed her eyes and exhaled.

She was in too deep. And she knew it.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Rebecca awoke with a dull ache lodged somewhere between her ribs. Sleep had been fitful—every time she drifted off, she saw flashes of last night. The way Sarocha had looked at her, the way the air had thickened with something tangible, something undeniable, only for her to turn away, leaving Rebecca stranded in a storm of unanswered questions and unfulfilled desires.

She groaned, rolling onto her side. Her body felt restless, skin too tight, as if something inside her was clawing to be let out. And then there was the bracelet.

The damn thing was burning against her wrist. Not quite painful, but a constant, pulsing presence, as if it had absorbed every charged moment from the night before and refused to let her forget.

With a sharp exhale, she dragged herself to the bathroom. A cold shower would help. Or so she told herself.

The water ran over her skin, but it did little to cool the fever lodged deep in her chest. Her thoughts spiraled—frustration, anger, longing—until she finally had enough.

Towel wrapped around her, hair dripping, she snatched up her phone and, without giving herself a chance to reconsider, sent a text.

Rebecca: 'You don’t get to keep doing this.'

A few moments later, her phone vibrated.

Sarocha: 'Doing what?'

Rebecca scoffed. Typical.

Rebecca: 'Acting like nothing is happening between us. Acting like last night didn’t mean anything.'

There was a long pause. Rebecca paced, heart pounding in her ears. Then—

Sarocha: 'It didn’t.'

Rebecca let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

Rebecca: 'Bullshit.'

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Sarocha: 'You don’t understand what you’re inviting, Rebecca. Walk away.'

Her jaw clenched. The sheer audacity.

Rebecca: 'Or what? You’ll keep playing your little game? Keep pulling me in only to push me away?'

Another pause.

Then, her phone lit up with an incoming video call.

Rebecca’s breath caught. She hesitated only a second before answering.

Sarocha’s face filled the screen, and even through the grain of the connection, she was stunning. Her dark eyes were unreadable, her expression carefully composed, but there was something else there, lurking beneath the surface.

"Rebecca." Her voice was smooth, but tight.

Rebecca swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. "You’re a coward."

Sarocha’s eyes darkened. "You think you know what you’re asking for, but you don’t."

"Then tell me," Rebecca shot back, frustration crackling in her voice. "Tell me what’s happening. Tell me why you act like you want me, like you need me, but then turn to ice the moment I get close."

Sarocha exhaled sharply, looking away for the briefest moment. When she turned back, something had shifted. The mask slipped, just enough.

"I do want you." The admission was low, almost reluctant. "That’s the problem."

Rebecca’s breath hitched. The heat between them, even through a damn screen, was suffocating.

"Then stop fighting it," she whispered.

Sarocha closed her eyes, jaw tightening. When she spoke again, it was quieter. "I have to."

Rebecca’s chest ached. "Why?"

Sarocha’s lips parted, but no answer came. Just silence. Thick, heavy.

And then, just like last night, she pulled away.

"I have to go."

The call ended.

Rebecca stared at the dark screen, pulse hammering.

She was going to lose her mind.

The moment the call ended, Rebecca sat frozen, phone clutched tight in her grip. A low burn of frustration and something deeper, something raw, settled in her chest.

She wasn’t letting this go.

Rebecca: 'We’re not done. We need to talk.'

The message was marked as read almost instantly. But no reply came.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, mind racing. And then—

Sarocha: 'Get dressed.'

Rebecca blinked, startled.

Rebecca: 'What?'

Sarocha: 'The towel was… distracting.'

Rebecca’s pulse spiked. A slow, disbelieving smile curled on her lips, despite herself.

Rebecca: 'Why does that matter?'

Before she could send another, a knock sounded at her door.

Her stomach dropped.

Slowly, cautiously, she set her phone down and crossed the room. The air beyond the door felt different, thick with something unseen. Her fingers hesitated on the handle before she pulled it open.

And there she was.

Sarocha stood at the threshold, dark and imposing, her presence suffocating in its intensity. The low-lit hallway cast shifting shadows over her form, and for a moment—just a fleeting second—Rebecca saw something else.

The smoothness of Sarocha’s skin took on an unnatural sheen, almost like scales catching light. The pupils of her eyes, already dark, flickered into something narrow, slitted. There was a glimmer in the air around her, a shimmer that made reality bend, making her presence feel less human and more… something else.

Rebecca inhaled sharply, but before she could speak, Sarocha stepped forward, crossing the threshold without invitation, her presence pressing into Rebecca’s space with effortless dominance.

"Close the door," she said, voice low.

Rebecca barely registered the motion as she pushed the door shut behind her.

She swallowed, throat dry. "You—"

Sarocha’s gaze dropped, scanning over Rebecca’s frame—her bare legs, the way the towel barely clung to her body.

Rebecca's breath hitched, heat creeping up her spine.

A slow smirk curled at Sarocha’s lips. "Go get dressed," she murmured.

Rebecca’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She turned on her heel and fled to the bedroom.

---

The silence between them was thick, charged with the same restless energy that had been haunting Rebecca since Sarocha stepped into her room.

She had dressed quickly, but it hadn't done much to lessen the intimacy of the moment. Now, as they stood opposite each other in the dimly lit living area, the air pressed down, the space between them feeling too small, too heavy with unspoken things.

Rebecca exhaled sharply, folding her arms. "What do you want, Sarocha?"

Sarocha, leaning against the back of the sofa, merely tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

Rebecca let out a humorless laugh. "I mean you can’t seem to decide whether to keep me at arm’s length or invade my space whenever it suits you." She took a step closer, searching Sarocha’s face. "You told me I don’t know what I’m playing with. But do you?"

Sarocha’s expression remained unreadable, but Rebecca noticed the slight shift in her posture—like she had been struck somewhere deep, somewhere unseen.

A muscle in Sarocha’s jaw ticked. "You think I want this?"

Rebecca blinked, taken aback by the quiet intensity in her tone.

"I don’t," Sarocha continued, voice low. "I don’t want to be here. I don’t want you in my head. And yet, here I am." Her dark eyes flickered, something unearthly sparking behind them. "Here you are."

Rebecca’s pulse spiked, her frustration tangling with something hotter, something reckless. "You act like this is beyond you, like you’re struggling—"

"I am struggling."

That admission stunned Rebecca into silence.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, the weight of something greater than either of them settling into the room. The walls felt closer. The air had a strange humidity to it, the moisture thickening, pressing against Rebecca’s skin.

She swallowed. "Then tell me the truth."

Sarocha’s gaze flickered down to Rebecca’s wrist. "Have you… been seeing anything? Strange memories? Dreams?"

Rebecca stilled.

She hadn’t told anyone about the dreams. Had barely admitted to herself how deeply they unsettled her, how much they had moved her.

Sarocha’s expression tightened. "Rebecca."

There was no escaping it.

"There were dreams," she confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "Two. Or three. About… someone by the river."

Sarocha inhaled sharply.

Rebecca hesitated, suddenly unsure. "It was hazy. Fragmented. But it felt—" she bit her lip, shaking her head. "It felt real."

Something flickered over Sarocha’s face, something raw and unreadable. For the first time, she looked… shaken. Not just thrown off, but deeply, profoundly disturbed.

Rebecca narrowed her eyes. "You know something."

Sarocha said nothing.

A single droplet of water, out of nowhere, slid down Rebecca’s wrist from the bracelet.

Neither of them moved.

Rebecca clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. "You know something," she accused again, her voice sharp, unyielding. "Stop dancing around it and just tell me."

Sarocha exhaled through her nose, a slow, measured breath that did nothing to mask the tension rolling off her in waves. Her fingers raked through her sleek black hair, a motion so taut with restraint it seemed as though she was holding something volatile inside. "I don’t know how to explain it," she admitted, but her voice was different—rougher, like something ancient was pressing against her throat, demanding to be spoken.

"Try," Rebecca pressed, stepping closer despite the warning she could feel in the air, thick as a storm cloud ready to break.

Sarocha’s jaw went rigid. "It’s not something I can just—put into words."

Rebecca let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Of course not. You’re always like this, aren’t you? Always holding back. Always secretive. You refuse to let me in, but you show up at my door like you—like you own me!"

The air snapped.

It wasn’t just tension—it was pressure, a force that tightened around the room like an invisible grip. The moisture in the air thickened, the temperature rising in a way that made Rebecca’s skin prickle. It was like standing in the eye of something immense, something coiled and waiting.

The bracelet clenched around her wrist, no longer just an accessory but a living thing, pulsing with an unnatural heat.

And then—Rebecca saw it.

Sarocha had changed.

Not dramatically, not entirely—but enough that it felt like the fabric of reality had frayed at the edges. The smooth column of her throat shimmered faintly, a ripple of iridescent scales appearing and vanishing like an illusion. Her pupils flickered between round and slitted, and when she blinked, her irises gleamed like molten amber.

She was drenched in power.

The air warped around her. The water in the glass on the nearby table trembled, shifting without touch. The walls felt too close, the ceiling too low.

Sarocha moved, and the space between them ceased to exist.

Rebecca sucked in a breath, but it caught in her throat. She was drowning in Sarocha’s presence, in the immensity of her, as if something primordial had awakened and set its sights on her alone. It wasn’t just power—it was pull. Gravity. A force as old as the earth itself.

Sarocha lifted a hand but didn’t touch her. Her fingers hovered just above Rebecca’s wrist where the bracelet pulsed, their energies colliding in a silent battle neither could see but both felt.

Her voice was low, ragged—almost a growl. "You feel it too, don’t you?"

Rebecca’s heart pounded. Her limbs felt weightless and heavy all at once, her blood running molten under her skin. "What is this?" she whispered, but the words barely came out.

Sarocha hesitated. A crack in the perfect control she always wielded so effortlessly.

"I don’t know," she admitted, her voice raw, almost reverent. "But it’s old. It’s fated."

The words slithered through Rebecca, wrapping around her spine, settling deep into her bones.

"Fated?" she echoed, as if saying it aloud might make sense of it.

Sarocha’s gaze locked onto hers, impossibly deep, impossibly endless.

"Yes."

The bracelet pulsed like a second heartbeat.

The air trembled.

The world felt too small for the two of them.

Rebecca had never believed in fate.

But she believed in this.

The room was a cocoon of heat, thick with tension so sharp it felt like the air itself might split apart. The weight of everything unsaid pressed down on them, the silence louder than any words they could conjure.

And then, as if pulled by an invisible force, they collided.

The kiss was not soft, not sweet—it was desperate, a clash of teeth and tongues, hands grasping, bodies pressing together with an urgency that defied reason. Sarocha pushed Rebecca against the wall, her body a furnace, burning hotter than anything Rebecca had ever known. It felt reckless, dangerous, but she didn’t care.

Sarocha’s hands skimmed over her skin, fingers pressing into flesh like she was trying to memorize her, like Rebecca might slip through her grasp if she didn’t hold on tight enough. Rebecca gasped into her mouth, her legs parting instinctively, drawing Sarocha in until there was no space between them at all.

The bracelet burned.

Everywhere Sarocha touched, Rebecca felt something deeper than physical sensation—something humming beneath her skin, vibrating through her bones. It was more than arousal. It was more than desire. It was recognition.

Yet neither of them could name it.

The oversized blouse Rebecca had donned not too long ago was soon crumpled in Sarocha's clenched fists. The fabric snapped open at the buttons, the small plastic beads clattering across the floor like leftover inhibitions. Rebecca gasped and fumbled at the clasp to Sarocha's belt, desperately shoving her pants down her hips. Rebecca's underwear strained and surrendered, torn off to the side by Sarocha's hungry grasp.

Sarocha’s lips traveled down Rebecca’s throat, her teeth scraping against the sensitive skin, and Rebecca’s breath hitched. The room swayed around her, but it wasn’t dizziness—it was Sarocha. She was shifting, changing, something ancient stirring inside her, making her presence larger than her body, her power stretching out like unseen limbs, pressing into Rebecca in ways she couldn’t comprehend.

And when Sarocha slid her naked hips between Rebecca’s bare thighs, lifting her up, it felt like more than skin and muscle.

It wasn’t a physical shift—Sarocha remained as she was, biologically the same—but there was something else, something more. A phantom sensation, something thick and deep, pressing into Rebecca with an intensity that defied explanation. It was as if Sarocha’s very essence had seeped into her, filled her, taken up space inside her body in a way that had nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with power.

Rebecca gasped, arching, her body trembling against Sarocha’s. "What—"

Sarocha shushed her with a kiss, but she didn’t have an answer either.

They moved together, the rhythm frantic, messy—neither of them willing to slow down, to breathe, to think. It was raw, a battle more than a dance, pleasure tangled with frustration, both of them chasing something they couldn’t quite reach.

Sarocha's hands were firm on Rebecca's backside as she moved her, spinning her around only to slam her back down on the bed. The headboard knocked against the wall, hard, and the springs groaned in protest, but Sarocha was not deterred. Rebecca yelped, legs forced open by Sarocha's penetrating hips, her wrists forced at helpless angles as they were pinned above her head.

Then Sarocha was moving again, thrusting, that phantom pressure turning delicious as it stroked with unmistakable energy, pulsating deep within Rebecca. It was maddening, and Sarocha drove their pace like a primeval force of nature, coaxing Rebecca's back into an arch of pure, unadulterated surrender.

"I can... feel..." Rebecca huffed and whined, breaths coming in laborious gasps as they fell on Sarocha's ear. She tightened her legs around Sarocha's hips as if to emphasise what she could not express.

But it wasn’t enough.

Sarocha realized it first.

Even as Rebecca moaned beneath her, even as their bodies found some semblance of release, Sarocha felt the void. Felt the gap between them, the thing left unspoken, the distance that physicality could not bridge. She pressed her forehead to Rebecca’s, panting, her body trembling, but there was something hollow in her chest.

Rebecca felt it too.

The pleasure had been real, undeniable—but it wasn’t whole. It wasn’t the kind of satisfaction that left you sated. If anything, it left her more restless, as if something deeper had been teased but never fully touched.

Her fingers curled into Sarocha’s arms, gripping, holding on, but she didn’t know what she was reaching for.

The temperature in the room lowered as they caught their breath.

Sarocha pulled away first.

She didn’t say anything.

Rebecca watched her, her pulse still pounding, her skin still tingling, but her heart felt heavy.

Sarocha’s eyes—molten gold, flickering between human and something more—held something unreadable. She looked at Rebecca like she was seeing a ghost, like she was seeing something impossible.

And for a fleeting moment, there was something like hope in her expression.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

She stood up, gathering her composure and her clothes like armor. Quickly she dressed and smoothed down her shirt, regulating her breathing.

"I should go," she said finally, voice low, almost distant.

Rebecca swallowed against the lump in her throat, nodding even though she wanted to stop her, even though her body still ached for her.

But she didn’t.

She let Sarocha walk away.

And as the door clicked shut behind her, the bracelet pulsed once—hard—like a heartbeat inside her wrist.

Rebecca lay back, staring at the ceiling, her body still humming with phantom sensations.

Sarocha was inside her.

Not just physically.

Something deeper.

And she had no idea why.

---

Rebecca woke with a sharp gasp, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like vines, thick and suffocating. Her chest heaved, her skin damp with sweat as she tried to separate reality from the vivid vision that still pulsed behind her eyes.

She had seen herself—not herself, but somehow her—kneeling in the damp heat of an ancient jungle, the air thick with the scent of rain and earth. Her body had been clad in armor, worn but strong, molded to her as if she had lived in it for a lifetime. And before her, Sarocha.

Only, not as she was now.

Sarocha had been wounded, her body trembling with pain, her golden eyes filled with something raw, something desperate. Her lips moved, pleading, but the words were lost—Rebecca had strained to understand, but they slid past her like water through her fingers.

She had reached for Sarocha, ached for her.

And just as her fingers had brushed over bloodstained skin—

The dream had fractured.

Reality slammed into her, dragging her back into the present with a force that left her breathless. The hotel room was dim, the weak light of dawn creeping through the curtains. The sheets were tangled around her legs, her body still humming with an unexplainable ache that went beyond mere exhaustion.

The same ache from last night.

With a groan, she swung her legs off the bed, pressing her bare feet to the cool floor as she tried to steady herself. The sensation wouldn’t leave her. It was inside her, twisting, curling, as if something had embedded itself deep in her bones, demanding recognition.

The bathroom was small, sterile, but the cold water helped—at least, at first. She splashed her face, inhaling shakily, gripping the edge of the sink to keep herself grounded. But then—

A glow.

Rebecca froze, lifting her wrist, dread curling in her stomach.

The bracelet was alive.

The ancient Thai script, usually faint and worn with time, was illuminated now, a supernatural golden light radiating from beneath the metal. The letters pulsed, sharp and clear—

“Guardian.”

The word slammed into her with the weight of a thousand years.

Her breath hitched.

She saw flashes—her own reflection distorted in the mirror, flickering like the edges of an old film reel, shifting between who she was now and who she had been in the dream. The warrior. The kneeling figure. The guardian.

Her thoughts spiraled.

Could it be true?

Could she be that guardian?

And if she was—

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she remembered last night. The way Sarocha had flickered before her, shifting between human and something other. The glow in her eyes. The dominance in her presence. The power that had seeped into Rebecca’s body, something deeper than mere passion.

Could Sarocha really be the legendary Naga deity of the Chao Phraya?

Rebecca stared at her own reflection, at the pulsing glow of the bracelet, at the unshakable truth pressing against her ribs.

She was missing something.

Something important.

And she needed to find out what it was—before it was too late.

---

The excavation site was alive with the sounds of careful movement—brushes sweeping against ancient stone, the occasional murmur of excited discussion between researchers, the distant hum of the jungle pressing in from all sides. But Rebecca barely heard any of it.

She had barely slept. Her body still hummed with a restless, feverish energy, and the heavy weight of her dream clung to her like damp cloth. She knew she looked like hell, and Dr. Ananda, ever perceptive, had already taken notice.

"Late night?" he asked, his voice mild, though his sharp eyes flickered over her with quiet assessment.

Rebecca forced a small smile, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off the exhaustion. "Something like that," she said, attempting to sound casual. "I didn’t sleep well."

Ananda hummed, clearly unconvinced, but he let it go. "Well, perhaps work will be a good distraction. We’ve uncovered some new artifacts this morning. You might find them interesting."

Grateful for the reprieve, Rebecca followed him toward one of the tents where cataloging was in progress. As they stepped inside, the oppressive heat dimmed slightly, but the air was thick with the scent of earth and old metal.

And then she saw it.

Resting on a table under soft light was a sword.

It was brittle with age, rust claiming much of its once-formidable structure, but the shape remained—a long, elegant curve, unmistakably crafted for both power and precision. There was something regal about it, something that made the breath hitch in Rebecca’s throat.

Slowly, almost reverently, she reached out. Her fingers skimmed the corroded surface, tracing the remnants of an inscription long worn away.

The moment her skin made contact—

A flash.

The world tilted, the excavation tent dissolving around her.

The sword was no longer rusted, no longer broken. It gleamed, polished to a deadly sheen, and it was in her hand.

Rebecca’s grip tightened around the hilt, her pulse roaring in her ears. She could feel the weight of it, the familiarity of it, as though it had always belonged to her.

A warm breath ghosted against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

"You were always meant to wield it."

Sarocha’s voice.

Low, intimate, wrapping around her like silk.

Rebecca’s heart lurched. She turned—

The vision fractured.

The excavation tent snapped back into focus, the humid air rushing in as she gasped, stumbling back from the table.

Ananda blinked at her, brows drawing together. "Rebecca?"

She inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself, fingers trembling at her sides. "I—" She swallowed, shaking her head. "Nothing. Just… it’s a remarkable find."

He watched her for a moment longer before nodding, satisfied enough not to pry.

But Rebecca’s mind was still spinning.

That wasn’t just her imagination. It felt too real. Too vivid.

The dream. The bracelet. Now this.

Her fingers twitched with the ghost of a grip she didn’t remember learning, with the memory of a weapon she shouldn’t remember.

And Sarocha—

Rebecca needed answers.

Her voice was steady when she spoke, but inside, her pulse thundered. "Dr. Ananda," she said carefully, "can you tell me more about the Naga from legend?"

The professor straightened slightly, intrigued. "What about them?"

Rebecca hesitated, trying to choose her words carefully. "More about their nature. How they existed. What they were capable of."

Ananda considered her for a moment before nodding. "Well," he began, "the Naga were not merely creatures of myth. Many believed they were deities in their own right, ancient beings of great power who could shift between forms. They were guardians, rulers of water, deeply tied to the rivers and the balance of the natural world. But some say there was a time when they walked among humans, appearing as one of us… until the great curse."

Rebecca’s throat tightened. "Curse?"

Ananda’s expression darkened slightly. "There are many variations of the story, but one speaks of a betrayal. A guardian failed in their duty, and as a result, the Naga were cursed to remain hidden, bound by the will of fate. Some say the curse could only be broken under extraordinary circumstances—through a bond older than time itself."

A chill ran down Rebecca’s spine.

A bond older than time itself.

Her thoughts were a mess of tangled fragments, but the more Ananda spoke, the more the pieces fell into place.

The golden eyes flickering between human and something ancient.

The whispers of power beneath Sarocha’s skin.

The way the air itself responded to her presence.

Rebecca’s heartbeat stuttered.

If the legends were true—

If Sarocha really was one of them—

Then what the hell did that make her?

The weight of the professor’s words pressed down on Rebecca like a suffocating fog, thick and inescapable.

She swallowed hard, voice unsteady. “Why would the Naga need human guardians?”

Ananda leaned back slightly, thoughtful. “That is the question, isn’t it? The Naga were revered, feared even, for their power. They ruled over rivers, could shift their forms, command storms—but their strength wasn’t infallible. The guardians weren’t just warriors or protectors in a physical sense. Their role was… deeper. They acted as conduits, as anchors to the mortal world. The relationship was symbiotic. Some texts suggest that the bond between a Naga and their guardian was unlike anything else—it was absolute.”

Rebecca felt something tighten deep in her gut.

"Absolute," she echoed, the word tasting foreign and dangerous on her tongue.

Ananda nodded. "They were more than protectors. They were balance. Without them, the Naga risked losing themselves to their own power, to the depths of their own nature.”

Rebecca’s breath came a little faster, the pressure building in her chest. This was no longer just an abstract legend—it felt like a whisper from the past, curling around her like unseen hands, reaching for her.

She shook her head. “And these guardians… where did they come from?”

Ananda exhaled, rubbing his chin. “The earliest records place them in Ayutthaya.”

The ground beneath Rebecca felt like it tilted sharply.

Her stomach clenched violently.

Ayutthaya.

The place her family was from. The place that had always called to her in quiet ways, with memories she could never fully explain.

She forced herself to stay still, to keep her face neutral, but inside, her mind was fracturing.

The visions. The dreams. The sword.

All of it—leading back to the home of her ancestors.

She could hear the blood rushing in her ears as she tried to steady her breathing. "And you don’t know anything else?” she asked, almost desperately.

Ananda sighed. “Not much. The texts are fragmented, lost over time. What little remains speaks of devotion beyond life and death, of a bond that could not be severed.” He paused. “But whether that’s truth or myth is anyone’s guess.”

Rebecca barely heard him.

She needed air.

Before he could ask what was wrong, she turned on her heel and walked away, her strides quick, purposeful—escaping.

---

The river was restless.

Rebecca stood at its edge, the murky water lapping at the shore, the air thick with the scent of earth and damp vegetation. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to push away the rising panic clawing at her ribs.

The bracelet was buzzing against her skin.

She rubbed at it absently, but the strange energy wouldn’t settle.

She was losing her grip on what was real, on what was hers.

“You look troubled, miss.”

Rebecca startled, turning quickly.

A boatman stood nearby, his weathered hands resting on the oar of his small wooden vessel. He was older, his face lined with the years, but his dark eyes were sharp, too perceptive.

She forced a polite smile. “It’s nothing.”

The boatman made a soft sound, somewhere between amusement and knowing. “People do not come to the river when everything is fine.”

Rebecca hesitated, glancing back at the churning water.

Maybe he was right.

Still, she exhaled, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t know where to start explaining.”

The boatman took a slow step forward, gaze flickering—not at her, but at her wrist.

At the bracelet.

Rebecca’s pulse stuttered.

“That is an old thing,” he murmured, eyes thoughtful. “Older than you, I think.”

The world seemed to move beneath her feet.

Rebecca instinctively pulled her arm closer to her body, fingers brushing over the script still faintly glowing against the metal.

Guardian.

The boatman watched her, his expression unreadable.

“You should be careful,” he said after a long pause, voice quiet but weighted. “The river remembers things long forgotten.”

A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine.

She opened her mouth to ask what he meant—

But he was already pushing off from the shore, his boat slipping into the current.

Rebecca stood frozen, watching as he disappeared into the mist, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The river remembers.

And maybe—just maybe—so did she.

Chapter Text

Rebecca’s fingers trembled as she held her phone to her ear, the weight of what she was about to say pressing down on her chest. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. The past few days had been a whirlwind of confusing visions, unresolved feelings, and a relentless pull she couldn’t escape. She had to know. She had to understand.

"Sarocha," Rebecca said, voice firm despite the uncertainty swirling in her stomach. "I need to know the truth. You can’t keep hiding from me."

On the other end, Sarocha’s voice was low, controlled, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. "I can't discuss this over the phone, Rebecca."

A surge of frustration flared in Rebecca’s chest, but she forced it down. "Then let’s meet. You owe me that much."

There was a long silence, and for a moment, Rebecca thought Sarocha would end the call. Then, her voice came again, steady but with a hint of something deeper underneath. "Stay away from me, Rebecca. It's for your own good."

Rebecca’s blood ran cold, the air suddenly feeling thick and suffocating. Her grip tightened around the phone, heart racing. "No," she said, the word slipping out before she could stop it. "I won’t back down. I’m not afraid. I know what you are, Sarocha."

The pause on the other end stretched longer this time, and Rebecca could almost feel Sarocha’s surprise, her uncertainty flickering through the call like a pulse. "You think you know?"

"Yes," Rebecca replied, every word brimming with the power of her certainty. "I’ve seen things—felt things. You’re not just... not just human. And I want answers."

A long breath. Then, "Fine. Meet me at the Café Chao Phraya. You’ll understand when you see it for yourself."

The line went dead, leaving Rebecca staring at her phone, pulse pounding in her ears.

---

The café was a hidden gem, tucked away in a quieter stretch along the Chao Phraya River. Its charm lay in the gentle sounds of water features scattered around the lush courtyard, the soothing trickle of streams and the rhythmic splash of small fountains mixing with the warm evening air. Rebecca stood just outside, her gaze scanning the area, waiting for Sarocha.

When she finally saw her, the breath in her lungs hitched.

Sarocha moved with a quiet grace, her presence almost commanding the air around her. But what struck Rebecca most was how at home she seemed in this space. Surrounded by water, Sarocha almost glowed with an otherworldly energy that Rebecca couldn’t name. Her movements were fluid, like a dancer’s, but there was something feral beneath the calm exterior.

As Sarocha neared, the air between them thickened. Rebecca could feel the subtle pull in her chest, the bracelet against her wrist buzzing, alive with power. It reacted to Sarocha, pulling Rebecca closer, as if the two of them were magnetized. The sensation was intoxicating.

Sarocha’s eyes locked onto Rebecca with an intensity that made her heart skip. There was no warmth in them—not quite—but there was something deep, something ancient, lurking beneath the surface.

"You came," Sarocha said softly, a mixture of intrigue and something else in her voice. "I wasn't sure you would."

Rebecca swallowed hard, her thoughts racing. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on the verge of something big, something irreversible. Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped closer to Sarocha, the distance between them almost unbearable now. "I need to know what’s going on, Sarocha. I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it, don’t understand it."

Sarocha’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t step back. The energy between them felt like static in the air, crackling and alive, just waiting to erupt.

"You’re right," Sarocha said slowly, her voice low and thick. "You do understand."

Rebecca felt her heart race as she stepped closer still. The air grew heavier, the weight of the words unsaid pressing in on both of them. The last time they had been this close, the tension had been almost unbearable. But now, it was different. It was sharper, more urgent. It was more than just desire—it was a need. A need to know.

The bracelet around Rebecca’s wrist reacted again, the ancient script glowing faintly. Guardian. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and Rebecca couldn’t stop herself from looking down at it. There was something so alive about it now. Something that was alive because of her connection to Sarocha.

Sarocha’s gaze followed her eyes to the bracelet, her expression unreadable. "You don’t know yet, do you?" she asked quietly. "What it means. What it really means."

Rebecca’s throat tightened. "I know enough." She turned her eyes back to Sarocha’s, her voice low and determined. "I need answers, Sarocha. You owe me that much."

For a moment, Sarocha’s face flickered with something—some emotion Rebecca couldn’t place. A flash of something almost human, before it was replaced with that implacable coolness.

"Answers," Sarocha repeated, her voice barely a whisper, but with an undertone of something dangerous. She stepped closer, the air practically crackling with tension. "You don’t know what you’re asking for, Rebecca."

Rebecca’s heart pounded in her chest. She knew that voice. She knew that challenge. And it shivered through her bones, igniting something deep inside her that she couldn’t control, couldn’t explain.

"I’m asking for the truth," Rebecca said, her voice thick with resolve. "And I’m not leaving until I get it."

Sarocha was silent for a long moment, her gaze locked on Rebecca’s. Then, slowly, she stepped forward, the distance between them closing to nothing.

"You think you’re ready," Sarocha said, her voice a breath against Rebecca’s skin. "But I don’t know if you truly understand what you’re asking for."

Rebecca met her gaze, the world narrowing down to just the two of them, the thrum of the river, the glowing pulse of the bracelet, and the undeniable, electric energy between them.

"I’m asking for you," Rebecca whispered, the words hanging in the air between them, heavy with meaning. "I’m asking for everything."

And then, finally, Sarocha spoke again, her voice barely audible, but with a deep certainty.

"You’re right," she said softly, "you do understand."

The air inside the café felt heavy, charged with an energy that made it difficult to breathe. The sounds of water trickling from the nearby fountains were drowned out by the tension between them, thick and palpable, every glance exchanged, every shift of movement, magnified. The little space between them seemed to crackle, the silence stretching too long until Sarocha spoke, her voice low, hesitant, almost unsure.

"I—" Sarocha began, but she stopped, rubbing the back of her neck in a rare moment of discomfort. "I’m not sure how to explain this, Rebecca. It’s... complicated. I’m not like you. I’m not—"

Rebecca’s frustration flared, each word from Sarocha only deepening the confusion gnawing at her. She leaned forward, closer than she should, until their faces were mere inches apart. The heat of her breath mingled with Sarocha’s, the magnetic pull between them impossible to ignore. But there was a wall there, a barrier that Sarocha refused to break, and it only pushed Rebecca further into a corner of anger.

"You keep saying that," Rebecca bit out, her voice sharp. "You keep skirting around the truth, Sarocha. What are you? What is this? What are you afraid of?"

Sarocha's jaw clenched, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. She took a slow breath, as though gathering herself, but the words still felt clumsy, distant. "I’m not human, Rebecca. But... it’s not as simple as that. I can’t be what you want me to be. It’s not like anything you know."

The words hung in the air between them like a broken promise. Rebecca’s pulse raced in her ears, frustration and desire blending into something sharp, almost unbearable. She leaned forward further, pressing her chest lightly against Sarocha’s, her breath coming faster now, her body aching with the pull that had become so familiar between them.

"You’re not answering me." Rebecca’s voice was a low challenge now, hushed, but heavy. "You don’t want to answer me."

Sarocha’s eyes darkened, and Rebecca could see the control fraying at the edges. "I’m trying," she said, the words laced with a dangerous undertone. "I’m trying to protect you from what you don’t understand. You don’t want to know, Rebecca. Not really."

Rebecca’s chest tightened, and she felt something raw and reckless stir within her, something that defied reason and threatened to swallow her whole. "Then make me understand," she whispered, her lips dangerously close to Sarocha’s, her breath a soft caress that barely brushed against her skin. "Show me. Show me everything."

Sarocha’s eyes flickered, her breath catching slightly. For a moment, Rebecca thought she had won—thought she had pushed Sarocha over the edge. But instead, Sarocha pulled back, her gaze sharp with restraint.

"Not here," she growled, voice low and rough. "Let’s go."

Rebecca didn’t need to be told twice. The last thing she wanted was to remain in this damn café with all of its restrictions, the wall of polite, simmering distance between them. She followed Sarocha out without a word, her heart pounding with adrenaline, the air between them crackling with an unbearable energy that she could feel deep in her bones.

The back of a car, dark and enclosed, was where it all unraveled.

Sarocha slammed the door behind them, and the moment the vehicle lurched forward, everything exploded. It was frantic—there was no other word for it. Their mouths collided, teeth clashing in an urgent kiss that was as much about possession as it was about need. Rebecca’s hands roamed across Sarocha’s body, fingers grazing the curve of her waist, the sharp lines of her hips, desperate to feel all of her, to claim something in this maelstrom of desire that threatened to consume them both.

The scent of Sarocha—a heady, intoxicating mix of water and something deep and ancient—surrounded Rebecca. She felt herself unraveling, felt that insistent pull again, the connection between them like an invisible thread that she couldn’t break free from, even if she wanted to. But with every moment, every brush of skin, it became clear that this wasn’t just desire—it was something deeper, something more primordial.

Their hands collided in a fevered dance of reaching, pulling, grasping at clothing and skin as if they were starved for each other. Rebecca’s fingers worked at the buttons of Sarocha’s shirt, the fabric sliding beneath her fingers like water, and then—finally—skin. Smooth, warm, taut with power.

Sarocha responded with equal urgency, one hand tangling in Rebecca’s hair, the other pushing Rebecca’s blouse up, exposing her skin to the cool air of the car. The heat between them was suffocating, the tension, unbearable. Rebecca’s breath hitched as Sarocha’s lips trailed down her neck, sharp and insistent, teeth grazing lightly over her pulse point.

"Please," Rebecca whispered, her voice desperate, filled with something that bordered on pleading. "I need you."

Sarocha froze for a fraction of a second, her lips pulling away from Rebecca’s neck, her breathing ragged. The stillness that fell between them was almost suffocating.

"I know," Sarocha murmured, but her tone was heavy with restraint. "I know you do."

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the tension between them snapped. Sarocha pulled away, her body going rigid as she pushed Rebecca back, hands firmly on her shoulders.

"What the hell are you doing?" Rebecca gasped, her body aching, her chest heaving with need.

"I can’t," Sarocha said, voice thick with restraint. Her eyes burned with something fierce, something terrifying. "I can’t let it go that far. Not again."

Rebecca’s frustration flared. She reached for Sarocha, grabbing her wrist, but Sarocha tugged it away, her eyes narrowing.

"No," she said firmly. "You don’t get it. Not yet. I can’t give you all of me. Not again."

Rebecca’s heart hammered in her chest. She opened her mouth to protest, but the words caught in her throat. There was something more, something she didn’t fully understand. But Sarocha’s refusal had opened something deeper inside her—an ache, a longing that she couldn’t explain. She could feel the heat in her veins, burning brighter with every passing second.

Sarocha’s gaze softened, if only slightly, as she shifted back against the seat, her fingers trembling. "I’m not who you think I am, Rebecca. You don’t know what you’re asking for. You don’t know me."

Rebecca’s mind reeled, her chest aching with frustration. She wanted to press closer, to demand more answers, but she could see it in Sarocha’s eyes—the wall, the barrier that wouldn’t let her through, not yet.

With a final, lingering look, Sarocha turned away, opening the door of the car. The space between them stretched farther, and Rebecca’s heart broke in a way she couldn’t understand. She didn’t know what it was that Sarocha was hiding, but she could feel it—the power, the intensity, the danger lurking just beneath the surface.

And yet, despite the overwhelming frustration, she couldn’t stop herself from reaching for Sarocha. Not now. Not when everything inside her screamed that she needed more.

But Sarocha was already gone, leaving Rebecca in the deafening silence of the car, her body still burning with the touch she couldn’t seem to get enough of.

---

The days passed in a haze, a blur of fragmented moments that left Rebecca disoriented and restless. The excavation site, usually a place of quiet focus, now felt like a prison. Her mind wandered constantly, tethered to the memory of Sarocha’s absence, to the feeling of her body pressed so close, and the moment Sarocha had stopped them in the car. Every task, every object she cataloged, felt distant, as though a fog had descended on her thoughts.

There were moments when she would find herself staring at the artifacts, her fingers tracing ancient symbols, but her thoughts would always drift back to the same thing—the nagging ache that hadn’t gone away since Sarocha had pulled away. The magnetic pull between them felt like an invisible tether, impossible to sever.

On the third night after their encounter, Rebecca found herself wandering, her mind too heavy to rest. It was the dead of night, the moon pale and silent above, the air thick with humidity. Her bare feet whispered across the cool stone by the Chao Phraya River, her movements automatic, as if the current itself had pulled her there. She wasn’t sure how she got here, only that something, some force, had guided her to this very spot.

The river was quiet, but there was an energy beneath the surface, something alive that hummed in the air around her. Rebecca paused, tilting her head, trying to make sense of the unease that prickled the back of her neck.

Then, she saw it. A massive, serpent-like shadow flickered just below the surface of the water, twisting and turning with fluid, graceful movements that made her heart skip. For a moment, it almost looked like the reflection of a great creature, but its shape was indistinct, the darkness of the river swallowing it whole.

Her breath caught in her throat as a voice whispered through the water, soft and alluring, but unmistakable.

"Rebecca..."

Her name.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and she froze in place, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the night air. The shadows in the water seemed to pulse, beckoning her closer, drawing her in, and for a moment, it felt as though the river knew her, recognized her, called to her in a way she couldn’t understand.

She wanted to move closer, to reach out and touch the water, but just as the instinct to step forward surged, she was yanked roughly back, an iron grip on her arm pulling her away.

"Sarocha?"

Rebecca’s voice came out thick with confusion as she found herself stumbling backward, her feet dragging in the soft mud. Sarocha was there, standing in front of her, eyes wide with panic. Her usually poised and composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw urgency.

"Don’t," Sarocha warned, her voice strained, breath shallow. She gripped Rebecca’s arm tightly, pulling her further from the river. "You can’t be this close, not alone."

Rebecca twisted in her grasp, her heart still racing as the strange pull of the river seemed to linger at the edge of her senses. "What the hell is that?" she asked, nodding toward the water where the shadow had been. "Was it your family? Something from your past?"

Sarocha’s gaze flickered to the river, a flash of something dark and ancient crossing her features before she locked eyes with Rebecca. Her grip tightened. "You don’t understand. The river knows you. That’s not something you should want to play with."

Rebecca smirked, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "So now it’s the river that knows me? I’ve barely been here a few weeks and suddenly I’m seeing shadows that want to drag me under? Sarocha, what is going on?"

Sarocha looked at her, face unreadable for a long moment, as if wrestling with something inside her. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she released Rebecca’s arm, stepping back a pace. The tension between them grew thick again, an unseen force pulling them together even as they stood apart.

Rebecca couldn’t resist the edge in her voice, the question burning like fire. "Are you Naga?"

For a moment, Sarocha didn’t speak. Her eyes darkened, a flicker of something ancient and powerful flashing in her gaze. The air around them seemed to hum, the sounds of the river lapping against the shore becoming an almost deafening symphony in the background. Rebecca’s breath caught, waiting for an answer, feeling the pressure in her chest grow with every passing second.

Finally, Sarocha spoke, her voice quiet but steady. "Yes."

Rebecca’s heart skipped, a swirl of emotions crashing over her—confusion, disbelief, and something else. Something dangerous that she couldn’t quite name. The words hung between them like a secret too heavy to bear. Sarocha was Naga.

But what did that mean for Rebecca? What was she supposed to do with this truth, with this revelation that felt both surreal and inevitable?

"I didn’t want you to know," Sarocha continued, her voice laced with a strange mix of sorrow and resolve. "You were never meant to get this close to me. But you have... And I’m not sure if that’s a good thing."

Rebecca’s chest tightened. The ache she had felt for days, the pull she couldn’t escape, suddenly made sense and yet didn’t. It was as if she had always known this truth, even before it was spoken aloud.

The pull of attraction between them, the connection that had begun when they first met, had always been more than just physical. It was something other.

Her head spun with the possibilities. With the implications of what Sarocha’s confession meant. "But what does it mean for me?" Rebecca asked, her voice low, almost pleading. "I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand you."

Sarocha’s eyes softened, her gaze never leaving Rebecca’s face. "You don’t have to," she said quietly. "Not yet. But don’t get any closer to the river, Rebecca. It’s not just the water that’s calling you. It’s something else... Something ancient. Something dangerous."

Rebecca felt a tremor of unease, but also something else. Her body burned with a need that had nothing to do with logic or understanding. The river knew her name. And Sarocha was more than just a woman. She was something ancient, something primal. And Rebecca... Rebecca couldn’t seem to turn away from it, no matter how much her mind screamed at her to.

"What happens now?" Rebecca whispered, her voice trembling as the realization settled in.

Sarocha hesitated for a moment, as if the answer was just out of reach. "We’ll see," she said finally, her voice distant. "But for now... stay away from the river. And from me."

Rebecca’s heart tightened at the finality in her tone, but the pull—the inexplicable, dangerous attraction—remained. It was as though the river itself had become part of her, calling to her, and there was nothing she could do to silence it.

Sarocha turned, her form dark and elusive against the moonlit river, and for a fleeting moment, Rebecca almost thought she saw something shimmering beneath the surface, a flicker of gold, scales catching the light. But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

And so was Sarocha.

---

Rebecca awoke to a dull, pounding ache in her skull, her body heavy and feverish beneath the hotel room sheets. The room was still dim, early morning light filtering through the heavy curtains, but she felt like she had been hit by a train.

Her throat burned, her muscles ached, and a cold sweat clung to her skin. It had to be the flu. Or maybe the result of standing barefoot by the river in the dead of night like an idiot. The memory of Sarocha’s frantic grip on her arm, the whispered warning about the river, lingered in her foggy mind.

Groaning, she forced herself upright and reached for her phone. One glance at the time—almost noon—made her curse under her breath. She’d slept straight through the morning. She hesitated for a moment before pulling up Dr. Ananda’s number and typing out a quick message.

Rebecca: 'Feeling sick today. I think it’s just a flu. Won’t make it to the site.'

She barely had the strength to put the phone down before it vibrated again—an incoming call. Sarocha.

Rebecca blinked at the screen, surprised by the speed of it, and hesitated before answering.

"You’re sick," Sarocha said immediately, her voice sharper than expected, like she had already been waiting for confirmation.

"Good morning to you too," Rebecca croaked, wincing at how rough her voice sounded. "And yes, I think I’ve caught something. Maybe from—" She stopped herself before mentioning the river.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, filled only by the sound of Sarocha exhaling sharply. "You need to see a doctor."

Rebecca let out a weak laugh. "It’s not that serious. I just need some rest."

Sarocha wasn’t having it. "I’ll send someone to take you."

"You will not." Rebecca shifted beneath the blankets, heat rolling off her body in waves. "I don’t need an escort, Sarocha."

"You can barely speak," Sarocha shot back, her voice edged with irritation. "And don’t lie to me—I can hear that you’re sweating."

Rebecca scowled at her phone. "How the hell can you hear someone sweating?"

There was another pause. Sarocha’s voice, when she spoke again, was softer but no less insistent. "I just can."

A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine, and not just from the fever. "I’ll get some medicine delivered," she said, hoping to end the conversation.

"Send me a picture of it."

Rebecca blinked. "What?"

"The medicine. When it arrives. I want to make sure you’re taking the right things."

Rebecca frowned, taken aback by the sheer level of concern. She had seen Sarocha’s controlling tendencies before, but this was different. The sharp authority in her voice, the near-obsessive way she was latching onto this—it almost sounded like... fear.

A warmth, entirely unrelated to her fever, curled in her chest.

"You’re acting kind of weird," Rebecca murmured, half-teasing, half-curious.

"Just do it," Sarocha replied.

There was no real bite to her tone, though, and Rebecca found herself smiling faintly despite how awful she felt. "Fine, mother hen. I’ll send you a picture."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Good," Sarocha said, and the call ended.

Rebecca let the phone slip from her fingers, her body sinking deeper into the sheets. The fever still burned, her head still ached, but now, she was too preoccupied with something else.

Sarocha was worried.

Deeply, genuinely worried.

And despite everything—despite the warning to stay away, despite the impossible truths between them—Sarocha couldn’t seem to help herself.

Rebecca turned onto her side, her exhausted mind spinning with thoughts of river shadows and golden eyes.

Sarocha could try to push her away all she wanted.

But something told Rebecca that when it came to this, Sarocha would always come back.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Rebecca lay cocooned in her hotel bed, the world outside reduced to a blurred haze of indistinct shapes and muted sounds. Her body, ravaged by fever and the weight of an unyielding mystery, drifted between half-sleep and a waking nightmare. In these fevered moments, time became fluid, and memories—or dreams—blew through her mind like fragments of a long-forgotten story.

In one dream, she found herself in a modest village from an ancient time. The air was warm and fragrant with wildflowers and smoke from clay ovens. Children’s laughter mingled with the low hum of daily life, and Rebecca saw herself as a small girl, barefoot on dusty paths. Her eyes, wide with wonder, took in the world with an unburdened curiosity. Her family was there, gathered around an elder who spoke in gentle, rhythmic tones, teaching her about the sacred duty of guardianship. The words were indistinct—a language half-remembered—but they carried the weight of destiny and a promise of protection by the mysterious Naga that ruled the nearby river.

In another fragment, she was raised in a temple by the river. Stone steps led up to a building carved with intricate patterns that mimicked the sinuous curves of a serpent. Monks chanted softly, their voices merging with the rhythmic flow of the water below. Rebecca’s young face shone with a mix of reverence and confusion as her family explained that some souls were chosen to serve as protectors—a covenant between mortal kin and the divine Naga. Their teachings were cryptic, hinting at a sacred bond that transcended time, yet she couldn’t fully grasp the meaning behind them.

Then the scene shifted abruptly. Rebecca found herself at the river’s edge once again, this time older, more aware. The water lapped at her ankles as she waded slowly into its cool embrace. A surge of conflicting emotions—fear, anticipation, longing—rose within her. Every step forward into the river felt like a descent into the depths of her own being. The sensation of the water enveloping her was both soothing and disconcerting, as if it were a threshold into another realm.

In a sudden, vivid flash, the water swallowed her completely. She felt herself submerged, her breath held captive as if the river itself demanded tribute. In that suspended moment, time stretched, and all she could feel was a profound, aching connection—a silent promise of reunion. Then, as quickly as it had come, the scene shifted once more.

Rebecca now saw herself seated on a weathered bank, the gentle murmur of the river blending with whispered voices. Beside her sat Sarocha. In this vision, Sarocha appeared softer than before—a striking contrast to the unyielding woman she knew. They talked quietly, their heads bent together as if sharing secrets too delicate for the clamor of the outside world. Sarocha’s hand rested on Rebecca’s, a tender, almost imperceptible touch that sent shivers racing along her skin. For a brief, haunting moment, the two of them seemed inseparable—a promise of comfort and understanding that transcended the chaos of the present.

But then, as if a dark force had intervened, blinding pain tore through Rebecca’s gut and seared across her chest. The serenity shattered into a violent cacophony of agony and confusion. In the midst of that unbearable pain, she was yanked away, as if an unseen hand had wrenched her from that fragile intimacy. Sarocha’s face flashed with desperation and protest, though the figures around her—shadowy, indistinct strangers—remained silent witnesses, their forms blurred in the dream’s dying light.

Rebecca’s vision darkened, the vivid images fracturing and fading like a shattered mirror. The dream left her gasping, the echoes of its intensity clinging to her even as consciousness began to reclaim her battered senses.

When she finally awoke, drenched in sweat and trembling beneath the thin blanket, the memory of the dream clung to her with relentless persistence. She could still feel the ghost of Sarocha’s touch, the taste of salt and water on her lips, and the unbearable ache of being pulled away from something profoundly essential. The word "Guardian" pulsed in her mind, echoed by the glowing script on the bracelet that now burned with an almost supernatural intensity on her wrist.

Sitting up, Rebecca ran her trembling fingers over the engraved letters, as if trying to decipher their meaning through touch alone. The ancient Thai script glowed faintly, its luminescence both a beacon and a warning. Every fiber of her being throbbed with questions: Could she truly be the legendary guardian spoken of in those fragmented dreams? Could Sarocha be more than a powerful, mysterious woman—could she be the fabled Naga deity of the Chao Phraya itself?

Her thoughts spun wildly, merging the fragments of her fever dreams with the raw, charged emotions of the previous nights. The visions of a bygone era, the whispered teachings of her ancestral past, and the urgent, desperate intimacy shared with Sarocha all converged into a single, overwhelming question that haunted her every waking moment.

In that silent, disoriented state, Rebecca realized that she was caught between two worlds—the ancient and the modern, the seen and the unseen. And though her body ached with the remnants of pain and longing, her heart throbbed with an insatiable curiosity and an unyielding need for answers.

As she lay there, struggling to piece together the fractured images of her dreams and the enigmatic allure of Sarocha, Rebecca understood with an eerie clarity: something monumental was unfolding within her—a destiny woven into her very blood, calling her to embrace a truth that was as terrifying as it was inevitable.

---

Over these few days off, Rebecca’s phone buzzed intermittently with brief messages from Sarocha—a terse "Check in later" here, a simple "Stay safe" there. The messages, though few and far between, carried a weight that made her pulse quicken whenever she read them, each one a reminder of the woman who haunted her thoughts.

By the time the fever had finally begun to break, Rebecca felt a renewed need to escape the confines of her hotel room. Craving fresh air and a taste of normalcy, she ventured out into the bustling market nearby. The vibrant cacophony of vendors hawking their wares, the heady aroma of street food, and the riot of colors from tropical fabrics and produce all washed over her, grounding her in the present—even as her mind drifted back to the mysterious allure of Sarocha.

Rebecca found herself drawn to a small jewelry stall tucked between a spice vendor and a bustling fruit cart. There, amid a collection of delicate trinkets and handcrafted ornaments, her gaze landed on a striking necklace. At its center was a polished Naga pendant—its sinuous form rendered in intricate detail, the scales catching the sunlight in a way that was both mesmerizing and oddly familiar. Rebecca reached out to pick it up, her fingers brushing over the cool metal, and for a moment, she felt an echo of the bracelet’s pulsating energy at her wrist.

Before she could admire it further, a soft, measured voice broke into her reverie. “That pendant suits you,” said a man standing nearby, his tone casual yet curious. He was of medium build, with a weathered face that hinted at many years spent under the tropical sun, and his dark eyes shone with a subtle intensity.

Rebecca offered a polite smile, holding the necklace gently in her hand. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I suppose it speaks of old legends… of the Naga.”

The man’s gaze lingered on the pendant, then shifted to her wrist where the golden bracelet continued to glow faintly. “Are you interested in the Naga?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with genuine inquiry.

“I mean, it’s part of my work,” Rebecca replied, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m an archaeologist. We study these artifacts and the stories behind them.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but the tension in her voice betrayed her inner turmoil.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “There’s an old legend, you know,” he said slowly, leaning casually against a nearby display of trinkets. “They say a Naga can claim a human lover for eternity—bind them to the spirit of the river and the old gods. A fate as eternal as the river itself.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping her lips despite herself. “A tall tale, isn’t it?” she teased lightly, though his words struck a chord deep within her. For reasons she couldn’t fully explain, the legend stirred an untamed longing inside her—a desperate, unbidden pull toward someone she could barely name.

The stranger’s gaze shifted from the pendant to the bracelet on her wrist. “And that,” he murmured, “is no ordinary trinket, I wager.”

Rebecca’s hand instinctively brushed over the bracelet. It pulsed ever so slightly, as if responding to the conversation and the emotions swirling inside her. The ancient Thai script on it shimmered with a soft, ethereal light—spelling out, unmistakably, “Guardian” in its ancient Thai script.

She met the stranger’s inquisitive look with a guarded smile. “I suppose some things are meant to choose us,” she said, half-joking, though the undercurrent of truth in her words rang clear even to her ears.

The man inclined his head, his eyes glinting with unspoken secrets. “Legends have a way of coming to life,” he said cryptically. “Sometimes, the heart doesn’t just accept what is—it craves what might be.”

Even as Rebecca laughed it off, a part of her couldn’t help but wonder if those words were meant for her. The image of Sarocha, the inexplicable pull she felt every time the mysterious woman was near, flashed unbidden in her mind. It was a longing that had grown beyond mere attraction—a yearning that seemed etched into her very soul.

The market bustled around her as she clutched the pendant and the bracelet, both relics of ancient lore and personal enigma. The stranger’s parting words, spoken in a tone both playful and knowing, trailed after him as he disappeared into the crowd.

“You’d be wise to listen to the river,” he said over his shoulder, a final remark that left Rebecca staring after him, lost in thought.

For a long moment, Rebecca stood there in the midst of the vibrant chaos, the ambient sounds of the market a distant murmur in the background. The glowing script on her wrist seemed to intensify, each pulse echoing the rhythm of her racing heart. She couldn’t shake the image of the Naga pendant, nor the legend of an eternal bond. And more than that, she couldn’t stop thinking of Sarocha—the enigmatic presence who had haunted her dreams, her feverish nights, and now, it seemed, her every waking thought.

The market around her blurred as Rebecca’s mind turned inward, the legend of the Naga and the untamed desire for something—or someone—ancient and powerful, gnawing at her. It was a mystery that was becoming increasingly impossible to ignore. And as the bracelet pulsed steadily against her wrist, Rebecca realized that, whether by fate or by some ancient design, her journey had barely just begun.

---

Rebecca stepped briskly along the narrow street, the neon glow of Bangkok’s nightlife reflecting off slick pavement. Her heart pounded in her ears as she sensed someone trailing her—a shadow moving just out of the corner of her eye. At first, she convinced herself it was only her imagination, but then she caught a glimpse of a figure dressed in muted tones, following at a distance that seemed too deliberate to be coincidence.

She veered down a side alley, hoping to lose him in the maze of narrow lanes and bustling night markets. Yet just as she rounded a corner, the stranger materialized again at the far end, as if popping out from behind the crowd. Panic prickled at her skin, and she quickened her pace, her footsteps echoing off the walls as she hurried toward the bright, welcoming lights of her hotel lobby.

Bursting through the revolving door, Rebecca nearly collided with a receptionist before she spotted Sarocha standing in the foyer, her gaze scanning the crowd with an intensity that cut through the din. Sarocha’s presence in the lobby was unmistakable—commanding and serene. But when the stranger, now visible in the lobby’s peripheral shadows, caught sight of her, his posture stiffened. His eyes darted around nervously; the weight of his gaze shifted, and his expression morphed into one of unmistakable unease.

In that charged moment, there was no need for words. Across the room, Sarocha’s dark eyes narrowed imperceptibly, her jaw set with a barely contained ferocity. It was as if a primal force had been awakened within her—a territorial spark that radiated power. The stranger hesitated, his face paling as he exchanged a silent, weighted look with Sarocha. For several long seconds, they stood locked in a nonverbal duel: Sarocha’s posture exuding dominance and warning, and the stranger’s gaze shrinking, burdened by a mix of fear and resignation. Finally, without a word, he backed away, retreating into the throng of guests and the murky depths of the lobby, leaving Rebecca trembling and confused.

Her heart still hammered in her chest as she hurried over to Sarocha. "Who was that?" she demanded in a hushed yet urgent tone. "Do you know him? What was that about?" Her voice trembled with equal parts alarm and desperate curiosity.

Sarocha’s expression was dark and perturbed. She stepped closer, her presence cool and controlled despite the raw intensity in her eyes. "I… I don’t know his name," she replied cautiously, her tone measured. "But I’ve seen him lurking around these parts before. He has an energy I don’t trust—one that stirs up old conflicts." She paused, glancing at Rebecca with an inscrutable look that mingled both warning and regret. "I’m sorry you had to see that."

Rebecca’s mind raced. The encounter had left her more rattled than before—the image of the stranger’s frightened eyes and Sarocha’s uncharacteristic, almost feral reaction burned into her thoughts. "It’s not just that," Rebecca said softly. "It felt… like he was after me, like he was drawn to the bracelet or something. Do you think he knows about it?"

Sarocha shook her head slowly. "I don’t know what he’s after, Rebecca. But I do know that these matters… they’re dangerous. And the bracelet’s power is not something to be trifled with lightly." Her voice faltered, betraying a hint of worry she struggled to mask.

Without another word, Sarocha reached out and guided Rebecca toward the private stairwell leading up to her room. The corridor was dim, its ambient light a soft amber glow that contrasted with the turbulent emotions churning inside them. As they ascended, the silence between them grew heavy—each step echoing like a drumbeat in a sacred ritual. Rebecca’s pulse raced, her thoughts a tumult of questions. What was it about the stranger that had so unnerved Sarocha? And why did the bracelet react so strongly to these moments of tension?

At the door to the hotel room, Sarocha paused and turned to face Rebecca, her eyes searching for answers even as she maintained her veneer of calm control. "Rebecca," she said, her voice low and measured, "there are things about our world—about these ancient powers—that you don’t yet understand." She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Rebecca’s face, her touch both tender and commanding.

Rebecca swallowed hard, her gaze lingering on Sarocha’s face—on the flicker of something wild in her eyes, something that betrayed her inner struggle. "I need to know why all of this is happening," she said, her voice trembling with frustration and longing. "I need to understand what you are, and what the bracelet means. I can’t keep feeling like I’m being pulled into a mystery I don’t belong to."

Sarocha’s gaze hardened, but there was also a note of sorrow there. "There are forces at work beyond our understanding, Rebecca," she said softly. "I wish I could tell you more, but I’m not ready yet. Not until I know… until I understand more myself." Her words were heavy with regret, and the intensity in her eyes seemed to hold both promise and warning.

Rebecca exhaled slowly, her heart heavy with questions and the weight of unspoken truths. As they reached the threshold of Rebecca's room, the charged silence between them spoke volumes—of danger, of desire, of secrets that neither was yet ready to fully reveal. With a final, lingering look that conveyed both an apology and a promise, Sarocha opened the door, and together they stepped inside, leaving the chaos of the lobby and the haunting encounter behind, if only for a little while.

Inside the softly lit room, the air seemed to tremble with secrets. The gentle hum of an ancient air conditioner mingled with a faint, almost imperceptible pulse—a heartbeat not entirely Rebecca’s own. Sarocha sat close to Rebecca on a deep velvet couch, her dark eyes reflecting both concern and an inscrutable depth that hinted at millennia of hidden truths.

Sarocha’s voice, low and measured, broke the silence. “There are forces as old as I am, Rebecca,” she said slowly. “Forces that do not abide by our rules, that are not kind or accommodating.” Her words floated in the charged air, laden with an ancient gravity. “I cannot say for certain who that stranger was—or what he wanted—but I suspect he is not alone in this. He may be a harbinger of something far darker than you realize.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened, exhaustion and fear mingling with a growing, desperate curiosity. “But… what would such forces want with normal humans?” she asked in a strained whisper. The question seemed to hang there, heavy with implications.

Sarocha’s gaze shifted, as if searching for words that had long eluded her. “The guardians… they were not merely protectors of the Naga. They were the balance—anchors between mortal fragility and divine chaos. In ancient times, when the world was raw and untamed, their duty was more than physical defense. They were the vessels through which the Naga’s will flowed, ensuring that power did not overwhelm. But something went terribly wrong, and one guardian failed. I fear that failure—and the curse it birthed—still echoes through our world.”

Rebecca’s hand tightened on the fabric of the couch. The soft glow of the bracelet on her wrist pulsed in time with her heart, and its ancient script shone as if alive. “I’m starting to feel… endangered,” she admitted, voice trembling. “Every day, with every flash of a dream, every strange reaction of this thing… I fear for my life.”

At that, Sarocha’s eyes darkened with a mixture of sorrow and fierce protectiveness. “I do not wish to see you harmed,” she murmured, leaning forward. Her presence grew, almost tangible—the air around her thickened, and the gentle lighting danced along her skin, revealing brief, shimmering patterns that hinted at scales and the raw power of her Naga nature. “I can calm you, Rebecca,” she said, her tone softening as she extended a hand. “Let me help.”

Slowly, Sarocha’s aura seemed to envelop Rebecca. With a touch both commanding and tender, she traced a slow, deliberate line along Rebecca’s wrist, where the bracelet pulsed like a living thing. In that moment, the room seemed to dissolve into a trance-like haze. The gentle murmur of voices faded into a single, steady heartbeat that connected them. Rebecca’s racing mind began to quiet, her tangled thoughts easing into an almost dreamlike state.

“You must trust me,” Sarocha whispered, her voice resonant with ancient promise and regret. “I am bound to these forces as much as you are now. And though it frightens me—frightens me that each step we take together may bring you closer to danger—I cannot help but want to keep you safe.”

For a long, suspended moment, they simply held each other’s gaze. Rebecca felt both the raw terror of uncertainty and an inexplicable comfort in Sarocha’s presence. It was as if Sarocha’s otherworldly energy, her very essence, was a balm for the storm raging within her. Yet, even as Sarocha’s powers wove a calming lull over her, Rebecca could sense the strain in the older woman—a trembling vulnerability, a fear that her own nature might unravel the very bond they were forging.

“I—I don’t understand it all,” Rebecca managed, voice barely audible. “But I feel it—this pull, this inescapable need to be with you. Even though I know I’m risking everything.”

Sarocha’s expression softened, a flicker of longing mingled with sorrow crossing her features. “I know,” she said quietly. “We are intertwined in ways that defy simple explanation. There is a legacy in you, a connection to something ancient and fierce. And I—despite my own misgivings—find myself compelled to protect you, even if it means sacrificing a part of who I once was.”

The intensity in Sarocha’s voice sent a shiver through Rebecca, the realization of shared fate and fragile hope binding them together. In that intimate, vulnerable moment, their eyes locked—a silent vow passing between them, heavy with both promise and pain.

As the minutes stretched into an eternity, the oppressive weight of the unknown settled around them. Yet, for the first time in days, Rebecca felt a spark of solace—a tentative understanding that, no matter how perilous the path, they were no longer alone in their struggle. The inescapable desire to keep one another safe mingled with the terror of the ancient forces looming at the edge of their lives.

With a soft, trembling sigh, Rebecca closed her eyes and let herself be enveloped by Sarocha’s touch—a desperate, fragile bridge between fear and hope, a whisper of the fated destiny that bound them together in the silence of the night.

That evening, in the muted light of Rebecca’s hotel room, the world outside seemed to vanish. The air was warm and still, heavy with the unspoken confessions of two souls caught in a magnetic orbit. Rebecca, her heart still raw from the tumult of the previous days, turned to Sarocha with a vulnerability she could no longer hide. It was as if every nerve in her body was set aflame, yearning for the comfort of an embrace that might ease the relentless ache inside.

“Sarocha,” Rebecca began, her voice soft yet trembling with raw emotion, “I... I can’t keep pretending that I might not fall apart.” Her eyes searched Sarocha’s face for even a glimmer of understanding, of tenderness that might quell the storm raging within her.

Sarocha’s dark gaze flickered for a moment—an emotion that was both fierce and fragile. “I know,” she murmured, reaching out to cup Rebecca’s cheek with a hand that trembled imperceptibly. There was an unspoken apology in her touch, a silent admission that she, too, was wrestling with forces far beyond mere desire.

Their conversation dissolved into silence, replaced by the language of touch. Slowly, deliberately, Sarocha leaned closer until the distance between them was nonexistent. With gentle care, she began to unfasten the buttons of her blouse, each motion laced with both controlled restraint and a hint of desperate longing. Rebecca’s eyes widened as she watched, mesmerized, the fluidity with which Sarocha revealed her skin—smooth, unblemished, and strangely luminous, as if lit from within by some ancient fire.

As the layers of fabric fell away, so too did the barriers they had both so carefully maintained. Rebecca, emboldened by her own vulnerability, allowed herself to be drawn into the intimacy of the moment. She reached out to Sarocha, their fingers intertwining like a silent pact, their breaths mingling in the space between whispered confessions and promises unspoken. In that dimly lit room, with shadows dancing along the walls and the distant hum of the city as a fragile backdrop, the two women found themselves on the precipice of something that transcended time.

Their kiss was urgent—raw, unpolished, and charged with an intensity that bordered on reckless abandon. It was a collision of need and hesitation, of passion and fear. As their mouths met, Rebecca felt an almost surreal sensation: it was as if Sarocha’s energy, that enigmatic power that had always set her pulse racing, began to merge with her. The sensation enveloped her like a raging inferno, desperate to consume her from the inside out.

When she pulled back to glance at Sarocha, the sight of her eyes stole Rebecca's breath—a brightly glowing honey hue, swirling around slit pupils like a cyclone. "Your... eyes." She whispered, breathless, gaze jumping from the one otherworldly orb to the other.

"It's you... It's because of you." Sarocha breathed heavily through her words, slowly guiding Rebecca backwards in the direction of the bed. "I haven't... been able to access my energy... until you..." She pushed gently but firmly, guiding Rebecca to sit down when they reached the edge of the mattress.

Rebecca's brows creased slightly, though her mind was hazy, drowning in the desire that still pulsed through the room like a heartbeat. "Is it the bracelet?" She asked, whispering through her teeth as her eyes travelled along the contours of Sarocha's body. Her fingers carefully reached out to one carved hip bone, tracing its angle towards the dip of Sarocha's pelvis.

Sarocha shook her head slowly, her hand reaching to run her fingers gingerly along the bracelet that seemed to have come alive once more. "The bracelet is for you, not me." Her reply was cryptic, though Rebecca took careful note of the slight shift of uncertainty in Sarocha's voice. "But you... you seem to be my bracelet. Somehow, you bring balance to my being." Sarocha's fingers laced through Rebecca's as her eyes settled with unsettling intensity on her gaze. "Does it scare you?"

Rebecca felt many things when it came to Sarocha, but fear had never been one of them. Despite the fact that she was tangled up in a physical relationship with someone who was essentially a goddess, Rebecca could not bring herself to pull away from Sarocha. The mere thought of an ending to the storm raging between them caused an ache deep in her soul, as if it was something completely unnatural to even consider.

"No." She sighed, finally, and slid their joined hands down to the hem of her shirt. Only once they joined forces to remove the garment, and Sarocha leaned into Rebecca's space with longing as heavy as the air in their lungs, did Rebecca dare to disturb the growing tension. "The more of you I see, the more of you I want." Her words were soft but undeniably sure, rippling through Sarocha's eyes like a pebble to the water's surface.

The moment was enough to shatter any remaining pretense, causing a flurry of movement as more pieces of clothing were ripped away. Rebecca felt her world go up in flames the moment Sarocha's skin—hot, sweaty, and slick with desire—pressed against her naked body. Limbs tangled as they scrambled up the bed, sheets twisting through whispered curses. Sarocha pinned Rebecca on her back, her fluid movements firm and dominant, her weight mostly resting on her elbows as she pressed the woman below her into the bed.

Then Sarocha's lips were on Rebecca: a smear of deep kisses coated her neck and trailed across her throat, before teeth scraped the cartilage through the thin skin. Rebecca's back arched unbidden, her spine tingling in response to the way Sarocha's hot mouth wrestled over her collarbone and onto the curve of her chest.

Rebecca’s body trembled beneath Sarocha’s commanding touch, every nerve ignited by the mingling of heat and hunger. As Sarocha’s lips continued their relentless exploration—pressing, tugging, drawing moans from deep within—Rebecca’s mind swirled in a haze of ecstasy and confusion. In that raw, unfiltered moment, the world narrowed to the shared rhythm of their hearts and the sound of their mingled breaths.

Sarocha’s hands roamed with a fluid, almost predatory grace, mapping the curves of Rebecca’s body as if committing every detail to memory. The intensity of their union was both fierce and tender—a collision of unbridled passion and desperate vulnerability. Every kiss, every caress, was punctuated by a subtle electricity that made the room seem to pulse in time with their desire.

As the physical act deepened, Rebecca felt a familiar, almost otherworldly sensation stirring within her. It was as if Sarocha’s energy—her ancient, mysterious power—was seeping into her, a spectral warmth that moved like liquid fire beneath her skin. In one surreal moment, as their limbs tangled and their hearts pounded in frantic unison, Rebecca felt as though she could sense a presence pushing against moist, contracting walls—a phantom, insubstantial yet undeniable, as if Sarocha’s divine essence had slipped past the confines of flesh and slid into her.

For a heartbeat, the world faded into an intense, sensory silence. Rebecca’s eyes fluttered closed as she surrendered to the overwhelming rush, her mind awash with a mixture of rapture and fear. It was a tempest of sensations: the gentle pressure of Sarocha’s fingertips, the rasp of her whispered words against Rebecca’s ear, the taste of salt and desire on her lips. In that moment, the boundaries between them blurred—the physical merging with the metaphysical, as if the two souls were dancing on the edge of eternity.

Yet even as the passion surged, a quiet tremor of uncertainty threaded through the intimacy. Rebecca’s thoughts flickered between bliss and bewilderment—each stroke stoking an inescapable fire while also deepening the mystery of what they were becoming together. Sarocha’s eyes, burning with a strange amber light as they caught the shimmer of scales for an instant, spoke volumes without words: this union was potent, fated, and dangerous.

When Sarocha finally pulled away with a sudden, wrenching force, the abrupt separation left Rebecca gasping in the charged silence, body still humming and mind awash with unanswered questions. In that fleeting parting, as Sarocha’s gaze held a promise of secrets yet unspoken, Rebecca’s heart spoke the truth she had long tried to deny...

She was irrevocably, helplessly, falling for this woman.

But even as the raw intensity of their encounter lingered in the air—a heady mix of longing, passion, and the taste of ancient magic—Sarocha’s retreat underscored the chasm that still lay between them. A chasm filled with fear, uncertainty, and the burden of a curse that neither could fully overcome. And in the quiet after the storm of their passion, as Rebecca lay trembling and exposed, the unyielding truth settled over her like a whispered vow: in this dangerous, unpredictable collision of desire and destiny, she had lost her heart, her soul, everything she had ever thought she was.

Sarocha stood from the bed, naked body moving with liquid grace and shimmering like the river, her eyes betraying a flicker of conflict. There was a hesitation streaking her beautiful features, a guarded look—reminders that the curse and the ancient forces bound to her were never far away. Her expression softened with unspoken sorrow as she murmured, “I wish I could give you everything… but I’m afraid of what that might mean.”

As if tethered to Sarocha by an invisible force, Rebecca slipped from the sheets, shivering as the humid air brushed her naked skin. She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sarocha’s face, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care about what it might mean. I just need you.” Her words trembled with raw emotion, the fervor of a heart unafraid of devotion even in the midst of chaos.

In response, Sarocha’s hand hesitated on Rebecca’s wrist—the same spot where the bracelet pulsed with an unyielding glow—but the touch was tender now, imbued with a sense of longing that mingled with the cool, otherworldly aura that still clung to her. For a few heartbeats, it was as though the room itself held its breath, the boundaries between them softening, merging into a single, desperate need.

The atmosphere in the room shifted palpably as Sarocha’s lingering hesitations gave way under the weight of desire and raw need. For a long, charged moment, the tension between them pulsed in the silence, their eyes locked in a battle of wills and longing.

“Sarocha… please,” Rebecca whispered, her voice trembling with equal parts pleading and command. Her words hung in the charged air.

Sarocha’s control began to crumble. Her eyes, once guarded and distant, now burned with an undeniable intensity as she moved with sudden, fierce determination. Without another word, she reached for Rebecca, her hand firm and insistent, and guided her to the plush couch. In one fluid motion that defied all previous restraint, Sarocha bent Rebecca over the backrest, her body pressing down on Rebecca's back in an embrace that was both possessive and tender.

“Don’t fight it,” Sarocha murmured, her tone rough yet urgent. “Let me show you.”

Rebecca’s pulse thundered as Sarocha’s hands roamed her exposed skin. Every touch was electric—a spark of something ancient and potent. The golden bracelet on Rebecca’s wrist flared in response, its inscription glowing as if awakened by their union. In that moment, it felt as though Sarocha’s very essence had become tangible, a throbbing energy that flowed into Rebecca like a phantom limb—a presence that was both sensual and divine.

Their lips met in a collision of need and abandon over Rebecca's shoulder. Sarocha’s kisses were raw and unpolished, full of fierce desire and a desperate hunger that spoke of decades spent denying her true self. As Sarocha’s body moved with a controlled, almost predatory grace, Rebecca’s limbs trembled under the assault of passion. Each thrust—each movement—was a surge of energy that made Rebecca’s heart pound and her mind spin in a whirlwind of sensations.

“Please,” Rebecca gasped between fierce kisses, her voice a mix of longing and confusion. “Tell me what you are... what this means.”

For a heartbeat, Sarocha’s eyes glimmered with unspoken secrets, then darkened with a reluctant sorrow. “I can’t... I don’t know,” she admitted hoarsely, her voice breaking with the weight of a truth too ancient to name. “All I know is that when I’m with you, something awakens—something I never thought I’d feel again.”

In that searing moment, as Sarocha’s energy surged and melded with Rebecca’s in a torrent of heat and desire, Rebecca’s heart screamed its confession through every pulse and every shuddering breath. Yet, even as their bodies moved in frantic, desperate unison, an unyielding question lingered—one that neither was ready to fully answer.

Could this ever be possible?

And so, even as the physical intimacy reached a crescendo, an undercurrent of uncertainty remained. Sarocha’s body reacted with a subtle shift—a faint shimmer of scales along her collarbone, her eyes flickering briefly between their human warmth and an almost predatory, amber glow. It was as if she teetered on the edge of her true nature, that ancient, fated power that she had long denied.

The encounter, though intense and unrestrained, was tinged with a bittersweet realization: neither of them could fully surrender, for the cost of their union was as enigmatic as it was irresistible. As their passionate exploration subsided into a quiet, trembling stillness, both women lay on the couch, their breaths mingling in the dim light, hearts pounding with the knowledge that something monumental had shifted between them.

In that tender, fraught moment, Rebecca’s mind swirled with questions—about the nature of the curse, about Sarocha’s forbidden power, and about her own heart, which now beat with a fierce, unyielding emotion. And though the sensations were raw and the connection unpolished, there was a fragile beauty in the chaos—a promise that even amidst ancient curses and unstoppable destiny, love could spark like a fleeting flame in the darkness.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered softly through the hotel’s sheer curtains as Rebecca shuffled into the small kitchenette. To her surprise, Sarocha was already seated at the small dining table, the previous night’s tension still a ghost in the air but softened somehow by the gentle glow of dawn. Rebecca set about fixing coffee, her hands steady despite the lingering storm of emotions. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room, mingling with a hint of jasmine from the nearby garden.

Sarocha watched her with an inscrutable expression. Finally, as Rebecca poured steaming coffee into two delicate cups, she broke the silence with a curious tone.

“Tell me,” Rebecca began, her eyes bright with a mixture of mischief and genuine wonder, “how do you live as a human, Sarocha? You’re… not exactly ordinary.”

A small, almost amused smile tugged at Sarocha’s lips as she accepted a cup. “Ordinary?” she echoed lightly. “I’ve been living as a human for centuries.” Her tone was teasing, yet every word carried the weight of an impossible history.

Rebecca arched an eyebrow. “Centuries? And here I thought immortality meant endless boredom.”

Sarocha chuckled softly, her eyes glinting with ancient amusement. “Boredom is for mortals. I lost my powers when the curse took hold, but I kept my immortality. I was forced to walk the earth in human form—learning, adapting, surviving.”

Rebecca took a slow sip of coffee, savoring its warmth. “So, you’re basically a time traveler stuck in a modern body?” she teased, half in jest.

Sarocha’s laughter was quiet, almost musical. “In a manner of speaking. I’ve seen empires rise and fall. But now…” She paused, her gaze softening, “my energy only surges again when you’re near." Perhaps, Sarocha silently insinuated with a pointed glance at the bracelet, it was because Rebecca, too, was of a special blood—a guardian by birth.

Sarocha's focused gaze sent a shiver of both excitement and trepidation through Rebecca. “And how old are you, exactly?” she asked, unable to resist probing further, her tone light yet laced with awe.

Sarocha leaned back, her eyes twinkling with humor. “Old enough to know better, but still young enough to feel every new heartbeat like it’s my first.”

Rebecca smirked, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s not a number, Sarocha. Come on—give me something concrete.”

With a playful roll of her eyes, Sarocha replied, “Let’s say I was born before your ancestors settled the Chao Phraya."

Rebecca laughed softly, marveling at the absurdity and the mystery intertwined in Sarocha’s words. Even in this lighter atmosphere, Rebecca couldn’t help but be captivated by Sarocha’s entire presence—a presence that seemed sculpted from pure, unyielding power. Every gesture, every measured word, radiated an authority that belied centuries of experience and secret sorrows.

Rebecca’s gaze dropped to the bracelet on her wrist, its ancient script glowing faintly in the morning light. “I still can’t get over this,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Everything about you—your history, your aura—it’s… overwhelming.”

Sarocha’s expression softened, a quiet intensity flickering in her eyes. “Perhaps that’s exactly what it is meant to be,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “Our lives are bound by forces beyond time. That's not a simple fact."

The room fell into a reflective silence as the two women sipped their coffee, each lost in thoughts of the ancient past and the uncertain future. In that small, sunlit space, the years melted away, leaving only the unspoken promise of connection—a promise as timeless as the legends themselves.

Rebecca’s gaze remained fixed on the softly glowing bracelet as the morning light filtered through the window. The conversation that had simmered between them over coffee now found its quiet, inevitable continuation. Sarocha’s eyes, dark and troubled, finally betrayed a hint of vulnerability as she leaned forward over the small table in the corner of the room.

"I haven’t been completely honest," Sarocha began, her voice low and measured, as if the words were heavy stones to be set down. "I think... I'm sure that your blood… it’s descended from the Guardian of the Naga."

Rebecca’s heart pounded in her ears. "What do you mean?"

Sarocha’s fingers trembled slightly on the table. "I can’t say more. I—" She paused, searching Rebecca’s eyes for understanding. "I fear what this connection might bring you. It puts you in danger."

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed with a mix of hurt and determination. "So you’re saying I’m part of something ancient, something… fated?"

A long, pained silence followed. Sarocha’s gaze flickered between regret and burning desire. "Yes. And despite everything, despite all my efforts to stay detached, I—I desire you. I crave you. I burn for you." Her voice broke slightly, as if the confession was both liberation and curse.

Rebecca reached out, her hand trembling as she grasped Sarocha’s. "Then why do you keep avoiding me? Why not just give in to this—us?"

Sarocha’s eyes darkened further, her composure wavering as the internal struggle became visible. "Because every moment we grow closer, I risk drawing you into a storm I can’t control. I can’t—won’t—endanger you any more than you already are."

Rebecca’s frustration mingled with tender longing. "But isn’t there no going back now?" she demanded, her voice sharp yet filled with desperate hope. "Our lives have changed irreversibly. We’re entwined in a way that leaves us no option but to face it."

Sarocha’s grip tightened on Rebecca’s hand as if trying to anchor herself in the midst of her turmoil. "I wish I could give you all the answers, Rebecca. I wish I could make you safe." Her voice faltered, then steadied. "I want you—so much—but I can’t risk the unknown that follows this bond. I’m torn apart by what I feel and what I must do."

A charged silence fell between them, filled with the pulse of ancient forces and the weight of unspoken destinies. Rebecca’s eyes glistened as she whispered, "I’m not afraid anymore. I’m already in this, heart and soul. I need you—every part of you."

For a moment, Sarocha’s resistance wavered, and the intensity of her gaze softened into something tender, almost pleading. Yet the ever-present shadow of the curse lingered in her eyes, a warning and a promise all at once.

Sarocha’s hands trembled as they cupped Rebecca’s face, her thumbs tracing gentle circles against flushed skin. She leaned in, capturing Rebecca’s lips in a kiss that was neither urgent nor fleeting, but something in between—a quiet, desperate longing stretched too thin.

Rebecca sighed into it, her fingers curling into Sarocha’s waist, as if she could hold her there, keep her from slipping away like the tides. But then, just as Rebecca’s arms tightened around her, Sarocha pulled back.

"We need space," she murmured, her voice raw with reluctance. "To figure this out."

Rebecca stiffened. "Space?" she echoed, disbelieving. "That’s what you think we need?"

Sarocha swallowed hard, brushing her nose against Rebecca’s in silent apology. "I won’t disappear. I won’t abandon you. But I—" She hesitated, shaking her head. "I have to make sure you stay safe."

Rebecca let out a sharp breath, her chest tightening. "I feel safer when you’re with me."

Sarocha’s jaw clenched, her conflict etched into every inch of her face. "That’s not how this works, Rebecca. A guardian should be able to hold their own."

The words landed like a slap, unintentional but cutting. Rebecca pulled back, her hands slipping away from Sarocha’s skin as indignation flared in her chest. "So what, I’m weak? Helpless?"

"That’s not what I meant," Sarocha said quickly, regret flashing across her features.

But Rebecca had already taken a step away, arms crossing over her chest. "Right," she muttered, the sting of embarrassment creeping in. "I guess I’ve been playing the coward, then. Clinging to you instead of—what? Learning how to fight for myself?"

"Rebecca—"

"No, it’s fine," Rebecca cut in, forcing a strained smile. "You’re right. You should go."

A flicker of pain crossed Sarocha’s face, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she reached out one last time, fingers brushing against Rebecca’s arm in silent hesitation. "I don’t know when I’ll see you again."

Rebecca inhaled sharply, steadying herself against the ache that bloomed in her chest. "Will I see you again?"

Sarocha exhaled, barely audible. "I don’t know."

The admission sent a sharp pang through Rebecca’s ribs, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she gave a small nod, swallowing down everything she wanted to say—everything she wanted to plead for.

As Sarocha turned toward the door, her hand paused on the frame. Without looking back, she murmured, "Stay away from the river."

Rebecca’s heart stuttered. She opened her mouth to question it, to demand an answer, but Sarocha was already gone, leaving only the ghost of her touch and the echo of her warning behind.

---

The cold water did little to settle Rebecca’s frayed nerves. It rushed over her skin in sharp rivulets, shocking but ineffective in washing away the imprint of last night—the heat of Sarocha’s body against hers, the way her voice had trembled with restraint, the hunger in her gaze.

Her fingers curled against the tile as she exhaled roughly. 'Space.' 'We need space.' Sarocha’s words echoed in her mind, unwanted and infuriating. After everything, after coming so close, after burning together—Sarocha still walked away.

And Rebecca had let her.

With a frustrated growl, she shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, reaching blindly for a towel. Her reflection in the mirror was flushed, eyes bright with lingering emotion she bit off the tip of her tongue. She wanted to scream, to chase after Sarocha, to demand answers. But instead, she dressed quickly and left her apartment, redirecting her energy into something—anything—productive.

The excavation site hummed with activity when Rebecca arrived. Workers moved carefully over sections of exposed earth, cataloging artifacts, while Dr. Ananda stood bent over a workstation, deep in thought. When he noticed her, his face lit up with pleasant surprise.

"Rebecca! You’re back. Feeling better?"

Better. The word nearly made her laugh. "Yeah, much better," she replied smoothly, willing away the heat creeping up her neck at the thought of why she’d been ‘sick’ in the first place.

Dr. Ananda smiled, gesturing toward a set of papers. "Good timing. I’ve been meaning to update you on something interesting regarding the sword."

Rebecca’s attention sharpened instantly. The sword. The same one she had seen gleaming and new in a vision—Sarocha’s whispers in her ear, the weight of it feeling like it belonged in her grasp.

"You found something?" she asked, stepping closer.

"Nothing definitive yet," Ananda admitted, adjusting his glasses. "But I dug into more texts regarding its possible origins. You remember how I told you it could be linked to the Naga?"

She nodded.

"Well, I found a few obscure references to weapons crafted specifically for… guardians." He looked at her meaningfully. "Remember them?"

Rebecca forced her pulse to steady. "How could I forget."

Dr. Ananda’s eyes gleamed with scholarly excitement. "They’re fascinating figures in folklore. Not just warriors, but chosen beings—people marked by the Naga to act as their protectors and intermediaries. Supposedly, they possessed heightened strength, longevity, and an innate ability to channel the Naga’s energy."

Rebecca’s breath hitched. An innate ability to channel their energy.

Sarocha’s touch. The way she had felt last night, like her very essence had been pulling something from deep within Rebecca—something ancient, something raw.

"Here’s the kicker," Ananda continued. "Guardianship was believed to be passed through bloodlines. Hereditary."

Rebecca barely kept her expression neutral. "So… you’re saying they weren’t just randomly chosen?"

"Exactly." He studied her curiously. "Funny coincidence, huh? You keep stumbling into the right discoveries. Almost like something—or someone—is leading you to them."

Rebecca forced a laugh, but her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

Her mind reeled with the implications. Sarocha hadn’t denied her nature as Naga, but she had been deliberately vague about why Rebecca affected her energy. She had hinted, in careful, measured words, that Rebecca’s blood might have something to do with it.

But if Rebecca was indeed a guardian, why wouldn’t Sarocha just tell her as much?

Her eyes flicked to the rusted sword on the workstation, lying dormant and lifeless. A relic of something greater. A key to something she didn’t yet understand.

Determined, she turned back to Ananda. "You said Guardians trained. Do you know how?"

Dr. Ananda raised an eyebrow at her sudden intensity. "Most sources suggest their training was more than just physical combat. It was about endurance, attunement, discipline. Some texts even hint that a Guardian’s power could be… awakened, under certain conditions."

Rebecca inhaled sharply.

Sarocha’s words returned to her in a crushing wave. A Guardian should be able to hold their own.

And suddenly, Rebecca wasn’t just frustrated anymore. She was angry.

She was done waiting for answers.

Done being kept in the dark.

If Sarocha wouldn’t tell her everything, then Rebecca would find out for herself.

---

The air in Ayutthaya was thick with the scent of damp earth and river water, the slow-moving current whispering along the banks. Rebecca stood in the courtyard of her family’s estate, the dark teakwood rising behind her, the house elevated on stilts like it had always been—unchanging, eternal.

The familiar creak of the wooden steps beneath her feet sent a strange feeling through her, something between nostalgia and unease. She hadn’t been back in years, but now, she couldn’t ignore the pull.

"Rebecca!"

Her uncle, Prasert, emerged from the open-air pavilion, his lined face breaking into a smile. His silver-threaded hair was tied back neatly, his movements slow but deliberate.

"Uncle," she greeted, stepping forward.

His arms closed around her in a strong embrace, but as they pulled apart, his sharp eyes scanned her face, as if seeing something he hadn’t expected.

"You’ve come a long way," he said, his voice edged with something unreadable.

"I needed to."

Prasert studied her for a beat longer before nodding, leading her up the steps and into the pavilion where a low wooden table sat waiting, a tea set laid out as if he had been expecting company. The warm glow of lanterns flickered around them, casting shifting shadows across the wooden beams.

Rebecca lowered herself onto the woven mat, resting her elbows on her knees. She didn’t bother with small talk.

"Tell me about our family," she said.

Prasert lifted a brow, pouring tea into delicate ceramic cups. "That’s a broad request."

"Then I’ll be specific," Rebecca pressed. "How far back does our bloodline go?"

He hummed in thought, passing her a cup. "Far enough."

"How far?"

"Before Ayutthaya was the capital," he admitted.

Rebecca’s pulse quickened. "So before the kingdom itself."

"Some would say before the kingdom. Some would say before kings at all." He took a slow sip of tea. "But you didn’t come all this way just to hear stories."

Rebecca exhaled sharply. "No. I didn’t."

Prasert’s gaze flickered downward, and Rebecca felt it before she followed his line of sight—the weight of her bracelet against her wrist, suddenly heavier.

His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for it, but instead, he merely asked, "Where did you get that?"

"It was given to me."

"By who?"

She hesitated. "A friend."

A beat of silence. Then Prasert finally reached out, brushing the worn gold with his fingertips.

The reaction was immediate—a pulse, deep and electric, ran through her arm like a whisper of something ancient. Prasert jerked his hand back as if burned.

Rebecca sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the bracelet.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded.

Her uncle didn’t answer right away. His expression had changed—no longer amused, no longer vague. There was something like recognition in his eyes.

"You can read it, can’t you?" Rebecca pressed.

His lips parted slightly before he exhaled, rubbing his fingers together like trying to rid himself of whatever he had just felt.

"It says ‘Guardian.’"

The word sent a shiver down her spine.

"Guardian of what?" she asked carefully.

Prasert didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at her as if weighing something, as if deciding whether to speak at all.

Finally, he murmured, "It’s just an old story."

"Try me."

His mouth tightened, but he relented, his voice dropping lower. "There’s a legend in our family. A story passed down for generations. That our bloodline is… connected to something older than this city, older than the land itself."

"Connected how?"

"Bound," Prasert said simply.

The word sent a ripple of something deep and instinctive through her, something she couldn’t name.

"To what?"

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "Not what." His gaze flickered to her bracelet again. "Who."

A chill settled in Rebecca’s bones.

"You mean the Naga," she said, watching his reaction closely.

Prasert’s fingers tightened around his teacup.

"People tell stories," he said carefully. "About great beings that once ruled the rivers. About noble families who… shared a bond with them. But stories are just that."

"Then why did the bracelet react to you?"

Prasert didn't answer.

The silence between them stretched, heavy, filled with something unsaid.

Rebecca leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "You knew what it meant the moment you saw it."

His jaw tensed.

"If these are just stories," she pressed, "then why do you look afraid?"

Prasert set his cup down with deliberate care. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

"Because some stories aren’t meant to be remembered."

The words hung in the air, thick with the weight of something unsaid. Rebecca’s pulse raced as she stared at her uncle, her gaze piercing. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice steady but her heart hammering in her chest.

Prasert shifted uneasily, glancing away for a moment. His eyes darted to the garden beyond, as if looking for an escape, before settling back on her. The room felt suddenly smaller, the lanterns casting long shadows that seemed to stretch across the wooden floor like dark fingers.

"You’re asking about things you’re not ready to hear," he said softly, his voice betraying a trace of warning.

Rebecca’s hands clenched around her cup, the porcelain cool and smooth against her fingertips. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning in further, her body drawn forward by the mystery, by the nagging sense that she was on the edge of something huge—something that had been waiting for her.

"Tell me anyway," she demanded, her voice rough with the intensity of her need.

Prasert’s eyes flickered with hesitation. He looked at her like he was measuring her resolve, searching for something that might convince him to stay silent. For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling outside, mingling with the soft chimes of temple bells in the distance.

He sighed, the weight of centuries pressing down on his shoulders. "The stories... They were never meant to be truths," he said slowly. "They were meant to be forgotten."

Rebecca’s heart stuttered in her chest. "Why?"

He stood and walked over to the window, his back to her now. The line of his shoulders was tense, like a man struggling to carry a burden too heavy to bear.

"Because, Rebecca," he began, his voice thick with the heaviness of what he was about to say. "Some bonds are not meant to be forged. Some unions are… too dangerous."

She felt a cold shiver creep up her spine. "Dangerous?" she echoed, her mind racing with questions. "What do you mean by that? The Naga—what are they really? Why are they so important to us?"

Prasert turned back to face her, his eyes darker now, filled with something Rebecca couldn’t read. His lips tightened as he considered her question, the faintest glimmer of regret in his eyes.

"The Naga are... not what they seem," he said, his voice low. "They are creatures of the water, yes, but not just any creatures. They are ancient. Older than kingdoms. Older than cities. Their power is vast—too vast for humans to truly understand. And our bloodline, Rebecca... We’ve always been tied to them. You’ve felt it, haven’t you?"

Her breath caught in her throat as she nodded, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest. She had felt it. The pull, the connection—the strange and undeniable sense that something greater than her was at play, something that had been woven into the very fabric of her existence.

"But that bond," Prasert continued, "is not just a blessing. It is a curse. The legends tell us that the Naga, in their endless quest for power and control over the rivers, made a pact with our ancestors long ago. A pact that bound our blood to theirs, linking us to them in a way that cannot be undone. But there was a cost, Rebecca."

"A cost?"

He nodded, his gaze distant. "A great cost."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Rebecca could feel the air in the room growing heavier, thick with the weight of what was left unsaid. She could feel the tension mounting between them, stretching taut like a tightrope about to snap.

Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. "What happened?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "What is it? What are you not telling me?"

Her uncle’s face tightened, and for a moment, he looked as if he might turn away again. But then, with a final exhale, he seemed to relent, as if he could no longer keep it inside.

"Long ago," he began, his voice barely audible, "the bond was stronger. It was... too strong. A young guardian, a woman of our bloodline, was bound to a Naga. The union, they say, was powerful—too powerful."

Rebecca’s mind spun, a million questions racing through her thoughts. "What happened to her? To the Naga?"

His jaw clenched. "The bond between the guardian and the Naga was meant to be a purely protective one, a relationship of balance. But this one bond... The Naga’s power grew, but so did the danger. The monks, the ones who believed in the old laws, they could not allow it."

"What did they do?" Rebecca’s voice was low, trembling.

"They cursed them," Prasert said, his words like a heavy stone. "The curse... It’s why they vanished from history. Why they can’t be found. It’s why you won’t see them in the rivers anymore."

Rebecca was silent, the weight of his words pressing on her chest like a vice. Her thoughts raced, her heart hammering in her ears. She couldn’t ignore it.

"And the bracelet?" she asked softly, holding her wrist up. "Is it connected to the curse?"

Prasert’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, his expression softened with something like regret. "Yes," he admitted. "That bracelet is a symbol of the bond. It’s not just a trinket, Rebecca. It’s a key."

Her pulse quickened. "A key to what?"

"To the past," he said. "To the Naga. To the binding curse."

Rebecca swallowed hard, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into place, but leaving her with more questions than answers. She could feel it—the pull of the past, the weight of her bloodline, the strange power of the bracelet tightening around her wrist.

"So what do I do now?" she asked quietly.

Her uncle’s face hardened again. "I don’t know," he replied, his voice heavy with the burden of years, of secrets long buried. "But I’ll tell you this—there’s something more at work here, Rebecca. And you’re going to have to be careful. Because the curse isn't just a thing of the past. It’s alive. And it’s clearly watching you."

---

The warm evening breeze drifted through the open windows of the house, carrying with it the faint scent of the river and the distant hum of nightfall. Rebecca sat on the wooden veranda, her legs dangling over the edge, looking out at the calm waters that stretched wide before her. The moonlight bathed the river in a silver glow, the water reflecting the stars above like a million tiny shards of glass. Her aunt and cousin, Mai and Somchai, sat beside her, laughing and reminiscing about their summers spent here, playing and swimming in the river.

“Remember that summer when you tried to race the boat and nearly drowned yourself?” Mai teased, nudging Rebecca with her elbow.

Rebecca smiled, leaning back on her hands as she recalled the carefree days of her youth. “I was faster than the boat, you just didn’t know it,” she shot back with a grin.

Somchai chuckled, his deep voice echoing across the river. “You’ve always had that fire in you. That’s what I like about you.”

Rebecca felt a warmth in her chest, a nostalgic ache for the simplicity of her childhood. The river had always been a place of comfort, a place where she felt free. Before her world had become so tangled in secrets and curses, before she had known the weight of her own bloodline.

She glanced at her phone, which had been silent for hours—until now. The chime broke the rhythm of the night, and Rebecca’s stomach tightened in response.

It was a message from Sarocha.

She unlocked the phone and read it quickly. 'Where are you?'

Rebecca hesitated before typing back. 'I’m with my family. Out by the river. In Ayutthaya.' She watched the words appear on the screen, her fingers tapping the keys carefully as if each letter carried a deeper meaning.

The response came swiftly, a sharp contrast to the ease of her family’s banter. 'What do you mean, the river?'

Rebecca frowned, a tight knot forming in her stomach. She leaned back against the railing and sighed, feeling the distant pull of Sarocha’s concern, the familiar weight of her protective nature. 'I’m fine, really. I’m just here with Aunt Mai and Somchai. Everything’s okay.'

But she could feel the agitation through the screen even before Sarocha’s next message arrived. 'You know how dangerous the river is. You shouldn’t be there, Rebecca. Get away from the water.'

Rebecca scoffed under her breath. The river had been her second home growing up. She had swum in its waters countless times without incident. But somehow, in the span of just a few weeks, the river had turned into something dangerous in Sarocha’s eyes.

'I’m fine, Sarocha. I promise. It's just the river. There’s nothing wrong. You don’t have to worry so much.'

The next text took longer to come through, and when it did, Rebecca could feel the familiar mix of anger and fear laced in every word. 'I told you to stay away from the river. Come back now. Please, Rebecca. You’re scaring me.'

Rebecca’s chest tightened, the irritation bubbling up inside her. 'I’m not a child. I can handle myself', she shot back, feeling the sharpness of her own words. She immediately regretted the tone, but the words had already left her. She could already sense the tension in Sarocha’s response, the quiet demand for control.

'I know you can, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m worried about you', Sarocha replied. 'Just come home.'

Rebecca bit her lip, staring at the screen. Her heart pounded in her chest, both with frustration and something else—something darker, a feeling that she couldn’t quite place. 'Sarocha, you were the one who said we needed space. You were the one who wanted us to have some time apart. Don’t turn this into something else.' She hit send before she could second-guess herself, watching the message disappear into the digital ether.

There was a long pause, the seconds stretching out endlessly. The river rippled in front of her, the sound of water lapping against the shore a steady, calming rhythm. But inside, Rebecca felt anything but calm.

Finally, the message from Sarocha came through: 'I never said I wanted you to be out there. You’re not supposed to be alone near the water. I want you back. Now.'

The finality in Sarocha’s words stung, a mix of frustration and something deeper—something that felt more like a demand than a request. Rebecca had never been one to obey, especially not now, not with everything that was shifting between them.

'I’m not coming back yet. I’m with my family. I’ll be fine, Sarocha. Just trust me.'

Another long pause, this time filled with silence that seemed to hang in the air between them, thick and oppressive. And then, a final message from Sarocha: 'I hope you understand what you’re doing.'

Rebecca stared at the screen, her heart thudding in her chest, the words burning into her mind. With a soft exhale, she placed the phone back in her pocket, the conversation leaving an ache in her chest.

Mai and Somchai were still chatting idly, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension that had gripped her. Rebecca tried to shake it off, but the sense of unease lingered.

“Everything okay?” Mai asked, glancing over at her.

Rebecca forced a smile, even as the words from Sarocha echoed in her mind. 'I hope you understand what you’re doing.' She didn’t know if she did.

“Yeah,” Rebecca replied, her voice a little too soft. “Just... thinking.”

Somchai raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, sensing the shift in her mood.

Rebecca stood up and walked closer to the river, the cool breeze tugging at her hair. She stared out at the water again, but this time, she wasn’t reminded of the joy it once brought her. The river felt different now—darker, deeper, more mysterious than it had ever been before. And with every passing moment, she could feel the weight of her bloodline pressing down on her, the ancient bond she could no longer ignore.

Chapter Text

The dream came in waves, slipping through Rebecca’s mind like mist curling over water.

She was standing at the edge of the river, the world around her blurred and indistinct, cast in the eerie glow of twilight. The sky churned with deep indigo and crimson, the colors bleeding together as if the heavens themselves were unraveling. Sarocha was there—drenched in shadows, yet unmistakably her. Dark eyes, sharp yet soft, filled with something Rebecca could not name but could feel in every part of her soul.

There was blood—Rebecca didn’t know whose at first, only that it soaked her hands, her chest, warm and thick, seeping between her fingers. The metallic tang filled the air, but it was the pain in Sarocha’s gaze that struck deeper than any wound.

Rebecca’s legs gave out beneath her, the strength draining from her body as she collapsed into Sarocha’s arms. The river lapped hungrily at the shore, whispering secrets she could not understand.

“You have to hold on,” Sarocha’s voice was raw, torn between command and desperation. “Rebecca, stay with me.”

Rebecca reached up, brushing trembling fingers against Sarocha’s cheek. The feeling of her skin—warm, familiar—made her heart ache.

“I’ll find you again,” Rebecca whispered, her voice barely a breath against the wind.

Sarocha’s grip tightened around her, her entire being trembling. “No,” she choked out, shaking her head. “You can’t leave me.”

The darkness pressed in, the world dissolving, Sarocha’s face the last thing Rebecca saw before everything faded into nothingness.

—

Rebecca woke with a violent start.

Her body lurched upright, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Her heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The room was dark, the faint golden glow of the streetlights outside casting slanted shadows across the wooden walls.

Her skin was damp with sweat, her hands clutching at the sheets as she tried to steady herself. But the dream clung to her, thick and suffocating. Even as she reminded herself that it wasn’t real, that she was here, safe, in her family home, she couldn’t shake the lingering dread coiled tight in her chest.

The sensation of loss, of finality, was too vivid. Too real.

Her fingers fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking over a glass of water in her haste. She unlocked the screen and immediately pulled up Sarocha’s contact, her thumb hovering over the call button for only a second before pressing it.

The dial tone rang once. Twice.

Then it went to voicemail.

Rebecca frowned, her fingers gripping the device a little tighter.

She tried again.

Still nothing.

Unease prickled at the back of her neck, an irrational but undeniable fear sinking its claws into her gut. Sarocha was never unreachable. Even when she was being difficult, even when she was trying to create distance between them, she always answered eventually.

She hesitated, then started typing out a message.

Rebecca: 'Hey. I know it’s late, but can you call me when you see this?'

A few seconds passed. No read receipt. No response.

Rebecca swallowed hard, pushing back the rising anxiety that gnawed at her edges. She set the phone down, but sleep was a lost cause now. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sarocha’s face in that dream—saw her arms around her, saw the pain in her eyes.

She didn’t want to think about what it meant.

She didn’t want to think about the possibility of losing Sarocha at all.

—

By morning, there was still no response.

Rebecca sat at the breakfast table, barely touching her food, her mind a tangled mess of worry and frustration. Her aunt and cousin chatted around her, the familiar warmth of family filling the space, but she felt disconnected from it.

Her uncle sat across from her, watching her with quiet scrutiny. His perceptive gaze had always unsettled her when she was younger, as though he could see through every wall she built around herself.

“Leaving so soon?” he finally asked, setting down his cup of tea.

Rebecca nodded, pushing her untouched food aside. “I need to get back to Bangkok.”

He hummed, as if he expected that answer. “You found what you were looking for?”

Rebecca hesitated. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I feel like I have more questions than I did before.”

He studied her for a moment before nodding slowly. “That’s the nature of things like this.”

Rebecca frowned. “Things like what?”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make her pulse jump. “Bloodlines are strange things, Rebecca. Sometimes, we inherit more than we realize.”

She swallowed, remembering the way the inscription on her bracelet had reacted to his touch. “You really believe all that? About our family being connected to the Naga?”

Her uncle smiled, but there was something unreadable in his expression. “Belief isn’t the right word. It’s just what has always been known.”

A shiver ran down her spine. “But it’s just stories, right?”

His gaze held hers. “Are you so sure?”

Rebecca didn’t answer.

After a long pause, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and wrapped in a worn cloth. He slid it across the table to her.

She hesitated before unwrapping it carefully. Inside was a small, aged pendant—round and etched with an intricate design that looked eerily similar to the markings on her bracelet.

“This belonged to my grandfather,” her uncle said. “And his father before him. It’s been passed down through our family for generations.”

Rebecca turned it over in her hands, feeling the weight of it. “Why are you giving it to me?”

He smiled faintly. “Because you’re the one who is starting to remember.”

A chill spread through her, but she said nothing. She simply closed her fingers around the pendant, feeling the metal press against her palm.

Her uncle stood, placing a hand on her shoulder as he passed her. “Be careful, Rebecca,” he murmured. “Not everything that is forgotten stays that way.”

She exhaled slowly, gripping the pendant tighter as she rose from her seat. The unease in her chest had not faded, nor had the dream that still lingered at the edges of her mind.

She needed to get back to Bangkok.

And she needed to see Sarocha.

---

The drive back to Bangkok was a blur. Rebecca barely registered the passing landscape, her mind too tangled with unanswered questions and the lingering unease that had taken root in her chest.

Sarocha hadn’t answered her calls. Hadn’t responded to her messages.

It wasn’t like her. Even when she was pushing Rebecca away, even when she was being distant and cryptic, she still found a way to keep a thread between them. But this silence—it was different. It felt heavier. It felt wrong.

By the time she reached Sarocha’s penthouse, the sky was shifting into the deep hues of dusk. The elevator ride up felt agonizingly slow, and when she reached the door, she didn’t hesitate before knocking.

Nothing.

She knocked again, harder this time.

A few seconds passed. Then, finally, she heard movement on the other side.

The door cracked open just enough for Rebecca to see a sliver of Sarocha’s face. But something was… off.

Her eyes. They were darker, nearly pitch-black, the irises swallowed by an inky void. Her skin seemed to glow faintly under the dim hallway light, as if something underneath the surface was struggling to break free.

“Sarocha?” Rebecca’s stomach clenched.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Sarocha’s voice was low, rougher than usual.

Rebecca frowned. “I’ve been trying to reach you. You weren’t answering.”

Sarocha exhaled sharply, her grip tightening on the doorframe. “I told you to give us space.”

“That was before.” Rebecca stepped forward, placing a hand against the door, stopping Sarocha from shutting it. “Before I dreamed about dying in your arms. Before I woke up feeling like something terrible was going to happen to you.”

Sarocha flinched.

Rebecca didn’t miss it.

Something flickered across her face—something raw and vulnerable, but also caged.

“What’s going on?” Rebecca pressed.

Sarocha’s fingers curled against the frame as if she were bracing herself. “I’m not—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening.

Rebecca’s gaze searched hers, and then she did something reckless. She pushed forward, shoving the door open and stepping inside before Sarocha could stop her.

Sarocha hissed in protest, but she didn’t slam the door shut. She simply took several steps back, as if afraid of being too close.

The air inside the penthouse was different. Heavy. Charged. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the walls, but it was Sarocha herself that caught Rebecca’s breath.

She looked wild.

Her normally composed, elegant exterior was unraveling at the edges. Her muscles tensed beneath flushed skin, a sheen of sweat clinging to her collarbone. And her eyes—God, her eyes. They flickered between black and something else, something ancient and unearthly.

Rebecca stepped closer, but Sarocha held up a hand. “Don’t.”

Rebecca froze. “Why?”

Sarocha’s breaths were labored, her chest rising and falling too quickly. “Because I don’t know if I can control it.”

Rebecca’s pulse spiked. “Control what?”

Sarocha ran a hand through her damp hair, fingers visibly trembling. “There’s something happening to me. Something I don’t understand.”

Rebecca swallowed, watching the way Sarocha’s form seemed to shift, the air around her distorting in subtle waves.

“What do you feel?” Rebecca asked softly.

Sarocha’s jaw clenched, her body coiling like a predator on the edge of a kill. “Like I need to be near you. Like I need to—” Her voice cut off into a sharp inhale. She took another step back, pressing herself against the marble countertop as if grounding herself. “I can’t.”

Rebecca stepped forward again, undeterred.

“Rebecca,” Sarocha growled, a warning laced in her tone.

But Rebecca wasn’t afraid.

She should be. Everything about Sarocha right now screamed danger, screamed stay back. But all Rebecca felt was an overwhelming pull—like gravity itself was shifting, bending, dragging her closer.

Her hand reached out, hesitant but sure, fingertips grazing the back of Sarocha’s hand.

A violent shudder tore through Sarocha’s body.

She jerked away, a snarl ripping from her throat. It was guttural, inhuman, a sound that sent a thrill down Rebecca’s spine.

Sarocha’s entire form flickered—one second she was there, the next her edges blurred, her skin shifting like the shimmer of water under moonlight. Rebecca caught a glimpse of something else beneath—something scaled, something luminous.

Naga.

The realization struck her like a physical blow.

Rebecca’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Sarocha’s hands were gripping the counter so tightly her knuckles had gone white, her shoulders shaking with restraint.

“I don’t understand,” Rebecca breathed. “Why is this happening?”

Sarocha squeezed her eyes shut. “Because of you.”

Rebecca’s stomach flipped. “Me?”

Sarocha let out a sharp breath, her voice raw. “It’s always been you.”

Rebecca didn’t know how to respond.

The energy between them was unbearable—too thick, too charged, as if the very air might combust if either of them made one wrong move.

Sarocha finally looked at her again, her expression a war of hunger and restraint.

“I need you to leave,” she said hoarsely.

Rebecca’s heart clenched. “No.”

Sarocha inhaled sharply.

Rebecca took another step, this time lifting her hand to Sarocha’s face, cradling her cheek. Sarocha flinched, her entire body jerking like she’d been burned, but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, a broken sound left her lips, something between a sigh and a groan, as she leaned into the touch despite herself.

“You feel it too,” Rebecca murmured.

Sarocha’s breathing was erratic. “I feel everything.”

Rebecca swallowed hard. “Then why are you fighting it?”

Sarocha’s gaze burned into hers. “Because if I give in, I don’t know what I’ll become.”

The words sent a tremor down Rebecca’s spine, but she didn’t let go.

She wasn’t leaving.

Not now. Not when she was finally starting to see the truth.

The air between them was electric.

Rebecca’s fingers still cradled Sarocha’s face, her skin burning hot beneath her touch. A shiver ran through Sarocha’s body, her muscles coiled as if she were at war with herself.

But Rebecca wasn’t letting go.

She stepped closer, closing the space between them. Their breaths mingled, the tension between them so taut it was a wonder it hadn’t snapped already.

“Stop pushing me away,” Rebecca whispered.

Sarocha’s jaw clenched, her dark eyes flickering with something dangerous. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

Rebecca’s grip tightened. “Then tell me.”

Sarocha exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers curling against the counter. “You’re making it worse.”

“Good.” Rebecca’s voice was steady, but her heart pounded in her chest. “Because I’m tired of this dance. I know you feel it too. Whatever this is, whatever is happening to you—it’s happening to me too.”

Sarocha let out a low, frustrated growl, but before she could speak, Rebecca surged forward.

Her lips crashed against Sarocha’s, stealing whatever protest she was about to make.

Sarocha went rigid for half a second—before she broke.

A sharp inhale, a tremor through her frame, and then she was kissing Rebecca back like she was starving.

It was wild. Raw. The kind of kiss that felt like possession, like claiming.

Sarocha’s hands found Rebecca’s waist, gripping her with enough force to leave bruises. She pushed Rebecca back, their bodies colliding with the wall, her mouth devouring her with an almost frantic desperation.

Rebecca gasped against her lips, her fingers tangling into Sarocha’s damp hair. The heat between them was unbearable, their bodies molding together, pressing closer, closer.

Sarocha’s mouth moved down her jaw, her teeth grazing the skin of Rebecca’s throat.

A sharp inhale—Rebecca’s pulse jumped.

Sarocha let out something between a growl and a sigh, her hands moving with purpose. Clothes were tugged, fabric slipping from overheated skin. Sarocha’s lips were everywhere—her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her breast—each kiss, each touch, sending Rebecca spiraling into something dark and intoxicating.

God, she wanted to drown in this.

Wanted to be consumed whole.

Sarocha’s body pressed her harder against the wall, her lips returning to Rebecca’s, their kiss deepening—

And then it happened.

A rush, a pull—like something unraveling inside her.

The world tilted, her vision darkening—

And suddenly, she wasn’t in Sarocha’s arms anymore.

She was underwater.

The river swallowed her whole, cold and merciless.

She struggled, her limbs thrashing, her lungs burning. She couldn’t breathe—she couldn’t—

Above the water, she saw Sarocha.

Saw the way she reached for her, screaming her name.

But the current was too strong. It dragged Rebecca deeper, deeper, the light above her fading—

No.

No.

She tried to scream, but water filled her mouth, her body going limp—

She was drowning.

And then—

A gasp.

Rebecca’s eyes snapped open, her body lurching forward.

She was back in the penthouse.

Back in Sarocha’s arms.

Her skin was damp with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Sarocha was holding her shoulders, her expression stricken.

“Rebecca?” Her voice was hoarse.

Rebecca blinked, disoriented. The weight of the vision clung to her, the sensation of drowning still too real. She could feel the phantom grip of the river pulling her under, could hear the echoes of Sarocha’s screams.

She shuddered.

“I—I saw—”

Sarocha’s grip tightened. “What did you see?”

Rebecca swallowed hard. “The river. I was drowning. You were there, you were trying to reach me but—” She broke off, the memory too vivid, too overwhelming.

Sarocha’s face drained of color.

Rebecca’s breath hitched. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Sarocha didn’t answer.

But she didn’t have to.

Her silence said everything.

Rebecca reached for her, but this time, Sarocha pulled away.

It was different now. Not the same restrained hunger from before. This was fear.

Real, bone-deep fear.

Sarocha’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her entire body shaking. “This isn’t supposed to be happening.”

Rebecca’s chest tightened. “Then tell me what is happening.”

Sarocha exhaled shakily, running a hand through her hair. “You need to go.”

“No.” Rebecca’s voice was firm.

Sarocha’s eyes flickered, something almost desperate flashing through them. “Rebecca—”

“I’m not leaving you.”

A pained sound escaped Sarocha’s lips. She turned away, gripping the edge of the counter, her body trembling.

Rebecca stepped forward, reaching out—

But this time, Sarocha truly recoiled.

“Don’t,” she rasped. “Please.”

Rebecca froze.

Something inside her twisted.

The way Sarocha was looking at her—like she was dangerous, like she was fragile and untouchable all at once—sent a shiver down her spine.

For the first time since this started, real fear crept into Rebecca’s veins.

Not fear of Sarocha.

Fear of what this meant.

Of what they were becoming.

---

The air was thick with unspoken words.

Sarocha sat curled in the corner of the couch, her fingers clenched around the stem of a wine glass. The deep red liquid swirled inside it, untouched for the past few minutes. Across from her, Rebecca lounged on the opposite end, her legs tucked beneath her as she scrolled through her phone with an air of forced nonchalance.

She wasn’t leaving.

Sarocha had told her to go. Pleaded with her, even. But Rebecca had simply taken one look at her, folded her arms, and declared the couch her bed for the night.

Now, they were trapped in this charged silence, tension crawling over Sarocha’s skin like a second layer.

She took another slow sip of wine, willing it to cool the heat simmering beneath her skin. It didn’t help. Nothing did.

Because Rebecca was still here.

And Sarocha couldn’t stop looking at her.

Every time she tried to focus elsewhere, her gaze betrayed her, drawn back to the sharp lines of Rebecca’s jaw, the soft curve of her lips, the bare stretch of her throat as she leaned her head back against the couch.

Her scent was everywhere.

Sarocha’s grip on her glass tightened.

This was dangerous.

Everything inside her was screaming to move—to touch, to take, to consume—but she held herself back, biting down on the urges coiling inside her like restless serpents.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could.

“You’re staring.”

Rebecca’s voice was smooth, but there was something else beneath it—something knowing.

Sarocha tore her eyes away, clenching her jaw. “Then stop looking so damn inviting.”

A soft huff of amusement. “Not my fault you can’t handle your own impulses.”

Sarocha shot her a glare, but Rebecca’s lips only twitched.

She was enjoying this.

Of course she was.

She shifted slightly, her shirt slipping off one shoulder, exposing more of her bare skin. Sarocha’s pulse kicked.

She forced herself to take another sip of wine, slower this time, trying to drown the heat rising in her throat.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

Sarocha blinked. “What question?”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “What’s threatening us?”

Sarocha stilled.

The easy banter evaporated, the room suddenly colder.

Rebecca tilted her head. “You know something, don’t you?”

Sarocha hesitated. She wanted to lie—to brush it off, to claim ignorance—but Rebecca’s gaze was too sharp, too piercing.

Lying wouldn’t work on her.

She exhaled, swirling the wine in her glass. “I have…suspicions.”

Rebecca leaned forward. “Which are?”

Sarocha shook her head. “They don’t make sense.”

“Try me.”

Sarocha’s lips parted, but the words caught in her throat.

Because how could she say it?

That the visions, the memories, the unrelenting pull between them—none of it was coincidence? That there was something ancient at play, something that shouldn’t be waking but was?

That it was all tied to Rebecca, to their past, to a force she had spent centuries trying to forget?

She let out a sharp exhale, shaking her head. “I don’t know, Rebecca. I just know something is…watching.”

Rebecca frowned. “Watching?”

Sarocha nodded, fingers tightening around the glass. “It’s why I told you to stay away from the river.”

Rebecca sat back, crossing her arms. “And yet, nothing happened.”

“That you know of.”

Rebecca’s expression didn’t shift, but something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, maybe.

Sarocha set her glass down, rubbing her temple. She was exhausted. The fever in her blood hadn’t abated, her head was pounding, and Rebecca’s presence wasn’t helping in the slightest.

She needed space.

She needed distance.

But Rebecca wasn’t going anywhere.

Sarocha sighed, standing. “Get some sleep. You can take the bed if you want.”

Rebecca smirked. “Generous.”

Sarocha ignored her, retreating toward her bedroom before she could do something reckless—like drag Rebecca in with her.

She didn’t look back, but she felt it.

Rebecca’s gaze, heavy on her back.

And even with walls between them, she knew—

Sleep wasn’t coming tonight.

---

The cold water struck Sarocha’s skin in hard, unrelenting streams, sliding over her tense muscles, soaking her dark hair until it clung to her back in wet ribbons. She braced her hands against the tiles, exhaling sharply, watching the water swirl down the drain in rivulets.

Her body still burned.

No matter how low she turned the temperature, no matter how long she stood beneath the freezing spray, the fever inside her didn’t break. It coiled in her veins, simmering beneath her skin, electric and restless.

She could still feel Rebecca’s presence in the other room.

Still smell her, even through the rain-slicked air.

The scent was intoxicating. Sweet and warm, tinged with something else—something uniquely hers.

Sarocha cursed under her breath, bowing her head beneath the spray.

She needed to calm down. To collect herself. To regain control.

This was too much. It was happening too fast. The shifts, the urges, the way her entire body reacted to Rebecca’s nearness.

She needed time to think.

A small sound—soft, almost imperceptible—caught her attention, cutting through the rush of the water.

She tensed.

A flicker of movement in the steam.

Then—warmth.

A body pressed against hers from behind, bare and slick with water. Arms slid around her waist, pulling her close.

Sarocha inhaled sharply.

Rebecca.

She knew it before the girl even spoke. Knew it in the way her touch sent a wildfire through Sarocha’s senses, undoing every attempt she had made to cool herself.

Rebecca’s lips brushed against her shoulder. “I knew I’d find you here.”

Sarocha closed her eyes, her entire body taut with restraint. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Rebecca hummed against her skin. “Why not?”

Her fingers trailed lower, teasing over Sarocha’s abdomen, nails scraping lightly. The sensation sent a tremor through her.

“Because,” Sarocha said through gritted teeth, “I don’t trust myself right now.”

Rebecca stilled slightly, her breath warm against Sarocha’s shoulder. “What are you afraid of?”

Sarocha let out a sharp exhale.

Everything.

This.

You.

She didn’t say any of it.

Instead, she wrenched herself from Rebecca’s grasp, turning sharply, pressing her back against the cold tile.

But Rebecca didn’t back away.

She stepped closer, her gaze dark, curious.

Something flickered in her expression—determination laced with something softer, something searching.

Sarocha swallowed hard. “Rebecca.”

Rebecca’s fingers traced the droplets on Sarocha’s collarbone, trailing lower, her touch featherlight yet devastating.

“I don’t believe you,” Rebecca murmured. “You don’t want me to leave.”

Sarocha’s hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. “It’s not about what I want.”

Rebecca tilted her head, studying her. “Then what is it about?”

Sarocha hesitated.

How could she explain something she barely understood herself?

The heat, the hunger, the primal, desperate need clawing at her insides every time Rebecca so much as looked at her.

She opened her mouth, searching for an answer—

But then Rebecca touched her again.

A simple press of her fingers against Sarocha’s waist.

That was all it took.

The control Sarocha had been clinging to snapped.

Her skin rippled, a foreign sensation coursing through her, burning its way to the surface.

Rebecca froze.

Sarocha knew the exact moment she felt it.

The shift.

The way her flesh changed beneath Rebecca’s fingers, smooth human skin replaced by something else—something sleek and firm.

Scales.

Rebecca’s gaze snapped to hers.

Her pupils dilated, her breath shallow. “Sarocha…”

Sarocha turned her face away, but it was too late.

Rebecca had already seen.

Had already noticed the way her eyes weren’t their usual dark brown but instead a molten gold, shimmering even in the dim light of the shower.

And—

Rebecca’s lips parted slightly, her focus lowering to Sarocha’s mouth.

A sharp breath.

Sarocha felt it too.

The unnatural weight pressing against her tongue, the sudden ache in her gums.

Instinctively, her tongue ran over the new sensation.

Fangs.

Her fangs.

A new, unrelenting hunger unfurled inside her.

Sarocha’s gaze dropped to Rebecca’s throat.

The pulse.

She could hear it.

Feel it.

Like a siren call, it pulled at her, made her fingers twitch, made her fangs ache to sink into that soft, vulnerable flesh.

The scent of Rebecca’s damp skin was intoxicating, clouding Sarocha’s senses, pushing her to the edge.

Rebecca swallowed, a small movement, but it sent another jolt through Sarocha.

She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay still, to stay in control.

But Rebecca—

Rebecca took a step closer.

Her fingers lifted, hovering just beneath Sarocha’s jaw.

Slow. Careful.

Like she was testing something.

Sarocha’s breath hitched.

“You’re beautiful,” Rebecca whispered.

Sarocha stiffened.

Something about the way she said it—so sincere, so utterly fascinated—sent a wave of something unfamiliar crashing over Sarocha.

Something she couldn’t name.

Rebecca’s fingers grazed her cheek. “This is you, isn’t it?”

Sarocha’s chest constricted.

No one had ever seen her like this.

No one had ever looked at her like this.

With wonder.

With awe.

Not fear.

Rebecca tilted her head, her eyes full of something unreadable. “What are you thinking?”

Sarocha swallowed against the lump in her throat.

I want to taste you.

The thought slammed into her with the force of a tidal wave.

It horrified her.

Because she knew—if she gave in, if she let herself have that first taste—

She wouldn’t stop.

Panic shot through her.

She pushed past Rebecca, moving with speed she barely registered, shoving the shower door open and stepping out, water dripping from her skin.

Rebecca turned sharply, startled. “Sarocha—”

“I can’t do this.”

Her voice was hoarse, raw.

She grabbed a towel, wrapping it around herself, as if it could shield her from the hunger still clawing inside her.

Rebecca followed her out, water pooling beneath her bare feet. “Talk to me.”

Sarocha squeezed her eyes shut.

She couldn’t.

Not now.

Not with the scent of Rebecca still thick in her lungs, not with the knowledge that, if Rebecca touched her again, she might not stop.

Not with the fear that—despite everything—she didn’t want to stop.

So instead, she whispered, “Go to bed, Rebecca.”

Rebecca hesitated.

But she didn’t push.

Not this time.

She exhaled softly, retreating.

Leaving Sarocha alone.

Alone with her hunger.

Alone with the knowledge that this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

Darkness coiled around Rebecca like a vice, heavy and suffocating. The air reeked of iron and damp earth, and a chill slithered down her spine.

She was standing in the middle of a battlefield.

Or at least, it felt like one.

The sky above was ink-black, devoid of stars, and the ground beneath her feet was damp with something she didn’t want to identify. A faint glow pulsed from somewhere in the distance—a golden light, flickering like a dying heartbeat.

Then she heard it.

Sarocha’s scream.

Raw. Desperate.

Her head whipped toward the sound, and her breath seized in her chest.

Sarocha was on her knees, arms restrained by unseen forces, her body convulsing as she fought against whatever held her in place. Her face was twisted with horror, her golden eyes glowing, locked onto Rebecca.

And then—

Pain.

A searing, unforgiving force tore through Rebecca’s chest.

She staggered, choking on a cry, looking down.

Nothing.

No blade, no arrow, no visible weapon. But something had struck her—a brutal, unseen energy that carved through her flesh, leaving behind an agonizing heat that pulsed like wildfire.

She gasped, her knees buckling.

The pain was unbearable. Like her very essence was unraveling.

“Sarocha,” she rasped, reaching out.

Another blow struck her.

This time, her body crumpled to the ground.

She could barely breathe, the air thick with the scent of her own blood. Her vision blurred, but through the haze, she saw a figure approaching.

A man in robes.

No, not a man.

A monk.

His face was shrouded in shadow, but his presence was undeniable. An air of authority clung to him, something ancient, something unyielding.

“You were never meant to be,” he said, his voice smooth, almost sorrowful. “The world cannot bear such a union.”

Rebecca tried to speak, but blood bubbled at her lips.

She could feel herself slipping.

The monk crouched beside her, his hands moving to her wrist.

The golden bracelet.

The one she had always worn, the one that had never left her since she was a child.

His fingers curled around it.

And then—

He pulled.

The moment the bracelet left her skin, a wave of something indescribable crashed over her.

Like a tether had been severed.

Like something fundamental within her had been undone.

The pain in her chest magnified tenfold.

She let out a ragged cry as her body convulsed, as if her soul was being torn from her very bones.

Sarocha’s screams turned frantic.

“Let her go!”

She fought harder, her entire body trembling with fury, but the monk barely acknowledged her.

Instead, he dragged Rebecca’s weakening form toward the river.

The water was eerily still, black as ink, waiting.

Rebecca’s body felt weightless, barely tethered to reality, her strength drained.

The monk’s final words echoed in her ears, low and haunting.

“The river will remember you.”

Then he let her go.

The water swallowed her whole.

Cold.

So cold.

The world blurred, the light above fading, darkness seeping into her lungs.

Sarocha’s voice was the last thing she heard before everything went silent.

Then—

Nothing.

---

Rebecca shot upright, a ragged scream ripping from her throat.

Her body was drenched in sweat, her breath coming in gasping, uneven bursts.

For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The nightmare clung to her like a second skin, the phantom pain in her chest so visceral that she clutched at herself, half-expecting to feel warm blood seeping through her fingers.

She wasn’t dying.

She was in Sarocha’s penthouse.

The couch beneath her was solid. The city lights beyond the window flickered against the glass. The faint hum of the world outside remained undisturbed.

And yet—

Her pulse thundered, her entire body trembling.

The monk’s voice still rang in her ears.

The river will remember you.

Her hand flew to her wrist.

The golden bracelet was still there.

Warm.

Pulsing.

As if it had absorbed something from the dream.

From the memory.

Rebecca swallowed hard, staring at it, her mind reeling.

This wasn’t just a nightmare.

This was something else.

Something real.

Then the bracelet burned.

Rebecca gritted her teeth as the heat pulsed against her wrist, the faint glow of the markings casting eerie golden patterns against her skin. It wasn’t just warm—it was alive, thrumming in rhythm with the frantic beat of her heart.

She sat rigid on the couch, her breaths uneven, her mind reeling from the remnants of the nightmare—the vision—the memory.

It wasn’t just a dream.

She knew it wasn’t.

The pain, the weight of the monk’s hands, the fear, the way Sarocha had screamed for her—it wasn’t imagined. It was something else entirely, something buried deep in the marrow of her being.

Her fingers clenched around her wrist as she stood abruptly, sending the blanket that had been draped over her tumbling to the floor. She stormed toward the bedroom, heart pounding, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Sarocha was there.

Rebecca could feel her.

That same fevered energy from before, that same restless pull.

She shoved the door open without knocking.

Sarocha was sitting at the edge of the bed, her body wound tight like a spring, clad only in a silk robe that did nothing to hide the shifting tension beneath her skin. She had her head in her hands, fingers gripping her scalp as if trying to ground herself.

Her shoulders tensed the moment Rebecca entered.

She lifted her head, golden eyes gleaming even in the dim room. But there was something else this time—a deep wariness, an anticipation, like she knew exactly why Rebecca was here.

Rebecca didn’t give her the chance to speak.

“What the hell did I just see?”

Sarocha inhaled sharply through her nose, then exhaled, slow and measured. “Rebecca—”

“It wasn’t just a dream.” Rebecca’s voice was raw, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “Don’t lie to me.”

Sarocha’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak.

“Tell me the truth.” Rebecca’s voice cracked, but she pushed through. “Tell me everything.”

Sarocha’s jaw tightened. “I don’t think you—”

“Don’t think I what?” Rebecca snapped, stepping forward. “That I can handle it? That I won’t believe you? Do you think I don’t already know?” She let out a shuddering breath, gripping her wrist so tightly that her nails dug into her own flesh. “I saw it, Sarocha. I felt it. I was there.”

Sarocha turned away, rubbing her temple.

Rebecca didn’t let up.

“Was it real?” Her voice was quieter this time, but no less firm. “Was it… me?”

Sarocha hesitated.

Rebecca’s stomach twisted. “Am I a reincarnation?”

Sarocha let out a breath that sounded like defeat.

“I wasn’t sure.” Her voice was low, careful. “Not until now.”

Rebecca’s breath hitched.

Sarocha turned toward her at last, and Rebecca had never seen her look like this before—vulnerable, exposed, stripped of her usual control.

“You were born to a bloodline of guardians,” Sarocha began, her voice carrying the weight of something ancient. “Not long after me. It was fate that we were bonded. Just like any other Naga and their guardian, you were meant to keep my powers in check.”

Rebecca’s brows knitted together. “But that’s not all, is it?”

Sarocha’s gaze flickered. “No.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

“Something happened,” Rebecca said, swallowing hard. “Something different.”

Sarocha nodded.

Rebecca could feel it—the truth—hovering between them, thick as the humid air outside.

“Our bond…” Sarocha exhaled, shaking her head. “It became something else. Something deeper.” Her golden eyes locked onto Rebecca’s. “We fell in love.”

A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine.

She knew it before Sarocha even said it.

She had felt it in that dream—no, in that memory—the sheer, unshakable force of it.

But hearing it aloud was something else entirely.

Rebecca’s pulse hammered. “That’s why the monks wanted to stop us.”

Sarocha’s expression darkened, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. “Yes.”

Rebecca’s mind whirled. “But why? If guardians and Naga were already bonded, why would love make a difference?”

Sarocha hesitated, as if searching for the right words.

“It’s one thing for a guardian to balance a Naga’s powers,” she finally said. “But our bond… it wasn’t just about balance anymore. It was—” She faltered, her throat working around the words. “It changed something. It made us stronger. Too strong.”

Rebecca swallowed. “Too strong for who?”

Sarocha’s jaw tightened.

“The monks,” she admitted. “The ones who tended the Naga temples. They saw us as a threat. A union like ours wasn’t supposed to happen.”

A chill crept through Rebecca’s veins. “And they did something about it.”

Sarocha’s face was unreadable. “They tried to sever our bond.”

The words slammed into Rebecca like a fist to the gut.

She took a step back, breath shallow. “Tried?”

Sarocha’s hands curled into fists. “I wouldn’t let them.”

Something in the way she said it sent ice down Rebecca’s spine.

A memory flickered in her mind—Sarocha’s screams, the way she had fought so violently in the dream, the way she had begged them to stop.

But they hadn’t stopped.

And Rebecca—her past self—had died.

Rebecca stared at Sarocha, her voice barely above a whisper. “I died because of it, didn’t I?”

Sarocha flinched.

The answer was there, unspoken but deafening.

Rebecca sucked in a shaky breath.

She could barely wrap her mind around it. She had lived an entire life before this one. She had loved Sarocha before. And she had died for it.

Her hands trembled as she lifted them to her temples, her head pounding with the weight of it all.

“But…” Rebecca swallowed against the lump in her throat. “What about you?”

Sarocha’s eyes darkened.

“They punished me,” she murmured. “Cursed me.”

Rebecca’s breath caught.

“They couldn’t strip me of my immortality,” Sarocha continued, her voice quieter now. “But they took everything else. My powers, my ability to shift, my purpose. I was left with nothing but time.”

Rebecca’s heart clenched.

She couldn’t imagine it.

Centuries—centuries—of emptiness, of waiting, of wondering if Rebecca would ever return.

She felt sick.

And Sarocha…

Sarocha was overwhelmed.

Rebecca could see it in the way her body trembled slightly, in the way her hands gripped the sheets beneath her as if trying to anchor herself.

The fevered shifting. The unbearable pull between them.

It was all connected.

The moment realization dawned, Sarocha’s expression crumpled, her carefully held composure finally fracturing.

“It’s you,” she whispered. “It’s really you.”

Rebecca took a shuddering breath, staring at Sarocha, at this immortal being who had once lost her and had now—against all odds—found her again.

Her heart ached.

Her soul ached.

Because she knew—deep down—that this wasn’t just Sarocha’s burden to carry anymore.

It was theirs.

The air between them was charged, thick with something heavy and intoxicating.

Sarocha’s confession lingered, raw and unshakable, filling the space between them like a living force. Rebecca could still feel the weight of it pressing against her chest—the centuries of longing, the unbearable loss, the aching relief that had shattered Sarocha’s carefully controlled exterior.

She had lived before. She had loved Sarocha before.

And she had died for it.

The truth should have terrified her. But all Rebecca felt was need.

A need to touch, to feel, to ground herself in the only thing that made sense right now.

Her.

Sarocha.

The woman before her was a storm barely contained, golden eyes burning with restraint, with hunger, with something even deeper that neither of them had the words for. Rebecca saw the way Sarocha’s hands trembled at her sides, the way her chest rose and fell in unsteady breaths, the way she seemed desperate to hold herself back.

Rebecca couldn’t let her.

Not now.

She reached out, fingers ghosting over Sarocha’s cheek, tracing the sharp line of her jaw. Sarocha tensed under the touch, golden eyes flickering with something primal, but she didn’t pull away.

Rebecca tilted her head. “Let me in.”

Sarocha sucked in a breath, a ragged, broken thing. “Rebecca…”

“Don’t think.” Rebecca stepped closer, pressing herself against the warmth of Sarocha’s body. “Just feel.”

The moment their lips met, the last remnants of restraint shattered.

Sarocha groaned into the kiss, hands surging forward to grip Rebecca’s waist, pulling her in so tightly their bodies melted together, chest to chest, heat against heat. The feverish energy that had been building between them for days—lifetimes—burst free, igniting every nerve in Rebecca’s body.

There was something different this time.

It wasn’t just desperate lust. It wasn’t just hunger.

It was recognition.

Sarocha kissed her like she had done it before, like she had mapped Rebecca’s lips a thousand times over. Like she was reclaiming something that had been ripped away from her.

Rebecca moaned into her mouth, fingers curling into the silk of Sarocha’s robe, yanking it open. The fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving her gloriously bare beneath the dim light of the room.

Sarocha’s muscles were taut, her skin impossibly warm. Rebecca could feel the heat radiating from her, pulsing through her like waves.

She pressed her palms flat against Sarocha’s chest, feeling the rapid pound of her heart beneath her ribs.

“You’re burning,” Rebecca whispered.

Sarocha let out a shaky exhale, her forehead dropping against Rebecca’s. “It’s you,” she breathed. “You do this to me.”

Rebecca felt her pulse stutter.

She didn’t need to ask what this was. She could feel it too—that pull, that connection stretching beyond time itself, something deeply ingrained in their very souls.

She wanted to drown in it.

Her hands slid lower, over the smooth planes of Sarocha’s stomach, fingers teasing the heat pooling between her thighs. Sarocha groaned, hips jerking forward into Rebecca’s touch. Her patience crumbled as she pinned Rebecca to the bed, crawling up between her thighs to nestle into her inviting warmth, slick and throbbing against her.

But then, just as quickly, she stilled.

Her breath hitched, and Rebecca felt it—the shift.

It was subtle at first. The way Sarocha’s skin seemed to hum beneath her fingers, the way her muscles tightened as if fighting something unseen.

Then Rebecca felt it again.

That phantom sensation.

Sarocha gasped as Rebecca’s body clenched around nothing and everything at once. A deep, rolling pleasure sparked through her, twisting in her gut, growing stronger with every movement of Sarocha’s hips against hers.

It wasn’t physical, not in the way it should have been.

It was something else.

Something otherworldly.

Rebecca let out a strangled sound as her body adjusted to the strange, electric fullness—real, yet not. She could feel Sarocha inside her, stretching her, claiming her, and yet there was nothing between them but heat and skin.

“Sarocha…” Her voice wavered, her head falling back.

“I know,” Sarocha groaned, her hands digging into Rebecca’s hips as she rocked against her, pushing deeper into the unexplainable sensation. “I know.”

It was happening again.

That energy.

It slid into Rebecca’s depths like a phantom erection, but this time it was more pronounced, more visceral. She could feel it pulsing, growing more solid, more real with each frantic thrust.

Sarocha’s body trembled, golden eyes flickering, her fangs fully extended.

Rebecca could see the fight within her.

That primal, animalistic need to take, to mark, to sink her fangs in deep and never let go.

But Sarocha resisted.

Barely.

Instead, she pressed her lips to Rebecca’s throat, kissing, nipping, grazing—but never breaking skin.

Rebecca arched into her, her hands clawing at Sarocha’s back, needing more, needing everything.

And then, something shifted.

Rebecca gasped, her body tightening as a rush of heat pulsed through her.

It was more than just pleasure.

It was connection.

Something ancient, something binding, something that reached deep into the core of her being and wrapped itself around her soul.

The bond was growing stronger.

She felt it.

Sarocha felt it too.

Her body shuddered violently, her grip turning bruising as she thrust forward one last time, gasping Rebecca’s name like a prayer. Her fangs snapped forward, hovering just above Rebecca’s skin—so close, so tempting—but at the last second, she ripped herself away, sinking her teeth into the pillow beside Rebecca’s head instead.

A muffled, broken groan escaped her, her body shaking with the force of her climax.

Rebecca cried out, her own release slamming into her with an intensity that left her breathless, her body convulsing, her soul recognizing.

It was only after the aftershocks had passed, after their bodies had stilled, that Rebecca realized—

She wasn’t just physically spent.

She was changed.

Something inside her had shifted, just as Sarocha had.

And as she lay there, tangled in Sarocha’s arms, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against her cheek, she knew one thing for certain—

There was no turning back now.

The room was drenched in the scent of sweat and sex, the heady remnants of their fevered passion lingering in the air like an intoxicating haze. Rebecca lay tangled in Sarocha’s arms, her body still trembling, the echoes of her climax pulsing through her like an aftershock.

She could feel the frantic beat of Sarocha’s heart beneath her palm, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. Despite the intense release, there was still a tension in her body—an unfulfilled hunger that had nothing to do with physical satisfaction.

Sarocha was holding back.

Rebecca could feel it.

The way her fingers twitched against Rebecca’s back, the way her lips pressed against her forehead but never lingered, the way her fangs—those fangs—still glistened, unsheathed, just waiting to sink into her flesh.

Rebecca tilted her head, peering up at her through the dim light. “You wanted to bite me.”

Sarocha’s muscles stiffened beneath her.

Rebecca lifted herself onto her elbow, brushing her fingers along the sharp line of Sarocha’s jaw. “Why didn’t you?”

Sarocha swallowed hard, her golden eyes flickering. “Because I can’t.”

Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “Can’t, or won’t?”

Sarocha turned her face away, her jaw clenching.

Frustration flared in Rebecca’s chest. She reached out and gripped Sarocha’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.

“Tell me.” Her voice was softer this time, but no less demanding.

Sarocha’s eyes darkened, something primal flashing in their depths. “Because if I do,” she murmured, “you’ll never belong to anyone else.”

A shiver crawled down Rebecca’s spine.

Sarocha exhaled sharply, closing her eyes for a brief moment before forcing herself to continue. “It’s… instinct. Part of an ancient Naga mating ritual. When we choose a mate, we mark them.” She hesitated, something tight and vulnerable crossing her face. “It’s not just about possession. It’s… a bond. A claim. A promise that transcends this life and the next.”

Rebecca felt her pulse quicken.

She wasn’t sure why the thought thrilled her as much as it did.

Maybe because, deep down, she wanted it.

To be claimed.

To belong.

To Sarocha.

Rebecca licked her lips, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And your venom?”

Sarocha’s entire body tensed.

“Supposedly,” she said slowly, “a Naga’s guardian is immune to their venom. But I’m not willing to take that risk.” Her golden eyes locked onto Rebecca’s. “Not with you.”

The words sent a rush of heat straight between Rebecca’s thighs.

The primal need in Sarocha’s voice, the possessiveness—the restraint—made something in her belly tighten.

Sarocha was still struggling, still fighting herself, even now.

And that just made Rebecca want to push her further.

A slow smirk curled at the edges of her lips as she trailed her fingers down Sarocha’s bare shoulder, nails scraping lightly over the skin. “So… it’s dangerous,” she mused, shifting her weight until she was fully draped across Sarocha’s body.

Sarocha sucked in a breath as Rebecca moved, pressing her thighs against her hips, rubbing against her with slow, torturous friction.

“But it’s also natural,” Rebecca whispered, her fingers ghosting down Sarocha’s arm, tracing the golden scales that flickered in and out of existence. “Isn’t it?”

Sarocha shuddered beneath her.

Rebecca smiled.

She hadn’t missed the way Sarocha’s breath hitched when she touched the flashing scales.

Leaning in, she pressed her lips to Sarocha’s shoulder, kissing along the delicate patterns of shimmering gold. The scales seemed to react to her touch, pulsing, shifting, as if trying to lure her closer.

Sarocha whimpered.

The sound sent a bolt of arousal straight through Rebecca.

She flicked her tongue against the sensitive skin, teasing, savoring the way Sarocha’s body tensed beneath her.

“Rebecca,” Sarocha gasped, her fingers digging into the sheets. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Rebecca chuckled against her skin. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

She lifted her head, trailing her fingers up Sarocha’s throat until she reached her lips.

Sarocha’s fangs were still extended, gleaming in the dim light.

Rebecca traced the sharp points with her fingertip, testing their edges, reveling in the way Sarocha trembled beneath her.

“Your fangs are beautiful,” she murmured.

Sarocha let out a strangled breath.

Rebecca leaned in, letting her lips brush just beneath Sarocha’s jaw. “You want to bite me, don’t you?”

Sarocha’s entire body jerked beneath her, a growl rumbling in her throat. “Rebecca,” she warned, but her voice was too breathless to be threatening.

Rebecca smirked.

She shifted her weight, pressing her full weight onto Sarocha’s hips, rolling her own in a slow, deliberate motion.

Sarocha gasped.

Rebecca did it again.

And again.

The phantom sensation returned, that pulsing energy filling her, stretching her, throbbing inside her with every slow, teasing movement.

Sarocha’s hands flew to Rebecca’s waist, gripping her so tightly it was almost painful. “Fuck,” she groaned.

Rebecca smiled against her skin. “That’s it,” she whispered, rocking harder now, pressing down so she could feel every inch of that unreal presence inside her.

Sarocha’s hips bucked against her.

Rebecca moaned, throwing her head back, losing herself in the sensation.

She felt wild. Unrestrained.

Like a rider taming a beast beneath her.

She rode Sarocha, rolling her hips in a steady, relentless rhythm, letting her body take what it needed.

Sarocha cursed beneath her, hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements, meeting her with every thrust.

Their bodies moved together like they had done this before, like they had memorized each other in another life.

Sarocha’s breath came in ragged gasps, her fingers sliding up Rebecca’s spine, clawing at her back as she lost herself in the frantic pace.

Rebecca leaned down, lips brushing against Sarocha’s ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Sarocha let out a shaky moan. “You.”

Rebecca grinned, sinking her teeth into Sarocha’s shoulder—not breaking skin, but teasing it.

Sarocha snapped.

Her hands gripped Rebecca’s thighs, flipping them suddenly so that Rebecca was beneath her, pinned, claimed.

Their eyes locked—golden and dark—before Sarocha’s hips slammed forward, sending Rebecca spiraling into white-hot pleasure.

Rebecca screamed her name, her body arching, writhing, as another climax overtook her.

Sarocha followed, her body trembling violently as she growled against Rebecca’s throat, her fangs scraping the sensitive skin—but she never bit.

Instead, she sank them into the pillow beside Rebecca’s head, muffling her ragged cry as she came apart.

The bed rocked beneath them as they unraveled together, lost in the storm of each other, bound by something deeper than flesh.

By something eternal.

Sarocha lay beside Rebecca, both of them tangled in the sheets, their breathing still heavy, the air thick with the remnants of their intense connection. The room was quiet, save for the occasional shift of fabric as they adjusted to the weight of their shared silence.

Sarocha felt an odd tension still lingering in her chest—something that pulsed and ached, but not in the same way it had before. It wasn’t the feverish need that had burned between them just moments ago. No, this felt different, more fragile, like the delicate edge of something sacred.

Rebecca was the first to break the silence. Her voice was soft, vulnerable. “You said you loved me once... back then. I never heard the whole story, Sarocha. How did we... how did we get here? How did you feel when we first... when we first kissed?” She looked at Sarocha with that familiar searching gaze, as if she could pierce the depths of her soul.

Sarocha closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts, her heart slowing its frantic beat. She had never been one to share much about her past. It was always too painful, too raw. But tonight, with Rebecca beside her, the words felt as if they might finally come, slipping past the walls she'd built so carefully.

“I remember the first time you kissed me like it was yesterday,” Sarocha began, her voice almost wistful. She ran a hand through Rebecca’s hair, her fingers grazing her temple in a gentle caress, as though trying to draw strength from the memory. “It was the night we were supposed to meet in the hidden garden. You were nervous—so much like you are now, always thinking you’re not enough. But you were everything to me, even then. The way you touched me... it was like you had always known what I needed.”

Rebecca’s eyes softened, her hand resting on Sarocha’s chest, just above her heart. “I remember the garden. It was beautiful there. But what do you mean by... ‘everything’?”

Sarocha’s gaze softened as she looked at Rebecca, her breath catching. “I remember the way you looked at me... like I was the only thing that mattered. But there was this forbidden feeling too, like I was about to do something that could never be undone. And when you kissed me—when our lips first met—it felt like the world stopped. Not in the way of a fairy tale, where everything is perfect... no. It was dangerous. It was ours.”

Rebecca smiled faintly, a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. “I wasn’t sure what I was doing. But I knew I wanted you. And that scared me, because I knew I couldn’t have you. Not then.”

Sarocha chuckled softly, the sound tinged with bittersweet nostalgia. “We were both scared. I was too proud, too afraid of my feelings. And you... you were a guardian. Bound to something I couldn’t control. But in that moment, all of that just faded away. You kissed me like you knew, like you’d always known we were supposed to be.”

Rebecca’s hand moved to Sarocha’s cheek, gently brushing her thumb over the soft skin. “Was it really that simple for you? Did you know right away?”

“I knew the moment I saw you,” Sarocha admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I told myself it couldn’t be. You were a guardian, and I was... well, I was Naga. It wasn’t supposed to happen. But when you kissed me, everything else seemed insignificant. I wanted to run away with you. I wanted to tear down every barrier, every tradition that stood between us. And I think... I think I loved you even before that. Maybe even before we met.”

Rebecca’s lips parted in a breathless laugh. “I had no idea... how could I have?”

Sarocha smiled, tracing the line of Rebecca’s jaw with her fingers. “You didn’t need to. You were just being you. And that was enough.”

They lay there in silence for a moment, the weight of Sarocha’s words settling between them. The air was thick with everything unsaid, with the deep, profound bond that had shaped them both, both in this life and the one that had come before.

Rebecca’s fingers found the golden bracelet on her wrist, the one that had been there since that night in the garden, the one that had tied them together through so many lifetimes. She looked down at it, tracing the cool metal with a soft touch.

“Do you ever think about how it ended? About what happened to us? To me?” Rebecca’s voice was fragile, a thread of fear curling around the words.

Sarocha shifted closer to her, her lips brushing Rebecca’s hair. “I think about it every day. But I can’t change it. I can’t take back what happened, and I can’t undo what we became to each other. But what I can do, what I’ll always do, is fight for us. In this life, and in whatever comes next.”

Rebecca turned to face her, their eyes locking in the dim light. She reached for Sarocha, cupping her face gently, as though afraid to break the fragile moment between them. “You’ve always been so strong. Even when you were breaking inside.”

Sarocha smiled softly, the corners of her lips curling with affection. “Not always. But with you... I don’t have to be strong. With you, I can be real.”

Rebecca leaned in slowly, her lips hovering just above Sarocha’s. “I’ve always wanted you,” she whispered. “But now... I want to understand us. I want to know all of you. Every piece of you.”

The vulnerability in Rebecca’s voice struck Sarocha like a thunderbolt, and she felt her heart swell with love, with longing, with everything she had tried to deny for so long. This was it. This was the moment they had been building toward. They had crossed a threshold neither of them could ever return from.

Sarocha leaned in, pressing her lips gently to Rebecca’s, the kiss tender and full of promise. It was different this time—softer, more vulnerable, as though they were both giving pieces of themselves in ways they never had before.

When they finally pulled away, breathless once more, Sarocha whispered, “I don't know what might happen, but I promise I’ll protect you. Always.”

Rebecca smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek, though it was one of joy, of release. “And I’ll never leave you. Not now. Not ever.”

As they lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside seemed to disappear, leaving just the two of them, bound by something far deeper than love. A bond that had lasted through lifetimes, and would carry them forward into whatever came next.

Chapter Text

The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting long shadows across the bed where Sarocha lay resting. Her fevered skin still shimmered with the lingering effects of the intense night they had shared, but now, exhaustion weighed heavily on her body. She was sprawled out in the soft bedding, her breathing slow and labored as she succumbed to a much-needed rest. Rebecca could sense the struggle within her, the fight to control her primal instincts that still surged beneath her skin, but for the moment, it seemed to have subsided.

Rebecca lingered at her side, her hand resting lightly on Sarocha’s shoulder, torn between the desire to stay with her and the gnawing need for answers. The pull between them was undeniable, but something deeper stirred inside Rebecca—an unease that she couldn’t shake. Whatever had happened between them, whatever had awakened in Sarocha, was still foreign to her. They were connected now, more than ever, but it didn’t feel like enough. It wasn’t the way she had imagined it, not with the complications of her role as Guardian. Her thoughts, her worries, twisted in every direction.

Sarocha’s voice, weak but tender, broke through Rebecca’s reverie. “You don’t have to stay here. You’re restless. Go find what you’re looking for.” Her words were barely above a whisper, but the intent was clear. Rebecca smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sarocha’s forehead.

“I won’t be gone long. Get some sleep.”

Sarocha’s eyes fluttered closed again, a sigh escaping her lips, and Rebecca was left alone with her thoughts. She stood, stretching her legs, and made her way quietly out of the room and the front door. The air outside was warm, heavy with the scent of flowers and earth, and yet, Rebecca felt chilled. She needed to clear her head, to understand what was happening. The weight of everything—her past, her purpose, her connection to Sarocha—seemed unbearable. And the burning questions clawed at her, relentless.

She walked aimlessly down to the riverfront, her steps carrying her farther from their secluded quarters. The paths around the temple complex wound in unexpected ways, leading her toward the forest’s edge, where the distant sound of running water could be heard. But she didn’t know why she was walking this way, only that something urged her forward.

The temple appeared before her, nestled in the trees like an ancient guardian, its stone walls worn by time but still strong. The towering spires rose like fingers reaching to the sky, and the air around it hummed with an odd energy. There was something sacred about this place, a quiet presence that felt both comforting and unsettling.

Rebecca stepped toward the temple’s entrance, unsure of what to expect. As she reached the door, the cool stone of the temple’s walls seemed to pulse with an unseen force, and she felt a strange shiver creep down her spine. Before she could hesitate, the sound of soft footsteps approached from inside.

“Rebecca,” a voice called, as if it were spoken directly into her mind.

She froze. Her breath caught in her throat. The voice wasn’t just familiar—it was ancient, filled with a sense of inevitability. Slowly, Rebecca turned, her heart pounding in her chest.

Standing before her was a monk, draped in saffron robes, his face obscured by the hood of his garment. His features were hidden, but his presence was overwhelming, the air thick with his power. The monk’s eyes, visible beneath the hood, glowed with an unnatural knowing. They were older than time itself, and in them, Rebecca could see the weight of countless lives.

“How do you know my name?” she demanded, her voice trembling despite her attempt to appear strong. “Who are you?”

The monk smiled slightly, his gaze unblinking. “I have known you for many lifetimes, Rebecca. As you have known me.”

Rebecca took a step back, the weight of his words pressing on her like a heavy stone. “What are you talking about? I don’t know you.”

“You have lived before, Rebecca. You have failed before.” The monk’s voice was calm, his words deliberate, yet they seemed to cut through her like a blade.

Her breath hitched. “What do you mean, failed?”

The monk raised a hand, palm open, as if to beckon her closer. “You were once a Guardian, and you failed in your duty. Your soul was bound by a curse, and now it lives on—tethered to another. You are bound to Sarocha. You are both part of the same cycle, destined to repeat until the curse is broken.”

Rebecca’s mind raced. “No… I don’t remember... I don’t remember failing.”

“You do not remember because it is forbidden,” the monk said, his voice as smooth as the wind. “But the truth will find you, as it always does. Your connection to Sarocha is no accident. The bracelet that you wear—the one she gave you—is the final key to breaking the curse that binds your souls.”

Rebecca’s fingers instinctively touched the bracelet at her wrist. The cold metal seemed to burn against her skin. “What do you mean? What does it do?”

“The bracelet is an artifact,” the monk continued, his voice growing more solemn. “It holds the power to unlock the path of freedom. But there is a price. A Guardian must die willingly for the curse to be broken. The sacrifice is necessary for both of you to move on.”

Rebecca felt the ground shift beneath her feet, as if the earth itself had tilted. “No. There has to be another way. There’s always another way. I won’t—”

“There is no other way, Rebecca. The curse is part of who you are. And it will follow you, in every life, until you fulfill what was foretold.” The monk’s voice was gentle now, as though trying to comfort her, but there was a finality in his words that made her blood run cold.

“I won’t die for this,” Rebecca spat, her voice shaking with fury. “You’re telling me I have to kill myself to free Sarocha and me?”

The monk tilted his head slightly, his eyes unwavering. “Not kill. Die willingly. It is the only way. You are the key. And in order to unlock it, you must accept your fate.”

“Accept my fate?!” Rebecca’s heart hammered in her chest. “I won’t—I won’t just accept this. There has to be something else, something—”

Before she could finish, the monk’s presence began to dissolve, his form fading into the air like mist. “The answer lies within you, Rebecca. You must decide what you are willing to sacrifice. When the time comes, you will understand.”

“No!” Rebecca cried out, stepping forward, but the monk was gone, leaving behind only the quiet stillness of the temple.

Her heart raced as her breath came in quick, uneven gasps. The words lingered in the air, a haunting echo that refused to fade.

Rebecca stood there, alone in the temple, her mind reeling. The idea of sacrifice, of dying willingly—it was too much. She couldn’t comprehend it. And yet, the weight of it was undeniable, the truth etched into her very being. She had to find another way. There had to be another path.

But what if the only way forward was the one the monk had described?

She didn’t know. And that terrified her more than anything else.

---

Rebecca couldn’t bring herself to return to Sarocha’s penthouse.

Her feet carried her automatically, but her mind was a blur, a cacophony of questions and emotions that she couldn’t sort through. The monk’s words echoed like a drumbeat in her skull. 'A Guardian must die willingly.' 'You are bound.'

She didn’t know what to do with them. How could she? The idea that her fate had already been sealed, that she would have to die to break the curse, was something she couldn’t accept. And yet, deep down, part of her knew that the monk had spoken the truth. The bracelet, the curse, her connection to Sarocha—it all fit too perfectly. Too many pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place for this to be some kind of mistake.

And yet, the thought of it, of willingly sacrificing herself, was beyond her. How could she ask for that? How could she ever believe that it was the only way forward? Her soul, bound to another’s—Sarocha’s soul, whose very essence had become inextricably intertwined with hers.

She needed space. She needed air. She needed to think.

So, she found herself standing in front of her small, inconspicuous hotel by the river. It wasn’t much, a quiet place hidden away from the city’s noise, but it was enough. She didn’t want to be found. She didn’t want to face Sarocha, not yet, not until she could figure out what to do.

She slammed the door behind her when she entered the small, sterile room. The sound of it reverberated through the space, but it was the silence that followed that gnawed at her. There was no escape from the chaos in her mind.

The room felt empty, despite the bed, the couch, the window that looked out over the dimming river. Her phone, sitting on the bedside table, buzzed incessantly, but she didn’t even look at it. Sarocha’s name flashed across the screen with each call, but Rebecca ignored it, unable to face the tension building between them, the relentless pull that had become so consuming.

She collapsed onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow as though that would somehow block out the storm brewing inside her. Her thoughts flickered back to the monk, to his cryptic words that had shattered everything she thought she understood about herself and her role. 'Die willingly.' The phrase echoed again, its weight almost suffocating.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the knock came.

Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat. She didn’t need to answer the door to know who it was. It was Sarocha, of course. She couldn’t hide forever, could she?

A second knock followed, louder this time, urgent.

Damn it, Rebecca cursed silently under her breath. She had to face her. She couldn’t keep running. Not from Sarocha. Not from herself.

Before she could collect her thoughts, the door creaked open, and there she stood—Sarocha, her figure framed by the dim light from the hallway. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes searching, almost predatory.

Rebecca froze, her chest tightening. Every inch of her screamed for Sarocha, yet the words the monk had spoken stilled her, trapping her in place.

Sarocha didn’t wait for an invitation. She entered the room swiftly, her presence filling the space in a way that felt both commanding and inevitable. Her gaze never left Rebecca, her eyes dark with an intensity that made the air between them thick and charged.

“I know you’re here, Rebecca,” Sarocha said, her voice low and husky, the familiar, intoxicating warmth seeping into Rebecca’s bones. “You can’t hide from me.”

Rebecca swallowed hard, every part of her wanting to melt into the pull that Sarocha exuded. But she fought it. She had to.

“Go away,” Rebecca whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. She refused to look directly at Sarocha, afraid that if she did, she might break. She didn’t want to be broken, not like this.

Sarocha’s lips curled into a dangerous, predatory smile. “You think I’m going to just leave you alone after everything that’s happened between us?”

Rebecca didn’t answer, instead pulling her knees to her chest, retreating as much as she could into herself. But Sarocha was already at the bed, kneeling beside her. The bed dipped under her weight as she leaned in, her lips brushing against Rebecca’s ear.

“You can’t hide from what’s between us,” Sarocha murmured, her breath warm against Rebecca’s skin. “I can feel it, Rebecca. You need this just as much as I do.”

The words sent a jolt through Rebecca, but it wasn’t desire that rose in her chest. It was fear. The monk’s words were too loud in her mind, too close, and they clouded her thoughts like smoke. She couldn’t ignore them, couldn’t deny the truth that had already begun to settle in her heart.

“Stop,” Rebecca gasped, her voice desperate. “You don’t understand—there’s something I need to tell you. Something you need to know.”

But Sarocha’s hand slid up Rebecca’s arm, her touch igniting every nerve in her body. “Then tell me, Rebecca. Tell me what’s wrong. I can see that you're scared, but we can face it together.”

Sarocha’s words were so soothing, so full of conviction, that Rebecca almost believed them. Almost.

But the weight of the monk’s warning settled deeper into her bones, pulling her back from the edge. The bracelet on her wrist felt colder now, a constant reminder of the path she might have to walk.

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” Rebecca whispered, her throat tightening. “I can’t be what you want me to be. I—”

Sarocha’s eyes narrowed, sensing the shift in Rebecca’s demeanor. Her hand stilled on Rebecca’s skin, and the air between them grew thick with the tension of unspoken words.

“What’s happening?” Sarocha demanded, her voice growing harder, her grip tightening around Rebecca’s wrist. “What do you know that I don’t? What’s really going on?”

Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t know how to explain it. She didn’t know how to face the truth, not with Sarocha’s touch lingering so close, so dangerously close.

“Please, Rebecca,” Sarocha whispered, her voice raw, almost pleading now. “Tell me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

Rebecca’s mind raced, but the fear of the monk’s prophecy, the weight of the curse, was too much to bear. She pulled away from Sarocha’s touch, her heart breaking as she did.

“I can’t…” she whispered again, her voice cracking under the strain of it all. “I can’t be with you. Not if it means—”

But before she could finish, before she could tell Sarocha what she had learned, what the monk had revealed, she stood and ran. The door slammed behind her, and she was out of the room before Sarocha could stop her.

She couldn’t stay. Not like this. Not with the truth suffocating her.

---

The river stretched out before her, the murky water reflecting the twilight sky, its surface rippling gently in the evening breeze. Rebecca stood at the edge, drawn inexplicably to the water. Something in the air shifted, a palpable energy that vibrated beneath her skin, pulling her in. She couldn’t explain it—couldn’t even begin to understand why she felt so compelled—but the pull was undeniable. The river whispered to her, its murmur gentle yet persistent, as if it carried some ancient secret just beneath its surface, waiting for her to uncover it.

Her mind was in turmoil. The monk’s words still haunted her, a constant echo in her thoughts. 'A Guardian must die willingly.' 'You are bound.' But what did that even mean? What was she supposed to do with that knowledge? How could she face Sarocha, knowing that she might be the key to breaking the curse that tied them together? And yet, how could she let go of the only connection that had ever felt real, the only person who had ever made her feel alive in a way she couldn’t explain?

She closed her eyes, leaning over the railing that bordered the riverbank, the cool breeze brushing against her skin. She could sense Sarocha nearby—close, watching, her presence a heavy, ever-constant weight on Rebecca’s shoulders. It was as though the woman’s gaze was a physical thing, always pressing against her, even when she couldn’t see her.

Rebecca turned her head sharply, scanning the area. There was no sign of her—no shape lurking in the shadows, no telltale shift in the air that suggested the Naga was nearby. Still, Rebecca knew. She felt it. Sarocha was here, even if she wasn’t visible.

The tension in her chest tightened, the bond between them undeniable and oppressive in its intensity. Rebecca couldn’t breathe in a world where Sarocha wasn’t near, but she couldn’t face her, not yet. Not when the weight of what she knew threatened to break her.

After what felt like an eternity, Rebecca pushed herself away from the railing. She couldn’t stay on the bank any longer, couldn’t remain in this place where the pull of the river and the pull of Sarocha’s presence wove together in a maddening dance. She needed to escape, even if only for a little while.

Turning away from the riverbank, Rebecca walked toward the dock, where a small, weathered boat bobbed in the water. She had no idea where it would take her, but the idea of being out on the river, away from the world that pressed in on her, soothed something inside her. The water called to her again, its whispers quiet but insistent, and without another thought, she stepped into the boat and pushed off from the shore.

As the boat glided over the water, Rebecca let her mind wander. The coolness of the river, the steady movement beneath her, the rhythmic lapping of the water against the sides of the boat—everything felt strangely calming. It was as though the river itself was holding her, cradling her in its arms and offering her a moment of peace. For the first time in days, Rebecca felt as if she could breathe again.

But that peace was short-lived.

The presence of Sarocha grew heavier. It was no longer just a feeling; it was a pressure in the air, a weight pressing down on her chest. Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat as she looked around, searching for any sign of the woman, but still, there was nothing—only the soft sway of the boat and the quiet murmur of the river.

Suddenly, a chill ran down her spine. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew, deep in her bones, that Sarocha was watching her, even if she couldn’t see her.

Rebecca’s gaze darted to the water’s surface, where the river seemed to darken, as if it held something beneath its depths. Her pulse quickened, and the air around her grew thick with anticipation. She couldn’t explain it, but she could feel Sarocha’s presence more clearly now than ever before. The connection between them was undeniable, and the more Rebecca resisted it, the more it seemed to pull at her.

And then, in the depths of the river, she saw something.

At first, it was nothing more than a shadow, a fleeting movement beneath the surface. But as Rebecca leaned over the edge of the boat, straining her eyes to see more clearly, she gasped. There, beneath the water, she saw it—Sarocha’s eyes, glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light. The unmistakable shape of a figure, its body shifting and coiling in a way that made Rebecca’s heart race.

It was Sarocha. But not the Sarocha she had known—the woman she had loved. This was something else, something primal and untamed, a creature born of water and mystery.

Sarocha’s features were like a dream made flesh: her face was an ethereal combination of human beauty and serpentine grace, her eyes alight with that same magnetic pull that had drawn Rebecca to her since the beginning. Her body—a sinuous, liquid form, half-human, half-serpent—shifted and slithered beneath the water, her long, shimmering tail undulating as though it had always belonged to the river itself.

Rebecca felt a jolt of awe and fear course through her. The river, the whispers, everything—the connection between them was no longer just a metaphor. It was real. This was real.

Before Rebecca could process what was happening, something tugged at her, a force greater than her own will. Her body was pulled forward, almost as if the water itself was reaching up to claim her. Panic surged in her chest, and she grasped at the sides of the boat, trying to steady herself, but the pull was irresistible. With a cry, she fell forward, plunging into the river below.

The cold shock of the water hit her like a sledgehammer, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. She struggled against the current, her body flailing as she fought to find the surface. But then, something miraculous happened.

Rebecca drew in a breath. But the water didn’t fill her lungs. Instead, she inhaled, and the cool, crisp air filled her chest, as though she were breathing in the atmosphere itself, as though she were on land.

Her eyes flew open. She could see clearly in the dim depths of the river, the dark blue-green water swirling around her like liquid silk. And there, floating just in front of her, was Sarocha.

Her full Naga form was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying. Sarocha’s serpentine tail glistened in the water, her scales catching the faint light that filtered through the surface. Her body undulated with fluid grace, and her eyes—those burning, hypnotic eyes—locked onto Rebecca’s with an intensity that made her heart race.

Sarocha reached out, her hands brushing Rebecca’s waist. The contact sent a bolt of energy through her, the heat of Sarocha’s touch almost burning in contrast to the cool water around them. Rebecca gasped, but the fear that had once gripped her seemed to melt away as Sarocha’s presence enveloped her.

Without another word, Sarocha pulled Rebecca close, her body curling around hers, guiding her with an effortless fluidity. They moved with the current, their bodies twisting and entwining as they drifted deeper into the river’s depths.

Rebecca’s heart thundered in her chest, but this time, it wasn’t from fear. It was from something else—something much more primal, much more urgent. She felt the pull of the water, the pull of Sarocha, as though they were both bound to this moment, to this place. And as Sarocha’s lips pressed against hers, their bodies tangled together, Rebecca finally understood.

This was no ordinary love. It never had been. And as she kissed Sarocha, letting herself be carried away by the current, by the force of the bond between them, Rebecca knew that whatever was coming next, she would face it with her Naga.

Together.

---

The penthouse was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights that filtered through the glass windows. The air between Rebecca and Sarocha was thick, heavy with unspoken words and emotions that had been building for far too long. Rebecca stood by the window, her arms wrapped around herself as if to protect herself from the pull she felt toward Sarocha, yet she couldn’t seem to pull away. The encounter with the monk still haunted her, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest. She could not even bring herself to begin to understand what had happened in the river.

Sarocha had been silent since they returned to the penthouse. She had provided clean towels and dry clothes, but besides that she merely bided her time patiently. Her eyes had tracked Rebecca’s every movement, a strange mix of longing and caution in them. She didn’t need to speak for Rebecca to know she was waiting, waiting for her to make the next move, to let the walls she had built crumble. But Rebecca wasn’t sure she was ready for that, even as her heart screamed for her to give in.

The quiet stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity. Finally, Rebecca turned, her face a mask of resolve. “I spoke to the monk,” she said, her voice betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside.

Sarocha’s gaze sharpened, the slightest tension radiating from her. “What?”

Rebecca swallowed, her throat dry. The words the monk had spoken echoed in her mind—The bracelet is the key, but a Guardian must die willingly for the curse to be broken. She wanted to tell Sarocha everything, but there was something in her chest that twisted, a knot she couldn’t untangle. “He said I’ve lived before. That I failed my duty... and that I died because of it.”

Sarocha’s face paled, her eyes flashing with something close to panic. “What does he want from you?”

Rebecca’s chest tightened. She didn’t have all the answers, but she could feel the truth settling deep within her bones. “He said that the bracelet—this bracelet—is the key to breaking the curse. But to break it... a Guardian has to die.”

Sarocha took a sharp breath, stepping closer, her hands outstretched as if she was reaching for something she couldn’t quite touch. “No. I won’t let that happen. You don’t understand, Rebecca. I won’t let you die. Not again.”

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the desperation in it was unmistakable. It was as if Sarocha was speaking from a place of deep fear, as though her very world would collapse if Rebecca truly believed the monk’s words.

Rebecca shook her head, pushing away the growing ache in her chest. “I don’t know if I can change it. I don’t even know if it’s possible to break the curse without... without losing someone.”

“No,” Sarocha repeated, her voice a low growl, a warning. “We can figure this out. There has to be another way.”

But Rebecca didn’t know if there was. The weight of the situation pressed down on her, and she didn’t have the answers. The thought of losing herself—of having to make the ultimate sacrifice to break the curse—was unbearable.

Sarocha closed the distance between them, her hand gently cupping Rebecca’s cheek. “I won’t let you go through this alone. I can’t. You... you mean more to me than anyone ever has. I won’t lose you.”

Rebecca’s heart swelled at the raw vulnerability in Sarocha’s eyes. She could feel the power between them, the pull that had always been there, but now it was stronger, more urgent. It wasn’t just physical attraction—it was something deeper, something primal that tied them together in a way Rebecca couldn’t fully comprehend.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Rebecca whispered, her voice breaking as the intensity of her emotions broke through the cracks in her walls. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, but the connection between them was undeniable. The way Sarocha’s presence seemed to fill every corner of the room, the way her touch felt like fire against Rebecca’s skin—it was too much to ignore. The weight of everything that had happened, everything that was still to come, felt suffocating.

Sarocha’s hand dropped from her face, but she didn’t step away. She remained close, her body barely touching Rebecca’s as if giving her the space she needed to breathe. But the air between them was thick with unspoken words and emotions that neither of them could deny.

“I don’t know what to do,” Rebecca admitted, her voice barely audible. “I don’t know if I can make the right choice. I don’t know what the right choice is.”

Sarocha’s gaze softened, and she reached for Rebecca again, this time pulling her into a tight embrace. The contact was grounding, familiar, and Rebecca melted into it, her head resting on Sarocha’s shoulder as the scent of her filled Rebecca’s senses. “We’ll figure this out together. I promise. But you don’t have to carry this burden alone.”

The words were a comfort, and yet they only made the weight of their situation feel heavier. The truth was, Rebecca didn’t know what to believe anymore. The monk’s warning had rattled her, and the bracelet on her wrist felt like it was burning with a purpose she didn’t fully understand. She felt lost—caught between the past, the present, and the future, with no clear way forward.

And yet, in that moment, all she could do was hold onto Sarocha. The pull between them was undeniable, and though the fear and uncertainty lingered, there was a warmth that comforted her, a tenderness that made the chaos feel a little more bearable.

“I’m scared,” Rebecca admitted, her voice trembling as she pulled back slightly to look into Sarocha’s eyes. “I’m scared that I’m not strong enough to do this. That I’ll fail again.”

Sarocha’s expression hardened, her jaw set in determination. “You won’t fail. I won’t let you. And I’ll be by your side every step of the way. We’ll find a way to break this curse.”

The promise in her voice, so firm and unwavering, was the only thing that kept Rebecca from falling apart. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe it—to believe that there was a way through this, that they could overcome the impossible and carve out a future for themselves.

But as she met Sarocha’s gaze, she knew deep down that the road ahead would be anything but easy. Whatever they faced, whatever sacrifices had to be made, they would have to face it together.

And that knowledge, terrifying as it was, gave her a sense of resolve she hadn’t known she was capable of.

The silence stretched between them again, but this time it was comfortable, as if they had shared something deeper than just their bodies. Something more significant, more intimate. It was as though they had bared their souls to each other, and in doing so, had forged a bond that was unbreakable.

Sarocha’s fingers brushed through Rebecca’s hair, a soft, almost absent gesture, but it carried with it the weight of everything they had just shared. There was something different now—something had shifted in the air between them, something more permanent than desire.

It was love. And with that love, they would face whatever came next.

Rebecca didn’t know what the future held. She didn’t know if there was a way to break the curse, or if she would have to face the monk’s prophecy head-on. But she knew one thing for certain: no matter what happened, she wouldn’t have to face it alone.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered softly through the gauzy curtains of Sarocha’s penthouse, painting the room in gentle hues of rose and gold. Rebecca awoke slowly, her eyes fluttering open to a world that felt both tender and fierce. Naked and vulnerable, she lay curled in Sarocha’s strong arms on the rumpled sheets. Even in sleep, Rebecca felt an overwhelming sense of safety—as if Sarocha’s embrace were a shield against all the chaos of the past few days.

For a long, still moment, Rebecca simply listened to the steady rhythm of Sarocha’s heartbeat, a quiet drum that lulled her and promised protection. The air between them was charged with the remnants of dreams and the memories of a night too wild to fully recall. Slowly, Sarocha stirred. Her eyes opened, revealing a depth of emotion that mingled desire with tenderness. She shifted, and their eyes met in a silent, vulnerable exchange.

“Good morning,” Sarocha murmured, her voice soft and warm as it filled the quiet room.

Rebecca’s lips curled into a small, content smile. “Good morning,” she replied, her voice husky with sleep. For a moment, neither spoke, and the silence between them was not empty—it was full of unspoken promises and lingering mysteries.

After a few minutes, as the traces of sleep began to fade, Rebecca sat up slowly, still wrapped in Sarocha’s arms. Her heart pounded not just with the physical memory of last night’s slow passion, but also the memories of the monk and the river. The experience had been so vivid that Rebecca could still recall the sensation of water rushing past her, the inexplicable power that allowed her to breathe underwater, and the haunting image of Sarocha in her full, unrestrained Naga form beneath the river’s surface.

Rebecca’s eyes searched Sarocha’s face as she gently disentangled herself, careful not to disturb the calm that had finally settled over them. “Sarocha… about last night,” she began tentatively, “there’s something I need to understand.”

Sarocha’s gaze softened slightly, but her eyes carried a hidden wariness. “What do you mean?” she asked, her tone cautious.

Rebecca shifted closer, lowering her voice as though the words themselves were fragile. “Last night—I felt I was drowning in the river, and you… I saw you there, so vividly. I could breathe underwater, as if something was keeping me alive. You were... completely transformed. I’m not sure what it means, but it felt real. More than just a vision.”

A long pause stretched between them. Sarocha closed her eyes for a moment, as if weighing her next words. When she spoke, her voice was low and measured, laced with both a hint of amusement and a trace of something deeper. “It’s my nature,” she said softly. “You know, Naga are, by their very nature, shape shifters. Being close to you... our bond—my powers are beginning to reawaken. And sometimes, Naga can extend their abilities to their guardians.” She glanced at Rebecca’s wrist, where the golden bracelet still glowed faintly. “It seems your presence awakens something in me—and, in turn, in you.”

Rebecca’s pulse quickened at the revelation. “What do you mean, in me?” she asked, her tone a mix of fascination and a growing, desperate need to know more.

Sarocha’s eyes met hers, dark and enigmatic. “I have not fully shifted since the curse was placed upon me,” she confessed. “But last night, since we… when we were together, something changed. For the first time in centuries, I felt the surge of my full power—an energy that is both wild and ancient.” She paused, swallowing hard as if the admission was as much a burden as it was a relief. “It was as if my body, my very essence, was reaching out to you, trying to claim you in the way that is instinctual for us.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened, the implications washing over her like the rush of a river in flood. “Are you saying… that our beings are connected?” she whispered, voice trembling with a mix of awe and fear.

Sarocha nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible. “With our bloodlines entwined we are connected in ways that defy the ordinary. Even if it was never meant to be… romantic.” Her gaze dropped, troubled. “But fate, it seems, has other plans.”

Rebecca’s mind raced, fragments of a past life and a forbidden union mingling with the raw passion of the present. “So, what happens now?” she asked. “Do we—do we continue, even though it could be dangerous? Because… because I’m falling in love with you, Sarocha. Present tense. I can’t ignore it anymore.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of inevitability. Sarocha’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the fierce intensity gave way to a tenderness that was almost vulnerable. “I do feel it,” Sarocha admitted. “Every moment with you makes me more aware of what we once were and what we could be again. But I’m afraid—afraid of the consequences. Afraid of the curse, of what the world would do if they knew our union. It’s not just a matter of passion; it’s a matter of balance and power, a force that has been held in check for centuries.”

Rebecca reached out, her hand trembling as it brushed against Sarocha’s cheek. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said softly. “I’m not willing to let fear dictate our lives. We’re already bound together by something that goes beyond us—by history, by fate. I want to know everything. I want to face whatever comes next with you.”

Sarocha’s eyes shone with conflicted emotion. “I wish it were that simple,” she murmured. “But with every moment we draw closer, the curse grows weaker—and with it, the danger increases. The forces that seek to keep us apart, they are not idle. They watch us, Rebecca. They wait.” Her voice faltered, and she pulled her hand away as if in pain. “I can’t promise that our love will be safe.”

Rebecca’s heart pounded, her entire being aching with the intensity of her need and the raw truth in Sarocha’s words. “Then promise me you won’t let them take you away from me again,” she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Promise me you’ll fight for us.”

Sarocha’s expression hardened for a moment, the conflict evident in every line of her face. “I will try,” she whispered. “But you must understand that every moment we share comes with a price—a risk that we might unleash powers we cannot control.” Her gaze shifted back to the glowing bracelet, and her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I’ve never felt this way before, Rebecca. Your presence awakens something in me—something that is both ancient and overwhelming. I feel the pull of the river, the call of the past... and I fear that one day, the forces that have cursed us will come for you.”

Rebecca’s eyes brimmed with tears as she squeezed Sarocha’s hand. “I’m not afraid anymore,” she declared, her voice steady despite the tumult raging inside her. “I’ve already chosen this path. I’ve chosen you. We have to face it together, no matter what happens.”

The room fell into a charged silence, heavy with the promise of both danger and a love that defied time. Outside, the first rays of dawn began to break over the city, casting a pale light on the penthouse as if heralding a new beginning. The soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant city sounds provided a fragile soundtrack to the intimacy of the moment.

Sarocha’s eyes locked onto Rebecca’s, and in that look, the layers of history, passion, and sorrow mingled together. “I want to believe that,” she murmured, her voice raw with emotion. “I want to believe that our bond can change everything.”

But even as they clung to each other, Rebecca could sense that the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty. The glowing inscription on her wrist pulsed in unison with her heartbeat, a silent reminder of the curse that loomed over their love—a curse that threatened to rip them apart at the very moment they dared to unite their fates.

In that tender, vulnerable moment, as the echoes of their past mingled with the promise of a future yet unwritten, Rebecca and Sarocha made a silent vow. A vow that, no matter how treacherous the road ahead might be, they would face it together—bound by an ancient love that had transcended lifetimes, defying the cruel hand of fate even as the world around them trembled with uncertainty.

For now, all that mattered was the fragile intimacy of their shared truth. The day was still young, and as the light grew brighter, they clung to each other, each breath, each whispered promise a defiant act against the darkness that sought to tear them apart.

---

The afternoon sun cast long, shifting shadows over the excavation site, its ancient stones glowing with secrets of long-forgotten eras. Rebecca walked briskly along the worn path, her heart still pounding with the weight of the monk’s words and the lingering visions of her past life. Determined to find a way to break the curse without sacrificing another life, she had returned to this place—the temples of the Naga themselves—to seek answers among the ruins and the echoes of history.

Dr. Ananda trailed slightly behind, his gaze discreet yet observant. He noted the subtle, almost imperceptible glances exchanged between Rebecca and Sarocha—the way Rebecca’s hand would brush against Sarocha’s as they passed, the lingering looks that spoke of deep, unspoken histories. Yet, he remained silent, his quiet curiosity a counterpoint to the palpable tension that shrouded them.

He slowly closed the gap, a quiet presence whose eyes gleamed with scholarly curiosity. “Rebecca, come with me,” he said, his voice soft yet insistent as he led her toward a newly uncovered section of stone embedded in the earth. There, on a mossy slab, an inscription had been revealed. The ancient Thai script was weathered but unmistakable, its curves and angles hinting at a language of sacred orders and long-lost rituals.

Rebecca knelt before the stone, her fingertips gently tracing the worn characters. “It speaks of an order…” she murmured, more to herself than to Ananda. He crouched beside her, leaning in so that his breath mingled with hers as he studied the inscription.

“These texts… they refer to a group of monks,” he explained quietly, “an ancient order that once served as custodians of the sacred Naga temples. They believed that an intimate union between a Naga and a human guardian was not only unnatural, but dangerous. When that union broke the balance—when love bloomed where duty should have reigned—they felt compelled to sever it by any means necessary.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened as she absorbed his words. “They… placed the curse?” she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and determination.

Dr. Ananda nodded slowly. “That is what the fragments suggest. These monks, who once were protectors of the divine order, saw the union as a threat to the natural hierarchy. When the guardian failed in their duty by falling in love, the monks intervened. The consequences were catastrophic. The curse was cast to keep that union from ever being allowed to mend the balance.” He ran his fingers over the inscription, his tone pensive. “They believed that a guardian must pay the ultimate price—die willingly—to restore balance. But that was then.”

Even as Rebecca absorbed these revelations, her attention was drawn to another part of the site. Near a display table, where the excavators had arranged recent finds to be catalogued, Sarocha stood transfixed. Her gaze was fixed on a small, intricately carved idol. As Rebecca approached, she realized with a start that the idol was unmistakable—a representation of King Phaya, the legendary Naga king, whose visage Sarocha had not seen in decades. The idol’s eyes, carved in delicate detail, seemed to shine with a familiar, regal light.

For a long moment, Sarocha’s usually impassive expression softened, and a distant look of nostalgia crossed her face. “Father,” she murmured almost inaudibly, her voice tinged with both longing and sorrow. The sight of the idol stirred memories of her childhood—a time when she was nurtured on stories of divine lineage and the sacred duty of protecting the people along the river’s banks.

Rebecca watched Sarocha quietly, understanding that this was more than a simple discovery. It was a reminder of a past that Sarocha had tried to bury—of a heritage filled with power, loss, and the weight of legacy. Still, Rebecca’s mind returned to the inscription. The monks, their order, and the curse—they were all pieces of a puzzle that now seemed more urgent than ever.

“Rebecca,” Dr. Ananda said softly, drawing her attention back to the stone, “we must consider the role of these monks. Their origins are shrouded in mystery, but tradition holds that they were once the stewards of balance in these lands. They maintained the sacred pact between the Naga and the human guardians, ensuring that neither side overstepped its bounds.”

Rebecca’s pulse quickened, a mix of awe and dread stirring within her. “But if they sought to sever the union between a Naga and a guardian, then what was it about that union that frightened them so?”

Dr. Ananda’s eyes darkened as he recited from memory. “Legends say that when the union grew too passionate, too uncontrolled, it threatened to merge the two worlds completely—blurring the lines between mortal and divine, between order and chaos. They feared that such a bond, if left unbroken, would upset the cosmic balance and unleash powers that could consume everything in their path.”

Rebecca’s mind raced with the implications. “So, the curse… it was meant to keep that union in check? To force the guardian to pay a price, to prevent the creation of something… monstrous?” Her voice was a mix of disbelief and a desperate need for clarity.

Dr. Ananda shook his head slowly. “It’s not so simple. The curse was both a punishment and a safeguard. When the guardian failed in their duty by falling in love, the order of monks intervened, believing that they could sever the bond to restore the balance. But something happened... an interference… it only complicated matters. The curse endured, binding the Naga to human form, stripping them of their full power, while leaving the guardian… to live on in a perpetual cycle of rebirth and longing.”

Rebecca’s eyes flickered to the bracelet on her wrist, its inscription glowing faintly in the afternoon light. Every pulse seemed to echo the weight of the curse, a silent reminder of the tragic past that haunted her. “And now it seems like the curse is resurfacing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Ananda nodded solemnly. “Your presence seems to trigger the curse... the bracelet has chosen you. Perhaps you can find a way to mend what was broken. But the cost is still uncertain.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Rebecca felt the gravity of their shared destiny settling upon her like an anchor. The mysteries of the ancient order of monks, the sacred pacts, and the curse itself were interwoven with her very existence—and with Sarocha’s.

Rebecca turned away from the inscription and approached Sarocha, who still gazed at the idol of King Phaya. “I need to understand,” Rebecca said softly. “I need to know if there’s any way to break this curse without more bloodshed, without another life lost.”

Sarocha’s eyes met hers then, a mixture of sorrow and fierce determination swirling within. “I want that too, Rebecca,” she replied, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. “But the path is dark, and the past is a weight that cannot be shed lightly.”

The sound of the river outside, gentle and constant, filled the quiet space between their words. The ancient waters seemed to murmur secrets as they flowed, carrying the legacy of the past through the very heart of Thailand. The temple bells in the distance rang softly—a reminder of the ancient order of monks, of the covenant once made and the curse that followed.

Rebecca’s mind churned with the revelations. The curse had been placed to sever a union that threatened to upend the natural order. It had been meant as a punishment, a safeguard. But as she looked at Sarocha—at the woman who had awakened her own long-dormant power—she couldn’t help but feel that there was a chance, however slim, that they could change their fate.

Sarocha gently rested her hand on Rebecca’s wrist, her touch warm and reassuring despite the turmoil it evoked. “We have to keep searching for a way,” Sarocha whispered, her voice trembling with both hope and despair. “We must find a path that doesn’t demand the ultimate sacrifice.”

Dr. Ananda cleared his throat softly at a distance, drawing their attention back to the inscription one last time. “The monks were resolute,” he said quietly. “They believed that the curse would keep the two worlds apart. They saw love as a disruption to the balance—a dangerous, uncontrolled force. Perhaps they were right… or perhaps the times have changed.”

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed as she clutched the bracelet. “I refuse to believe that love should be the price of our survival,” she said, her voice firm with resolve as she spoke softly to Sarocha. “There must be another way. There has to be a method to break the curse that doesn’t cost another life.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and potent, as the sun dipped lower, casting a deep orange glow over the ancient ruins. The murmuring of the river, the rustling of leaves, and the distant echo of temple bells wove together into a tapestry of history and myth—a reminder that every legend carried with it both hope and sacrifice.

Rebecca felt both terrified and exhilarated by the path ahead. Every step forward would be fraught with peril, every answer potentially unraveling the delicate balance between love and fate. And yet, as she looked at Sarocha—whose eyes held the fierce determination of someone who had borne centuries of pain—she knew that they had no choice but to continue. Together, they would search for the key to break the curse, to reclaim a destiny that had been stolen so long ago.

Dr. Ananda folded his arms, his gaze flickering between the two of them with a mixture of concern and quiet encouragement. “I will continue my research,” he promised. “Perhaps the old texts will reveal a solution that has been hidden in the layers of history. Until then, you must both be cautious. The forces that have shaped this curse are powerful and unforgiving.”

Rebecca nodded, the weight of his words settling over her like a mantle. As she took one last lingering look at the inscription and then at the idol of King Phaya, a sense of both loss and possibility stirred within her. The legacy of her bloodline, the ancient pact with the Naga, and the tragic past of a love that had defied the natural order—everything was converging in this moment, urging her to take the next step.

And so, with the river murmuring its eternal secrets outside, and the fading light of day casting long shadows over the ruins, Rebecca resolved to face the darkness head-on. She would find a way to break the curse—without sacrificing another life. She would fight for the love that had bound her to Sarocha through lifetimes. And she would uncover the mysteries of the ancient order of monks, piecing together the truth hidden in their cryptic legends.

---

The evening had settled into a cool, hushed stillness as Sarocha’s silhouette merged with the dark outline of her car parked by the excavation site. In the wake of her departure, Rebecca remained on the stone terrace alongside Dr. Ananda, the ancient ruins around them bathed in the soft glow of twilight. The air was heavy with unspoken questions and the scent of damp earth, a constant reminder of secrets long buried in the past.

Dr. Ananda’s voice broke the silence. “Rebecca, the monks’ legacy… it’s a puzzle we’ve barely begun to unravel.” His tone was gentle, yet there was a hint of mischief in his eyes—a spark that belied his otherwise measured demeanor.

Rebecca, still reeling from their earlier discussions about curses and ancient pacts, nodded. “I know. It all seems so… overwhelming. I need to understand what they truly meant by severing the union and the price of a guardian’s life.”

Ananda hesitated, glancing in the direction Sarocha had taken. When he was sure her presence was no longer audible, he leaned a little closer. “Perhaps we could discuss it further—over dinner, maybe?” he offered softly, his tone warm yet laced with a suggestive undertone that made Rebecca’s pulse quicken.

Rebecca’s cheeks flushed. “Dinner?” she repeated, momentarily taken aback. “I…I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I was only curious about the legends… nothing more.”

Ananda’s expression softened into an apologetic smile. “No, Rebecca, I didn’t mean to overstep. It was a poor choice of words. I just—sometimes, the passion in our discussions takes on unexpected forms.” He paused, his eyes searching hers for understanding. “I apologize if that came across as anything else.”

Before Rebecca could respond, a soft, measured step signaled Sarocha’s return. The sound was barely audible, but it was enough. In that instant, the atmosphere shifted. The gentle murmur of their conversation was interrupted by the sudden weight of Sarocha’s presence. She reappeared at the far end of the terrace, her expression impassive but her eyes smoldering with a barely contained intensity.

Rebecca felt a chill run through her as Sarocha walked toward them. Even from a distance, Sarocha’s aura seemed to command the very air—the cool moisture clinging to the stone, the gentle vibration in the leaves, and the faint sound of the nearby river all seemed to respond to her presence.

Dr. Ananda’s eyes flicked nervously toward Sarocha as she neared. “Rebecca, if you don’t mind…” he began, but Sarocha cut him off with a curt nod, her voice low and clipped.

“I’m here,” Sarocha stated simply, her tone polite yet laced with a cold edge. “I trust you’re discussing important matters.” Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly as she caught a hint of Ananda’s lingering interest—a scent of hormones and something else unspoken that stirred an almost predatory energy beneath her composed exterior.

Rebecca felt the tension in the air thicken as Sarocha drew closer. The delicate balance that had hung between them, so fragile moments ago, now teetered on the edge of explosion. Sarocha’s presence was almost overwhelming; her aura pulsated with an intensity that made the water droplets clinging to surfaces on the terrace shimmer and vibrate as if alive.

Rebecca’s heart pounded; she could sense Sarocha’s internal conflict—a mix of possessiveness and restrained desire. The thought of anyone else getting too close to her, even if only through insinuation, made Sarocha’s composure slip.

“Please,” Rebecca said softly, her voice trembling as she addressed Dr. Ananda, “I think I need some space from this conversation.” She looked meaningfully at Sarocha. “I’m not sure I’m ready to hear more right now.”

Ananda nodded quickly, his gaze shifting uncomfortably between them. “Of course, Rebecca. I… I didn’t mean to intrude further. We can postpone this discussion.”

But Sarocha’s eyes were fixed on Ananda with a mix of barely suppressed anger and fierce protectiveness. She shifted her weight, and her voice, though measured, carried an undercurrent of warning. “I suggest you leave us for a while,” she said, her tone cool and firm. “I need to have a moment of... quiet.”

The words hung heavily in the humid air. Dr. Ananda hesitated, then gave a small nod. “I… I’ll take my leave,” he murmured, stepping back toward the doorway. His eyes flicked once more toward Rebecca, an apologetic glimmer in them, before he quietly departed, leaving the two women alone on the terrace.

For a long moment, silence reigned. Rebecca could feel her heart thumping in her ears, her pulse racing as she observed Sarocha. The tension between them was raw and palpable. Sarocha’s gaze was unwavering, her eyes dark and luminous, as if they held secrets and storms beyond measure. Every inch of the space between them seemed charged with a silent promise—an unspoken demand that neither could ignore.

“Rebecca,” Sarocha said softly, her voice low as the night’s hush, “I know what you’re feeling.” Her words were both an accusation and a confession. “And I’m aware of the danger that our connection poses. But I can’t—” Her voice trailed off as she fought to maintain control over the surging emotions within her.

Rebecca’s eyes searched Sarocha’s face, reading the conflict etched in every line. “What do you mean?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “What danger?”

Sarocha hesitated, biting her lip. The gentle vibration of the river in the distance mingled with the rustle of leaves, creating a symphony of ancient whispers. “There are forces at work, Rebecca,” she began, her voice low and resonant. “Forces that do not wish for our union to continue unchecked. I can feel it every time you’re near. It is as if the very elements rebel against us—against what we are becoming.”

Rebecca’s heart pounded as she took a step closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, her tone firm despite the uncertainty that danced in her eyes. “I need you. I need to know what’s happening. I need to understand.”

Sarocha’s gaze flickered with a mixture of regret and something darker—a storm of emotions that threatened to break free. “I want to tell you everything,” she murmured. “But it is not as simple as words, Rebecca. There are... layers to this, truths hidden beneath centuries of silence.”

A tense pause stretched between them, filled with the sound of the river’s constant murmur and the distant call of a night bird. Sarocha’s presence was like a living current—powerful, irresistible, and dangerously close. Her eyes, dark as the midnight sea and flecked with hints of molten gold, bore into Rebecca with an intensity that made her pulse race.

Rebecca swallowed hard, her voice trembling with a mix of determination and vulnerability. “I don’t want to lose you, Sarocha. I can’t stand the thought of being separated again, of being left with nothing but fear and uncertainty.”

At that, Sarocha’s composure cracked further. The air seemed to throb around her, every droplet of moisture on the terrace vibrating with the force of her suppressed desire. Her aura became almost overwhelming—a raw, primal energy that pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark. “Then do not push me away,” Sarocha said, her voice wavering with barely concealed urgency. “But you must understand… if we continue like this—if we allow ourselves to be drawn together without restraint—we may unleash a power that none of us can control.”

Rebecca’s eyes glistened with tears unshed, a fierce longing mingling with the raw edge of fear. “I don’t care about the consequences,” she whispered fiercely. “All I care about is you, Sarocha. I’m willing to face whatever comes, as long as I’m with you.”

The night held its breath as Sarocha’s gaze softened, torn between love and terror. “I… I want that too,” she admitted, voice barely audible. “But I cannot risk you being harmed by forces I barely understand.” Her tone was laced with desperation as her fingers twitched in the cool night air. “You mean everything to me.”

Before Rebecca could reach out and reassure her, the sound of a car engine in the distance reminded them of the fragile boundaries that still existed between their world and the one beyond. The memory of the monk’s warnings and the heavy cost of defying ancient curses came crashing back, stirring the turbulent air around them.

Rebecca, determined and defiant, stepped forward, bridging the gap between fear and desire. “I need you here, with me—no matter how dangerous it might be.” Her words were a vow, a challenge and an invitation all at once.

Sarocha’s eyes flashed, a mixture of anger, fear, and longing swirling together as the weight of her own power surged beneath her skin. For a moment, the moisture in the air seemed to tremble, droplets shimmering as though animated by some unseen force. Sarocha’s aura grew, nearly overwhelming—an intense, almost terrifying display of raw energy that sent shivers down Rebecca’s spine.

“I can’t control it all,” Sarocha murmured, almost to herself, as she drew in a shaky breath. “I feel it rising, everything within me… and I’m scared.” Her voice broke, heavy with the burden of destiny and the pain of past failures. “I don’t want to lose you, but I’m terrified of what might happen if we continue.”

Rebecca’s heart pounded as she reached out, placing a gentle hand on Sarocha’s arm. “Then we face it together,” she said softly. “No matter how dark it gets, I won’t leave you.” The sincerity in her voice was palpable, a steady beacon amid the storm of uncertainty.

For a long moment, the silence between them was filled only by the night sounds—the distant hum of the city, the murmur of the river, and the soft rustling of leaves. Sarocha’s gaze fell to the ground as she struggled to contain the overwhelming torrent of emotion, then slowly raised her eyes to meet Rebecca’s. There was a spark there—a spark of hope, of defiance, of a love that refused to be quenched.

“I—I need time to understand this,” Sarocha said, her voice trembling with both vulnerability and resolve. “But please, Rebecca… stay close. Do not let yourself drift away from me.”

The words, though cautious, sent a thrill down Rebecca’s spine. “I promise,” she replied, her tone firm despite the lingering uncertainty. “I’m here, Sarocha. I’m not going anywhere.”

The moment was fragile and electric—a tense truce between two souls bound by an ancient curse and a love that defied logic. The night pressed in around them, the moisture in the air pulsating with the echoes of the past and the raw energy of the present. For now, they stood together on that moonlit terrace, the city’s distant hum a backdrop to their whispered vows and cautious declarations.

In that charged silence, Rebecca knew that despite the danger and the unknown forces that threatened to tear them apart, she had made her choice. Sarocha’s gaze, laden with conflicting emotions, told her that the journey ahead would be perilous. But the unspoken promise in their eyes—of shared struggles, of defiant love, of a bond that spanned lifetimes—was enough to give her hope.

As the distant sound of an approaching car mingled with the gentle murmur of the river, Rebecca wrapped her arms around Sarocha, drawing her close once more. The night, thick with tension and possibility, bore witness to a silent promise: to remain together and face whatever may come.

---

The car’s interior was shrouded in a charged silence as it wound its way along a rain-slicked road toward Sarocha’s penthouse. The ambient glow from the streetlights and neon signs outside blurred into a shifting mosaic of color on the leather seats, while inside, every breath, every touch, vibrated with unspoken emotion. Rebecca sat in the passenger seat, her eyes half-lidded in a trance-like state, still recovering from the tumult of the previous night and the day behind them. Yet, even in her weakened state, she could feel the pull between them—a magnetic force that made the confined space seem impossibly small.

At the wheel, Sarocha’s face was a study in conflicted intensity. Her features were set in a mask of cool determination, but beneath that composed surface, her skin burned with an inner fire. Every so often, her eyes flicked toward Rebecca, dark with possessiveness and a simmering jealousy that both startled and aroused her. The memory of Dr. Ananda’s flirtatious insinuations earlier that day had left Sarocha rattled. She knew all too well what it meant for another man to show interest in the one person she could never bear to lose.

With one hand firmly gripping the steering wheel, Sarocha’s other hand found its way to Rebecca’s thigh. The touch was possessive, a silent claim, as though she needed to remind the world—and Rebecca—that no one else could ever have her. The pressure of her fingers was deliberate yet careful, an unspoken command that resonated with the very air inside the car. Each time Sarocha’s hand pressed against her skin, Rebecca felt a surge of both defiance and desire. It was as if the physical contact was transferring an ancient energy—a reminder of a bond that stretched back through time.

“Rebecca,” Sarocha murmured, her voice low and edged with an intensity that brooked no argument, “I don’t trust him. I won’t stand for anyone else trying their luck with you.”

Rebecca turned her head slightly to meet Sarocha’s gaze. Her eyes, half closed in a mix of awe and uncertainty, shone with a gentle defiance. “Ananda’s just… misinterpreting things,” Rebecca replied softly. “You know me—I’m not some prize to be guarded. It’s just a misunderstanding.”

Sarocha’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing as the tension in the cramped space became almost tangible. The leather of the seat creaked under her grip as she pressed her hand even more firmly against Rebecca’s thigh. “You don’t understand,” she said, voice trembling with a mix of anger and longing. “I can’t allow anyone to come between us. My nature—what I am—won’t let me share you.”

For a long moment, the car was filled only with the sound of the engine and the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof. The air seemed to pulse with energy, every droplet of moisture vibrating in response to Sarocha’s surging power. Rebecca’s heart pounded in her chest, and she felt as if the atmosphere itself was thickening, the very oxygen around them charged with electricity.

Rebecca’s thoughts spun in a whirl of desire and apprehension. She had never felt so utterly desired, yet the intensity of Sarocha’s possessiveness was almost overwhelming. Her body tingled where Sarocha’s hand pressed against her, and every nerve seemed to sing with an ancient, primal energy. Even as a part of her rebelled at the notion of being so tightly controlled, another part—a desperate, yearning part—melted into the embrace of the moment.

“I… I need to feel that I belong with you,” Rebecca whispered, her voice wavering between defiance and vulnerability. “When you touch me like that, I feel… alive, like nothing else matters.”

Sarocha’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “Then you must understand,” she said, voice low and urgent, “that my desire is not something I can share with anyone else. It’s all for you, Rebecca. Every part of me burns for you—and I will not let that flame be diminished.”

Rebecca’s pulse raced as she allowed herself to be drawn into the moment. The car seemed to close in around them, the dim interior lights throwing shifting shadows across their leaning forms. In that charged space, Rebecca’s desire grew into a desperate need, a longing that blurred the line between submission and defiance. The pressure of Sarocha’s hand, the heat of her gaze—it was as if the boundaries of their very beings were dissolving, leaving only a raw, unfiltered passion behind.

Time seemed to slow. Each breath was an eternity, each heartbeat a resounding drum echoing in the confines of the car. The electric atmosphere grew heavier as Sarocha’s eyes bore into Rebecca’s, silently demanding her complete attention. It was a look that promised both tenderness and a fierce, unyielding claim—a promise that no one, not even Dr. Ananda, could ever intrude upon what they shared.

As the car turned a corner and the lights of Sarocha’s penthouse grew closer, the intensity between them reached a fever pitch. The confined space made every touch more deliberate, every caress more urgent. Rebecca’s thoughts spun in a haze of desire and apprehension, the feeling of Sarocha’s grip like a lifeline anchoring her to reality. She could almost lose herself in the sensation, in the dark promise of Sarocha’s embrace.

For a moment, the world outside the car ceased to exist. There was only the silent language of touch, the unspoken vow in the look that passed between them. Sarocha’s hand, still firm on Rebecca’s thigh, spoke volumes: a warning, a claim, and a desperate plea all at once. “I can’t—I won’t let anyone else come between us,” Sarocha repeated, the urgency in her tone underlining the depths of her possessiveness.

Rebecca’s voice was soft but steady as she responded, “I’m here, Sarocha. I’m with you.” Yet, even as she said it, her heart fluttered with uncertainty. Could she bear the weight of such intensity? Could she surrender completely to the storm that raged within Sarocha?

The car’s engine hummed steadily as the distance to the penthouse dwindled, and the atmosphere in the vehicle became a crucible of emotion. The smell of rain on asphalt, the faint trace of lavender from the air freshener, and the mingled scent of their bodies created a heady perfume that filled the small space with anticipation. Every so often, Rebecca caught a glimpse of Sarocha’s eyes in the rearview mirror—eyes that shone with a wild, almost feral light, as if her entire being were on the verge of bursting forth.

Finally, the car pulled up in front of the penthouse. The large glass doors slid open automatically, and as Sarocha shifted her weight, her grip on Rebecca’s thigh tightened one last time—a silent command that spoke of unwavering determination. With the penthouse looming ahead like a silent sentinel, the air between them was dark and electric, charged with a promise that was as dangerous as it was irresistible.

In that final moment before stepping out of the car, Rebecca’s mind raced. She knew that once they crossed the threshold, there would be no turning back. The old, ancient forces that bound them were stirring again, and with them came the possibility of both salvation and destruction. Yet, even as the fear of what lay ahead pulsed in her veins, a deep, unyielding desire to remain wrapped in Sarocha’s presence overpowered her doubts.

As the car’s door opened, the outside world erupted in a blur of cool night air and the faint murmur of distant city sounds. With one last lingering look at Rebecca—an unspoken promise mingled with a silent warning—Sarocha stepped out of the vehicle, leaving Rebecca to follow into the darkness, where every heartbeat and every whispered touch would carry them deeper into the unknown.

---

The penthouse door closed behind them with a heavy thud, sealing Rebecca and Sarocha into a world of dark luxury and unspoken passion. The space was cool and shadowed, yet every surface seemed to vibrate with the memory of their car ride—the charged atmosphere, the intensity of Sarocha’s possessive grip, the weight of unsaid words. The low hum of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows mingled with the soft sound of their breathing, each note a promise of what was to come.

Sarocha’s eyes burned with a mixture of jealousy and longing as she moved through the space, her graceful steps betraying a barely contained fire. Every inch of her skin, every subtle flicker of her shifting aura, spoke of an inner power yearning to break free. Even now, as she led Rebecca into the center of the room, the tension was almost palpable—like the first crack of a storm before the downpour.

Rebecca’s pulse raced as she looked up at Sarocha, feeling both desire and a desperate need to understand. “I don’t want to be away from you,” she said, voice raw, echoing the intensity of the moment. Her words were not gentle but filled with urgency and a vulnerability that made her look both defiant and fragile.

Sarocha’s jaw tightened as she regarded Rebecca. “I can’t let anyone come between us,” she growled softly, her tone laced with both command and a tremor of fear. Her hand found its way to Rebecca’s thigh, gripping her as though to stake a claim in a language older than words. Her other hand settled on Rebecca's hip, pulling her impossibly closer. The possessive touch was gentle yet insistent, a silent demand that Rebecca not stray from her side.

The air in the penthouse thickened, and the heat between them rose as if fuelled by some primal force. Sarocha’s natural instincts, honed over centuries of a hidden, tormented existence, pulsed just beneath the surface. Her skin shimmered for a moment in the dim light—a flash of scales, a glimmer of something ancient. Her eyes glowed, their pupils narrowing to slits in an expression that was both beautiful and dangerous.

Rebecca, caught in the rapture of that moment, felt the boundaries between fear and desire blur. “I need you,” she breathed, her words nearly lost in the charged silence, desperate and raw. Every touch, every whispered admission, seemed to ignite the air around them.

Without a pause, Sarocha’s restraint broke. In a frenzy born of longing and jealousy, she lunged forward and began to strip away the fabric that clung to them—clothes were tossed aside in a chaotic rush of heated need. They were not fully naked, yet nothing remained to hide the fierce connection that bound them. Sarocha’s eyes, wild and luminous, locked onto Rebecca’s, and in that gaze, all pretenses were discarded.

Sarocha’s movements were unyielding, her hands exploring every curve of Rebecca’s body as if mapping out every secret. “Stay with me,” she murmured urgently, her voice a mixture of a curse and a plea. “Don’t ever leave my side again.” The words vibrated with the promise of protection and the threat of loss, each syllable saturated with the raw, primal urgency of a creature who had waited centuries to be whole.

Rebecca, trembling with both passion and apprehension, let herself be swept away. Her desire was not simply lust; it was a desperate need to merge with Sarocha, to quench a hunger that was as old as the curse itself. With each movement, with each caress, the unspoken truth became clearer: they were bound together by forces beyond mortal comprehension, forces that could neither be tamed nor denied.

The penthouse’s dim light cast long shadows across the room as Sarocha moved with a fluid, commanding grace toward Rebecca. In a single, seamless motion, Sarocha swept Rebecca toward the dark teak desk that dominated one wall. The desk’s surface—polished by time and steeped in the silent lore of ages—stood in stark contrast to the raw heat pulsing between them. With a swift, decisive movement, Sarocha bent Rebecca over the desk; the cool, hard edge pressed into Rebecca’s abdomen as she leaned forward onto outstretched arms, the sensation mingling with the burn of desire.

Their proximity was intoxicating. The cool wood against Rebecca’s heated skin, the soft rustle of fabric discarded in a careless frenzy, and the rapid, husky whispers that filled the space all combined into a symphony of urgent longing. Sarocha’s presence, fierce and unyielding, enveloped Rebecca in a tide of passion that was both delicate and feral.

Leaning over Rebecca’s back, Sarocha’s hungry mouth traced the curve of her shoulder, tasting the thin sheen of sweat that clung there. The taste was an intricate blend of salt and desire—a flavor that seemed to unlock something deep within Sarocha, stirring her ancient instincts. Rebecca felt the heat radiate from Sarocha’s powerful form, driving her temperature to an almost unbearable peak. When skin met skin in that charged moment, a shudder rippled through Rebecca’s entire being, as if surrendering to the inevitable force of Sarocha’s demanding embrace.

In the stifling atmosphere of the room, the very air began to pulse with energy. Tiny droplets of moisture on the window vibrated in anticipation, mirroring the rhythm of their intertwined hearts. Sarocha’s long-suppressed instincts—honed over centuries and kept in check by the curse—now roared forth like a beast unleashed. Her body shuddered with raw intensity as the electric charge between them surged, manifesting in both physical and intangible forms.

A cry, barely more than a gasp, escaped Rebecca as Sarocha’s hips crashed into hers, forcing her to sprawl upon the cool surface of the desk. Rebecca’s skin flushed with the heat of their union, her senses overwhelmed by the urgency of the moment. She scarcely had time to register the sensation of Sarocha’s presence inside her as the woman pulled back briefly, only to surge forward with renewed fervor. Rebecca’s mind and body were caught in a maelstrom of sensation—a visceral energy pressing deeply between fluttering walls, as if a phantom force had materialized from the very essence of Sarocha’s nature. Rebecca groaned and shivered at the warm growl in her ear from behind her shoulder, Sarocha's predatory energy seeping from every pore.

“Mine,” came Sarocha’s breathless, low claim—a single, powerful word that echoed with defiance and possessiveness as she thrust forward again. Rebecca’s gasp mingled with the sound of her racing heart, her entire being alight with that indescribable, phantom energy—a force that seemed to be sculpted from the raw purity of Sarocha’s ancient being. The deep pressure drove Rebecca wild with need, hips keening back to meet each fiery stroke. With every frantic movement, the burning connection between them grew more tangible, more undeniable, as if fate itself had woven their destinies together in a tapestry of desire and rebellion.

Sarocha's teeth scraped the nape of Rebecca's neck, forcing another low moan from the sprawled woman before her, beneath her, trembling body swallowing every throbbing inch of energy she brought forth. Rebecca’s voice, strained and barely above a whisper, broke through the torrent of their passion. “Sarocha… I need you to claim me completely,” she pleaded, eyes wide with a desperate blend of longing and defiance. “I want to feel every part of you, to know what it means to be yours without any holding back.”

For an agonizing moment, Sarocha hesitated—the fierce, unrestrained hunger in her eyes softened by a brief flicker of vulnerability. But then, as if the overwhelming need to belong conquered all restraint, Sarocha’s lips twisted into a determined, almost feral smile.

“Then understand,” she rasped, voice low and fierce, “I don’t care about the curse anymore. I’d rather have you for one lifetime than chase eternity alone.”

In that breathless declaration, Sarocha allowed her inherent nature to surge forth. Her eyes shone with a luminous, amber glow as delicate outlines of scales shimmered briefly along her exposed skin. Her pupils narrowed into sharp, predatory slits—a subtle transformation that, while fleeting, was a vivid reminder of the ancient power that lay just beneath her human façade.

Rebecca stared over her shoulder, transfixed, as the transformation unfolded. The raw, overwhelming beauty of Sarocha’s change stirred something deep within her, a potent mix of awe and longing that made her skin prickle with anticipation. In that charged moment, Rebecca felt the pull of something ancient, an energy that seemed to resonate from deep within her—a phantom force, almost as if Sarocha’s essence were melding with her own.

The room vibrated with the intensity of their union. With her control now utterly surrendered to the raging tide of desire, Sarocha leaned in once more. Her fangs, symbols of her true nature, emerged with a quiet, predatory inevitability. They sank into Rebecca’s shoulder in a soft, deliberate bite—a tender yet powerful act that marked her claim over Rebecca. A gasp of euphoria burst from Rebecca as the sensation flooded her senses—a heady mix of pleasure, a tingling sting that spread warmth through her veins, igniting a fierce fire in every fiber of her being.

In that sacred, perilous instant, time seemed to suspend its relentless march. Every kiss, every caress, every pulse of raw energy coalesced into a single, defiant act of intimacy—a declaration that their union was a force of nature, a love that defied curses and challenged destiny. Their bodies moved together with desperate abandon, every touch an admission of a truth that needed no words. With each frantic movement of Sarocha’s hips, the throbbing connection between them intensified, affirming that nothing—no ancient curse, no force of fate—could tear them apart.

The atmosphere between them roiled with ancient power and undeniable passion. In that moment, they became more than two souls entwined by fate—they became the very embodiment of defiance against the darkness that sought to keep them apart. Their shared passion was not merely a release of desire; it was a powerful, transformative force—a promise etched into their flesh and spirit that no curse, no ancient force, would ever sever the bond they now claimed as their own.

The bite was pure euphoria and the effect raged through Rebecca's veins, invigorated again by a second bite as Sarocha moaned deeply into Rebecca's neck. Her arms wrapped around Rebecca's middle as she fused them together, Rebecca's back flush against her damp front. Rebecca could feel Sarocha's throbbing energy sink even deeper as she arched her back, a pitiful whimper spilling from her trembling lips. The burn was utterly satisfying, and Rebecca's fluttering walls clenched feverishly around the invisible pressure that came in increasingly firm strokes, all while Sarocha's venom coursed like liquid fire through her veins.

They moved together with a desperate, almost fevered abandon. Sarocha’s hands gripped Rebecca tightly, pulling her even closer as they continued their intimate dance on the desk. There was no room for hesitation now; every touch, every caress was a fierce, all-consuming admission of love—a declaration that they would risk everything, even if it meant facing ancient forces and unyielding curses.

As the wild intensity of their union reached its crescendo, Rebecca felt the true mark of their connection deep within her. It was not just passion or desire; it was a promise etched into her very soul, a signal that something irrevocable had changed. With every heartbeat, every whispered vow of pleasure and defiance, they surrendered further to the inexorable pull that bound them together. Through the blinding explosion of energy, brought about by the pulse of pleasure and a deep-seated sense of connection, their groans of pleasure turned to cries of unadulterated ecstasy.

"I want to devour you..." Sarocha husked breathlessly in Rebecca's ear, her fangs scraping its shell, though the feverish bucking of her hips had now slowed to a gentle roll. Rebecca whimpered, messy and ragged where she remained pinned between Sarocha and the desk. Her mind was reeling furiously from the magnitude of her passing orgasm, swallowing her senses within a storm of reckless passion and abandon. Sarocha's frame became heavy atop Rebecca's back, her consuming presence weighing in with accumulated pleasure and lingering power.

The weight of Sarocha’s body against her own sent a delicious tremor down Rebecca’s spine, her breath hitching as the heat between them simmered, refusing to wane. Sarocha’s venom coursed through her veins like molten gold, intoxicating and searing, binding them together in ways Rebecca had never imagined possible. She felt it—felt her—in every fiber of her being. It was as if Sarocha’s essence had fused with her own, stretching beyond mere physical connection into something eternal, something far more dangerous.

A slow, predatory smile curled against Rebecca’s shoulder, lips brushing against the fresh bite, and Sarocha exhaled deeply. “Do you feel it?” she murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction, with something almost reverent.

Rebecca’s lashes fluttered as she swallowed down a shudder. “I feel you,” she whispered, her fingers curling over the edge of the desk as if it were the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

But it wasn’t enough.

The burn in her blood wasn’t satisfied, wasn’t quelled. If anything, the bite had only deepened her hunger, stirring something primal and insatiable within her. She needed more—needed to be closer, to take as much as Sarocha would give.

With renewed purpose, Rebecca twisted beneath Sarocha’s weight, her movements languid yet commanding, driven by the invisible force pulling her toward the one woman she was destined for, cursed for. The moment she turned to face Sarocha fully, something electric pulsed between them, the very air crackling with an unseen force. Sarocha’s pupils, still blown wide with desire, dilated further when Rebecca grabbed her shoulders and pushed, sending them both stumbling backward until Sarocha collapsed into the leather chair behind her.

Rebecca didn’t hesitate.

She straddled Sarocha’s lap, thighs spreading over hers as she pressed down, grinding against the heat that still radiated between them. The sharp gasp that left Sarocha’s lips was intoxicating, but Rebecca had no intention of slowing. She could still feel the sting of the bite on her shoulder, the venom simmering in her bloodstream, driving her forward with an emboldened fervor.

“You bit me,” Rebecca said, voice rough, husky, and laced with something dark. Her fingers gripped Sarocha’s jaw, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Twice.”

Sarocha smirked, baring just a hint of sharp fangs. “I’ll bite you again.”

The words barely had time to settle before Sarocha’s hands found Rebecca’s hips, gripping them tightly as she rolled her forward, meeting Rebecca’s movements with her own. The slow, deliberate pace sent shudders through Rebecca’s core, her breath stuttering as pleasure and power intertwined, turning her body into something wholly Sarocha’s.

“Then do it,” Rebecca challenged, voice dipping into something dangerously low, teasing, desperate. She tilted her head, offering her throat, daring Sarocha to claim her fully.

A growl rumbled from Sarocha’s chest, her restraint snapping like a frayed thread. She surged forward, her lips dragging along Rebecca’s pulse point before her fangs sank in once more, this time deeper, more possessive.

The cry that tore from Rebecca’s lips was unrestrained, a visceral sound of surrender and need as the venom rushed into her system again, spreading like wildfire. Her nails dug into Sarocha’s shoulders as her body trembled, overtaken by the sheer intensity of the connection weaving them together.

And then it happened.

The shift in power was sudden and immediate, tangible—an unseen force wrapping around them, crackling in the air like an impending storm. The mark on Rebecca’s shoulder pulsed, glowing faintly for a split second before fading, as if something ancient and buried had stirred awake inside her.

Sarocha gasped against Rebecca’s skin, her body shuddering beneath her, and for a brief moment, they both stilled, caught in the throes of something far greater than themselves.

Rebecca’s heart thundered against her ribs as she lifted her head, locking eyes with Sarocha, their breaths mingling in the charged space between them.

Something had changed.

Something irreversible.

And yet, neither of them could bring themselves to stop.

Rebecca barely had a moment to comprehend the shift before it swallowed her whole. A deep, ravenous ache surged inside her, clawing at her insides like a beast let loose from its cage. Sarocha’s venom coiled through her veins, a slow-burning fire that wouldn’t be tamed, wouldn’t be satisfied—not until she had everything.

Her hips moved on their own, rolling down harder against Sarocha’s lap, chasing the delicious friction that sent sparks racing through her limbs. She let out a breathless moan, her fingers knotting in Sarocha’s hair, tugging, demanding. “More,” she panted, her lips grazing the shell of Sarocha’s ear, voice trembling with raw need. “I need more.”

Sarocha’s grip on Rebecca’s waist tightened, fingers digging in as if to anchor herself, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from Sarocha’s chest, her hands sliding down to Rebecca’s thighs, then up again, shifting along the tender insides, searing into bare skin. “You’re burning for me,” she murmured, her voice thick, unsteady. “You feel what we’ve done, don’t you?”

Rebecca gasped as Sarocha shifted beneath her, pressing up, meeting each desperate grind with sharp, precise movements that sent pleasure rippling through her like a violent current. The hunger in her belly twisted tighter, unbearable, insatiable. She clenched her jaw, swallowing down the whimper that threatened to escape, but Sarocha heard it—felt it.

The smirk that curved Sarocha’s lips was feral, teasing. “You can’t fight it,” she whispered, her fingers dragging up Rebecca’s spine, tracing the heat pooling beneath her skin. “You’re mine now, forever.”

The words sent a shudder through Rebecca so intense she nearly collapsed against Sarocha’s chest. A strangled moan tore from her throat, her breath hitching as the reality of those words wrapped around her like a vice.

Forever.

A fresh wave of desire surged through her, and she snapped.

Grabbing Sarocha’s wrists, Rebecca shoved them back against the arms of the chair, pinning her in place as she crashed her lips against hers. The kiss was brutal, consuming, devastating. Their teeth clashed, fangs scraping teeth, the taste of blood and venom seeping between their tongues. Sarocha groaned against her mouth, her body jerking and hips twitching beneath Rebecca’s, but Rebecca wouldn’t let go, would not relent.

She kissed her like she was trying to swallow her whole.

And Sarocha let her.

Their movements turned frantic, desperate—Rebecca’s hips slamming down in a frenzied rhythm, Sarocha meeting her with equal force. The heat between them grew unbearable, pleasure mounting to a dangerous peak, threatening to consume them both. Pulsating energy seeped inside Rebecca, shifting, stretching her walls with warm pressure.

Rebecca broke the kiss with a gasp, her forehead pressing against Sarocha’s, her entire body trembling. “Bite me again,” she begged, voice ragged, almost delirious. “Mark me deeper.”

Sarocha’s chest rose and fell in rapid succession, her pupils blown wide, her expression wild with something dark, something possessive. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she warned, but her voice lacked conviction.

Rebecca laughed—breathless, hungry, utterly undone. “I know exactly what I’m asking for.” She tilted her head, baring her throat in challenge. “Do it.”

Sarocha didn’t hesitate.

Her fangs sank in deeper than before, tearing past flesh, past reason. Rebecca screamed, her back arching, pleasure detonating through her in waves so intense they threatened to drown her. The venom rushed into her bloodstream like a second climax, sending shockwaves of unbearable bliss rippling through every nerve ending.

And just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, Sarocha’s power slammed into her.

The room shook. The air around them crackled with unseen energy, shifting, bending—reality itself twisting to accommodate the force of what they had done. The mark on Rebecca’s skin burned, glowing fiercely for a split second before settling, cementing itself into something permanent.

Something eternal.

Rebecca’s grip on Sarocha’s wrists finally loosened, her body going slack, utterly spent—but the fire within her still burned. Even as her head lolled against Sarocha’s shoulder, even as her breath stuttered with exhaustion, she knew—this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

The early morning light crept softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows, tinting the room with gentle hues of pink and gold. Rebecca and Sarocha lay together in the quiet aftermath of a night of fierce passion—a tender reprieve from the crushing weight of curses and ancient forces. Their naked bodies were entwined like two halves of a whole, clinging to each other as though their very existence depended on it. In that fragile, suspended moment, every whispered word and every soft, shared breath carried the promise of devotion and survival.

Rebecca stirred first, blinking slowly as the remnants of sleep melted away. Wrapped in Sarocha’s warm, protective embrace, she felt as if the night’s intensity had forged a lifeline between them. “Good morning,” Rebecca murmured, her voice husky with lingering passion and vulnerability.

Sarocha’s eyes, still glimmering with the echo of last night’s fire, softened as she responded, “Good morning, my love.” Her tone was both playful and possessive, and as she shifted slightly, a delicate smile danced on her lips.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet rustle of sheets and the steady, comforting rhythm of their intertwined hearts. Rebecca’s thoughts swirled with memories of their wild union—of the fervent, almost feral intensity of Sarocha’s touch, of the mysterious, ancient power that had surged between them. Yet now, in the gentle glow of dawn, there was an intimacy that was softer, almost domestic.

Rebecca stretched languidly and murmured, “Last night… you left your mark on me.” Her eyes flickered to the faint, glowing trail of Sarocha’s bites along her shoulder, a symbol of their union that pulsed gently with the warmth of Sarocha’s venom. There was an undeniable magic in that mark—a promise that they were now bound for eternity, defiant of the curse that sought to tear them apart.

Sarocha chuckled, a low, teasing sound that filled the space between them. “You do look rather wild,” she drawled, her voice laced with affection and playful mischief. “Sometimes I think you’re more animal than human.”

Rebecca’s cheeks flushed at the teasing remark, and she bit her lip in a moment of shyness—though her eyes shone with unyielding desire. “Maybe,” she replied softly, “but even an animal can be tamed when it finds the right one.”

Their laughter mingled with the quiet sounds of the waking city, and as they slowly rose from the bed, their bare skin brushed tenderly against one another. Sarocha moved with a languid grace, her every step echoing a profound longing to remain close to Rebecca—to shield her from the terrors of a cursed fate.

At the kitchen, over a simple breakfast of fresh fruit and steaming tea, Sarocha couldn’t take her eyes off Rebecca. Each time Rebecca moved, a smile played on Sarocha’s lips—a smile full of affection and a fierce desire to keep her safe. As they sat across from one another at a small wooden table, their conversation was gentle and tentative, yet the undercurrent of urgency pulsed beneath every word.

Rebecca reached for her cup, her gaze never straying far from Sarocha’s. “What do you imagine our life could be like if we broke the curse?” she asked, her voice low and earnest.

Sarocha’s eyes met hers, and for a long moment, the only sound was the quiet clink of porcelain and the soft hum of the refrigerator. “I think…” Sarocha began slowly, “that if we managed to defy fate, we’d be able to live in a world where our love isn’t shackled by ancient rules. We’d be free—truly free to be ourselves, to build something that lasts beyond the pain of centuries.” Her tone was wistful, hinting at dreams that had been deferred for far too long.

Rebecca smiled, though a trace of melancholy lay behind her eyes. “And what if the world isn’t ready for that?” she whispered. “What if our union becomes a threat—a spark that sets everything ablaze?”

Sarocha’s gaze darkened for a moment, as though recalling the painful memories of past lifetimes. “Then we’ll face it together,” she said resolutely. “If they seek to tear us apart, then we will show them that our love—our bond—cannot be broken by curses or by fate.” Her voice was both a promise and a challenge, echoing with the strength of a woman who had endured more than most could imagine.

Between bites of fruit and sips of tea, their conversation meandered through memories of summers long past—of splashing in the river as a child, of secret whispered promises in the twilight—and into the uncertain future they now faced. Rebecca’s mind wandered to the dark visions and the monk’s warning, and her eyes grew distant for a moment. Sensing the change, Sarocha reached across the table and squeezed her hand gently. “You’re not alone,” she murmured. “I’m here. Always.”

The quiet domesticity of breakfast was punctuated by moments of shared laughter and gentle teasing—a playful banter that belied the weight of their situation. Yet beneath the surface, every touch and every glance was charged with an unspoken understanding: that their bond was more than a simple union. It was a defiant act against a curse that had haunted them through lifetimes—a rebellion against fate itself.

As the meal drew to a close, Sarocha helped Rebecca clear the table, their movements slow and tender. The morning sun climbed higher, bathing the penthouse in soft light, and with it came a fleeting sense of normalcy, a brief reprieve from the darkness that loomed on the horizon.

Rebecca glanced at Sarocha, her heart swelling with both love and apprehension. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said softly, her eyes glistening slightly. “No matter what happens, I want to fight for us.”

Sarocha’s gaze was resolute, though tinged with sorrow. “I feel the same,” she replied. “You are my lifeline, Rebecca. You are my strength—and my weakness.” A bitter smile played at her lips as she added, “I want nothing more than to keep you safe. To keep you with me, always.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and danger. For a moment, they simply stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling the steady pulse of their shared heartbeat echo in the quiet room. The past, with its cursed legacy and unyielding pacts, seemed to fade into the background as their whispered confessions filled the space with hope.

Outside, the river flowed relentlessly, carrying with it the secrets of countless generations. The ancient water, ever-changing yet eternal, served as a silent witness to their fragile, defiant love. It reminded them that every moment was borrowed, every touch a precious act of rebellion against a destiny written in ancient script.

In that tender morning light, as they prepared to face the day and the trials that awaited them, Rebecca and Sarocha embraced the uncertain future. They knew that the path ahead would be fraught with danger and sacrifice, but in that quiet moment of shared vulnerability and domestic affection, their bond felt unbreakable—a light in the encroaching darkness that promised to guide them, no matter how treacherous the journey might be.

---

The sky was a washed-out blue as Rebecca and Sarocha stepped from the car toward the ancient temple by the river. The building’s weathered stone walls and ornate carvings exuded a quiet dignity, a silent witness to centuries of secrets and sorrow. Rebecca’s eyes darted around, both wary and determined, while Sarocha’s hand remained firm on Rebecca’s arm, a steady reminder of the bond that pulsed between them.

Inside the temple courtyard, a few monks moved about their daily routines. One of them—a seemingly ordinary monk in a simple saffron robe with kind, steady eyes—approached them. Without preamble, he bowed and said, “Welcome. You seek answers.” His tone was gentle but hinted at knowledge deeper than his unadorned appearance might suggest.

Sarocha’s gaze flicked to Rebecca before she answered quietly, “Yes. We need to learn about... some legends and myths regarding the Naga." She tilted her chin slightly, resolving not to divulge too many details if she could help it.

The monk nodded and led them through a narrow passageway. The sound of their footsteps echoed off the stone walls until they reached a small, dimly lit room. Stacked on rough-hewn tables were ancient tomes, brittle scrolls, and faded manuscripts, all arranged with quiet reverence. The monk gestured toward them. “Please, look for what you must. I will leave you to your study.”

The door closed softly behind him, leaving Rebecca and Sarocha alone in the flickering lamplight. Without a word, Rebecca and Sarocha began sifting through the documents. Rebecca’s fingers trembled as she unrolled a fragile scroll. Its cryptic symbols danced before her eyes. At intervals, the two exchanged hushed remarks and pointed at passages that seemed to hint at a long-forgotten ritual.

“Look here,” Rebecca said, drawing Sarocha’s attention to a passage scrawled in ancient Thai script. “It mentions a rite for the guardian—a ritual that involves forging an accessory...”

Sarocha’s dark eyes narrowed as she examined the passage over Rebecca’s shoulder. “I remember fragments of that from the old legends,” she said softly. “The Naga would imbue an object with a part of their power. The guardian would wear it, binding their fate together… balancing our essence with theirs.”

Rebecca’s gaze drifted to the golden bracelet encircling her wrist. Its markings glowed faintly in the low light, echoing the very words written on the scroll. “That’s what this is?” she murmured, voice thick with recognition.

A long, heavy silence fell between them as Sarocha’s eyes darkened with unspoken memories. Finally, she said, “Yes, Rebecca. It is the very same. When you fell in our past life, the bracelet was the last connection we had to seal our bond. It was meant to balance my power, to keep it in check, but… I could not contain it, and in trying, I failed you.”

Rebecca’s heart hammered as she clutched the bracelet. “I understand that it was our ritual, our duty,” she said, voice soft but edged with hurt and longing. “But if the bracelet is meant to temper your power, why is it that my presence now causes your power to surge so dangerously?”

Sarocha hesitated, running a trembling hand over a portion of the scroll. “I—I suspect it is because our love has grown beyond its intended limits,” she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. “The bond between a Naga and her guardian was never meant to be... passionate. It was duty, balance, and restraint. But our love—it overflows, and with it, my power expands, overwhelming the balance.”

Rebecca’s eyes shone with a mixture of wonder and defiance. “So our love is the very thing that threatens everything?” she asked. “That it makes you so powerful that the ancient order of monks… they feared it?”

Sarocha’s gaze flickered, her hands tightening on the edges of a brittle scroll. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice low and raw. “In our past, our union was forbidden. The monks believed that such a union would disturb the natural order, that it could unleash a force too potent for the world to bear. They strived to sever our connection. Instead, the curse was triggered."

Rebecca swallowed, her thoughts swirling like the currents of the river outside. “And now,” she said slowly, “with me here… your power is surging, the curse weakening. But it also puts us both in danger.”

A heavy sigh escaped Sarocha as she folded the scroll with care. “The curse was cast to ensure our separation, and to force you to sacrifice yourself in order for balance to be restored,” she said bitterly. “Yet here we are—our love has defied that design. And now, it seems the very act of our union intensifies your presence, intensifies my power, beyond what was ever intended.”

The room seemed to shrink around them as the weight of centuries pressed in on their souls. Rebecca looked down at the inscription on her bracelet once more, its soft glow a steady pulse in the quiet. “What are we supposed to do, Sarocha?” she asked, voice trembling with a mixture of hope and dread. “If our love causes your power to grow unchecked, if it brings us closer to what the monks feared… is there any way to break the curse without losing more lives?”

Sarocha’s eyes met hers, fierce and sorrowful. “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice strained. “I wish there were another way—a way to free us without paying the ultimate price. But the texts speak of sacrifice… of a guardian’s death. And if I’m honest, I still wonder if that tribulation from our past isn’t coming back for us.”

Rebecca’s hand moved to Sarocha’s, resting there in silent reassurance. “Then we must find a way to change the balance,” she said, voice resolute despite the uncertainty that churned inside her. “We have to learn everything we can from these scrolls and inscriptions. Perhaps the answer lies hidden in these ancient words.”

They sat side by side, poring over the fragile documents, their fingers occasionally brushing as they turned pages and exchanged whispered theories. Outside, the low rumble of the river mingled with the soft calls of distant birds, a quiet reminder that time marched on regardless of human fate. The temple’s musty air, filled with the scent of old parchment and incense, lent an otherworldly solemnity to their quest for answers.

Sarocha reached for another scroll, her eyes narrowing as she read a passage aloud in a trembling voice. “It speaks of the ritual—the one in which a guardian must undergo a trial, a transformation… to seal the bond with their Naga counterpart.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, the memory of that ancient rite stirring within her. “I remember fragments of that from before... a time when everything was simpler, when our union was merely a duty.” She paused, searching Rebecca’s eyes for understanding. “But our love changed that. It made us more than we were meant to be.”

Rebecca listened intently, her heart pounding. “So, what does that ritual involve?” she pressed softly, her voice laced with desperate curiosity.

Sarocha’s expression wavered, caught between recollection and fear. “As explained before, it required the forging of a trinket—an accessory imbued with the Naga’s power. A necklace, bracelet, or ring… something that would act as a conduit, connecting the guardian to the Naga, allowing the guardian to temper our strength and ensure balance between our worlds.” Her eyes locked onto Rebecca’s. “Like I said, that very bracelet you wear was meant to be that connection."

A heavy silence fell between them as Rebecca absorbed the significance of Sarocha’s words. The notion was both terrifying and exhilarating: their union, their forbidden love, was now a challenge to the natural order—a declaration of war against ancient pacts. “And the monks…” Rebecca began, her voice strained, “they tried to stop it by severing our bond?”

Sarocha nodded grimly. “Yes. They feared what our love would bring—a merging of worlds, a blurring of the line between mortal and divine that could upset the balance. They were determined to sever our bond, even if it meant your sacrifice.” Her voice cracked slightly as she admitted, “I never meant for it to come to this.”

Rebecca squeezed Sarocha’s hand, her own eyes burning with both determination and despair. “I won’t let it end like that,” she vowed. “We’ll find a way to break the curse—without losing either of us.”

The temple room, dimly lit by a single flickering lamp, seemed to pulse with the intensity of their shared purpose. Their whispered exchanges and the soft rustle of ancient scrolls were punctuated by the distant sound of the river outside, a ceaseless reminder of a past steeped in myth and a future fraught with danger.

In that sacred space, bound by history and the weight of destiny, Rebecca and Sarocha renewed their silent pact. They would dive deeper into these ancient texts, unravel every cryptic word, and confront the forces that sought to tear them apart. For in every fragile line of script, in every worn parchment, lay the hope that their love—defiant, passionate, and eternal—could redefine the rules written by gods and monks alike.

As they continued their quiet labor, the soft murmur of their voices blended with the ancient echoes of the temple. With each discovery, the possibilities—and the risks—grew, leaving them both breathless, vulnerable, and resolute. The future was uncertain, and the curse loomed large, but in that moment, they clung to each other and to the promise that together, they might just change their fate.

---

The temple’s ancient stones and mossy corridors faded behind them as Rebecca and Sarocha stepped out into the sultry afternoon air. The lush courtyard, overgrown with creeping vines and scattered wildflowers, gave way to a narrow stone path leading toward the river. The heavy humidity and distant murmur of water set a foreboding rhythm beneath their measured steps. Their shared silence was thick with questions, doubts, and the lingering echoes of their earlier discoveries. Every step seemed to draw them closer not only to the river’s edge but also to the destiny that loomed over their cursed union.

As they advanced, the subtle tension between them pulsed with each heartbeat—a magnetic, almost tangible current of their shared past and uncertain future. Rebecca’s eyes were fixed ahead, determined to find answers to the cryptic words of ancient scrolls and the bitter warning of the monk they had encountered before. Sarocha’s hand remained clasped tightly around Rebecca’s, her grip both a promise and a plea, a silent command to never let go.

They turned a corner near a cluster of towering, timeworn pines when a figure emerged from the shadows of a dilapidated archway. A monk, dressed in simple saffron robes, stepped forward with an almost imperceptible sway in his gait. His face was obscured by the deep folds of his hood, yet beneath it, his eyes burned with an otherworldly glow—piercing, ancient, and filled with an intensity that made Rebecca’s skin prickle. In that moment, the natural sounds of the forest seemed to fade away, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence.

“Rebecca…” the monk intoned, his voice low and resonant, carrying across the narrow path as if borne on a long-forgotten wind. His words were measured, each syllable weighed down with centuries of sorrow and admonition.

Rebecca’s pulse quickened. Sarocha instinctively tightened her hold on her arm, her eyes narrowing as she regarded the intruder with a mixture of defiance and apprehension. “What do you want?” Rebecca demanded, her voice a tremulous mixture of anger and uncertainty.

The monk’s expression was inscrutable as he stepped closer, his presence filling the narrow space between them with an almost oppressive energy. “I sense that the balance has been broken,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval. “I sense that the union between you two has awakened forces that should have remained dormant. Tell me—what have you done?”

Sarocha’s eyes flashed with a mix of possessiveness and an inner fire, while Rebecca’s gaze hardened into one of fervent defiance. “We have done nothing wrong,” Rebecca snapped. “Our bond is our choice. It is not for you to judge.”

The monk’s glowing eyes seemed to pierce Rebecca’s very soul. “This is no mere choice,” he replied slowly, his voice echoing with ancient authority. “I feel in you a mingling of essences that should remain separate—a guardian’s sacred duty corrupted by forbidden passion. Your union disrupts the natural order.” His words, spoken with the weight of inevitability, resonated in the heavy air, and the forest around them seemed to still in silent witness.

At that, Sarocha stepped forward, her voice low and taut with barely suppressed emotion. “You speak of natural order as if it were something immutable,” she said sharply. “Our love transcends those boundaries. We have defied centuries of expectation, and we will not be condemned for it.”

The monk’s gaze flickered between them, his eyes narrowing as he sensed a new, volatile energy surging between them—a power born of defiance and raw emotion. “You leave me no choice,” he intoned, his voice rising imperiously. “Balance must be restored.”

In the charged silence that followed, the atmosphere around them shifted perceptibly. The very air seemed to thicken, as if invisible currents of ancient magic were swirling through the trees. A subtle vibration ran through the ground beneath their feet, and even the murmur of the river in the distance took on a more urgent cadence.

Rebecca, fueled by a blend of anger and defiance, stepped closer, her voice rising with determination. “We will not be controlled by ancient decrees,” she declared. “Our bond is our own, and no curse or prophecy can force us to live in fear.”

For a heartbeat, the monk’s glowing eyes widened in a mix of shock and dread, and then, with an imperious snarl, he raised his hands as if to summon the very forces of the universe. Without warning, a surge of mystical energy exploded from his outstretched palms—a torrent of unseen power that cascaded toward Rebecca and Sarocha with the intensity of a vengeful storm.

The energy struck Rebecca with a force that seemed to tear through her very being. In an instant, the charged atmosphere broke, and Rebecca’s body jerked violently as she was thrown backward. Her arms flailed in the dark, the last vestiges of defiance lost as the force sent her sliding across the ancient stone floor. With a harsh, echoing impact, she crashed into a rough wall, the sound reverberating through the quiet morning like a shattered promise.

Time slowed as Rebecca lay stunned against the cold stone, her vision blurred by pain and disorientation. The world around her became a haze of shadows and light, every sound amplified by the pounding in her ears. For a long, agonizing moment, she could do nothing but lie there, her mind struggling to catch up with the brutal reality of what had just transpired.

"No, stop!" Sarocha, standing mere feet away, watched in horror as the mystical assault robbed Rebecca of her balance. The monk’s eyes burned with ancient fury, and the air vibrated with an energy that felt both malevolent and inexorable. The last sound Rebecca heard before her consciousness began to slip away was the monk’s final, echoing command—a declaration that the balance must be restored, no matter the cost.

In that instant, everything slowed—the flicker of the monk’s glowing eyes, the pounding of Rebecca’s heart, and the ceaseless murmur of the river beyond. The force that had been unleashed battered her fragile form, each pulse of energy etching itself into her soul. Rebecca’s world narrowed to a singular point of pain, defiance, and overwhelming confusion.

The monk stood before them, his hood still drawn tight, his glowing eyes unblinking as he surveyed the scene with a grim, unwavering resolve. The ancient power he had unleashed hung heavily in the air, a stark reminder of the cost of defiance against the natural order. For Rebecca, the impact had been both physical and spiritual—a brutal reckoning that left her reeling, heart pounding, and soul trembling with the fear of what was yet to come.

The attack had only lasted mere seconds, but the moment the first hint of blood trickled from Rebecca's temple, Sarocha’s eyes blazed with a fury that shattered the fragile calm of the temple courtyard. In that heart-stopping moment, as the monk’s ominous words still echoed in the heavy air, Sarocha’s restraint broke like fragile glass under the weight of her terror and protectiveness.

Her face contorted in a mix of anguish and wrath as she rushed toward Rebecca. The air around her seemed to crackle with an ancient energy as her eyes began to glow a fierce, molten gold. In a single, unstoppable surge, her pupils contracted into narrow, predatory slits, and her form expanded imperiously. The delicate human flesh of her arms and shoulders dissolved in fleeting seconds into shimmering, serpentine scales that caught the weak light, casting eerie reflections on the stone.

Rebecca’s groggy vision struggled to focus as she watched, transfixed and terrified, the breathtaking transformation unfolding before her. Sarocha’s lower half elongated, twisting into a sinuous, snake-like tail that coiled powerfully beneath her hips, while her entire presence radiated a dark, oppressive power that seemed to warp the very atmosphere. The room filled with her increased size and a palpable energy—a heavy, almost suffocating force that pressed against every surface, and droplets of moisture on the ancient walls vibrated in unison with her surging might.

With a snarl that mixed both anguish and primal desire, Sarocha’s fangs emerged, glinting like daggers in the dim light. They were razor-sharp and threatening, promising retribution and claiming ownership in the oldest language of desire and protection. The sight was as terrifying as it was mesmerizing, a physical manifestation of centuries of pent-up fury and longing.

The monk’s face, partially hidden by his hood, shifted from indifference to stark regret in an instant. His glowing eyes widened as he realized the full extent of what he had provoked. In an almost frantic motion, Sarocha’s powerful coils surged forward. Her transformed body moved with an inexorable force and speed, and before the monk could register his terror, he found himself ensnared. Thick, serpentine coils—now a part of Sarocha’s being—wrapped around him, constricting him with a grip that tightened with every desperate thrash.

"You will pay!" Sarocha was a demanding force of stark fury. Murder simmered in the unholy glow of her eyes.

He struggled against her overwhelming strength, his hooded face contorted in agony and regret. His attempts to lash out, to free himself using his own mystical force, only deepened the intensity of Sarocha’s grip. Every struggle seemed to only further enclose him in her coils, the pressure mounting as she squeezed, draining the life from him with the cold inevitability of a predator claiming its prey.

“S-stop…” he stammered, his voice barely audible as he writhed under her relentless pressure, the words laced with fear and remorse. But Sarocha was unstoppable—her power surged like a volcanic eruption, fueled by centuries of unspoken pain and a desperate need to protect the one she loved.

In the midst of this terrifying confrontation, the heavy silence was suddenly broken by the sound of shuffling footsteps and hushed voices. One by one, other monks began to appear at the periphery of the courtyard. Their presence was unexpected—each figure had a familiarity that struck a chord deep within Rebecca’s weary heart. As they gathered around the scene, Rebecca’s hazy eyes recognized them, one by one.

There was the stern-faced stranger she had seen at the riverfront in Bangkok, whose intense gaze had once made her shiver. Next, the elegant man from the boutique where she had bought her dress, his serene yet watchful eyes now filled with disapproval. Then came the weathered boatman from near the excavation site, a quiet soul whose words had once comforted her in the midst of uncertainty. Following him was the pensive man from the market—the one who had noticed her fascination with the Naga pendant—and finally, the restless figure who had trailed her back to her hotel room, a presence that Sarocha had chased away with unyielding ferocity.

These five monks, now arrayed as if they had been summoned by fate itself, were no strangers at all. Their expressions were grim and their eyes held a mixture of pity, fear, and reluctant awe as they took in the scene before them. The oppressive energy in the air—the palpable force of Sarocha’s unleashed power—seemed to make even the very ground tremble.

Time itself appeared to slow, and the world narrowed to the sight of Sarocha’s towering, transformed figure and the hapless monk ensnared in her coils. The air vibrated with the intensity of raw, unfiltered power—the kind that had been held in check for centuries, now spilled forth in a torrent of wrath and sorrow. The monks’ hushed murmurs became a backdrop to the scene, their collective silence a testimony to the gravity of the transgression that had been committed.

Rebecca, still recovering from the brutal impact that had sent her crashing against the wall, struggled to pull herself into consciousness. Her vision swam with fragments of light and shadow as she tried to make sense of the chaos. She could see Sarocha’s eyes—once soft and familiar—now aflame with an untamed, primal intensity as they locked onto the struggling monk. Every sinew of Sarocha’s being pulsed with an volatile blend of fury and grief, a force that seemed determined to right the ancient wrongs of the past.

The monk’s anguished cries filled the air as his struggles weakened, his mystical defenses no match for the relentless force of Sarocha’s Naga nature. Even as he thrashed and attempted to break free, the weight of her power bore down on him. It was an act of retribution, a dark, violent reclaiming of destiny—a “fuck you” to the forces that had long tried to sever the sacred bond between a guardian and her beloved Naga.

As the final vestiges of his resistance began to crumble beneath the crushing pressure of Sarocha’s coils, the arrival of the other monks added a grim punctuation to the scene. Their expressions were hard to read—each one a mask of sorrow and inevitability—as they took in the sight of the fallen monk, now barely clinging to life, and the overwhelming, unbridled power that radiated from Sarocha.

In that frozen moment, as the dark energy in the air coalesced into a storm of ancient power and fierce emotion, the true cost of defiance was laid bare. The bonds of fate, once thought unbreakable, had been challenged by a love that refused to be tamed. Yet, as the five monks formed a silent barrier around the unfolding chaos, the message was clear: the natural order would not be so easily defied.

Rebecca’s heart pounded as she watched the scene, the images seared into her memory—a moment of violent transformation, of a love so fierce it shattered centuries of restraint. Even as her senses dulled from the shock of being thrown against the wall, she could feel the relentless pull between her and Sarocha—a connection that transcended pain and defiance, a bond that would shape their fates for all eternity.

The air was thick with charged magic and the bitter tang of ancient power as the five monks encircled the area. Sarocha stood towering in her partially transformed Naga form, her body a mesmerizing display of scales and sinewy muscle. Though she was powerful beyond measure, the curse still bound her, preventing her from reaching her full, unfettered strength. The dark energy that clung to her—chaotic and dangerous—made her seem like a creature from a forgotten nightmare.

Without warning, the monks moved as one, a coordinated assault fueled by centuries of fear and duty. Their voices rose in a low chant, an incantation meant to force balance. The air vibrated with their mystic force as they advanced. Sarocha, already reeling from the emotional tumult of her previous outburst, braced herself. She let out a guttural roar that reverberated through the ancient temple grounds.

Rebecca, still recovering from the brutal impact of the monk’s earlier attack, scrambled to her feet, eyes wide with terror and determination. “Sarocha, run!” she cried, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear.

But Sarocha’s eyes were fixed on the advancing figures, her inner turmoil giving way to a fierce protectiveness. With trembling resolve, she raised her arms and lashed out with a surge of power that rippled through the air. The force was not enough to completely repel the relentless monks, yet it was enough—a desperate, raw burst—to push them back into the shadows for a few fleeting, precious moments.

“Go, Rebecca! Get away from here!” Sarocha shouted, her voice echoing like thunder. At her frantic behest, Rebecca hesitated only for a heartbeat before the two women turned and fled down the narrow path toward the temple’s exit, Sarocha seemlessly shifting back to human form while the monks, now scattered, fought to regain their footing.

Behind them, the monks did not give chase. Their faces, grim and resigned, showed that they knew better than to pursue a being of such dangerous power in a moment of weakened state. They melted back into the dim corridors and shadowy recesses of the temple complex, leaving the path clear for escape.

The world outside the temple was a swirl of twilight and damp earth as Sarocha and Rebecca raced through the overgrown courtyard. The tension in the air crackled with an almost palpable energy—each step, each frantic heartbeat amplified by the echo of ancient curses and defiant resistance. Sarocha’s body, still shifting imperceptibly between forms, twitched uncomfortably with every rapid movement, scales glinting briefly in the dim light. The curse’s hold was loosening, but it had not released her fully.

As they reached the edge of the temple grounds, Sarocha slowed, her breathing heavy and ragged. The oppressive energy of the temple and the maddening threat of the monks faded behind them as they stepped into a quieter alleyway, far enough away to let the chaos recede. Rebecca, leaning against Sarocha’s arm for support, stared at her companion in awe and lingering terror. The transformation Sarocha had undergone was awe-inspiring and terrifying—a living reminder of a power both cursed and ancient.

The tension in the car on the drive back to the penthouse was electric. Sarocha’s grip on the steering wheel was steady, yet her other hand clutched at Rebecca’s thigh in a silent declaration of ownership. The soft hum of the engine was punctuated by the occasional, almost imperceptible creak of the leather seats as Sarocha maneuvered through the city streets with practiced urgency. The night outside was a blur of neon lights and dark silhouettes, but inside the car, the atmosphere was heavy with the lingering echoes of battle and the raw magic of their union.

Rebecca sat quietly in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the darkened skyline. Every so often, she would glance at Sarocha, who maintained a stoic expression as if burying the tumult within. Yet even as Sarocha drove, the air around them pulsed with an unspoken promise—an energy that had only grown stronger in the wake of the encounter at the temple. The residue of the mystical force still clung to them, charged like a live wire beneath their skin.

At one point, Rebecca reached out, her fingers brushing against Sarocha’s hand on the steering wheel, seeking comfort in the simple touch. Sarocha’s eyes flicked toward her, and for a moment, the intensity in them softened—just enough to convey both reassurance and a fierce warning: “Never let anyone come between us.”

Rebecca’s heart ached with longing and defiance, feeling that the blood of ancient pacts and the legacy of forbidden unions surged between them. The danger of the curse loomed large, but the love they shared was a beacon in the darkness—a promise that defied fate itself.

They drove in silence for several long minutes, the only sound the soft murmur of the engine and the distant wail of the city. Outside, the urban landscape blurred into smudges of light and shadow. Inside, every breath, every touch, every stolen glance carried the weight of centuries.

Finally, as the penthouse came into view—a towering silhouette of glass and steel against the night sky—Sarocha eased the car to a stop. The atmosphere was thick with a residual charge, as if the very air vibrated with ancient magic. Sarocha turned to Rebecca, her eyes flickering with both exhaustion and fierce, unyielding resolve. “We made it,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of both relief and lingering fear.

Rebecca nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from Sarocha’s gaze. “I’m still shaking,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Not just from the fight... from everything.”

Sarocha’s grip on Rebecca tightened, her hand an anchor amidst the chaos. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, voice husky with emotion. “I never wanted it to go this far... but I had no choice.” Her eyes hardened for a fraction of a second before softening again, revealing the tender vulnerability beneath the fierce exterior.

The tension in the car, still palpable from their ordeal, slowly gave way to a heavy silence—one that spoke of both the threat they had narrowly escaped and the dark forces that still lurked behind them. Rebecca’s thoughts churned as she considered the events of the day. The monk’s attack, the surge of Sarocha’s raw power, the way the mystical energy had rippled through the temple and the courtyard—it all came together like fragments of a broken prophecy.

Rebecca rested her head back against the seat, closing her eyes for a moment to collect her swirling thoughts. She could still feel the aftershocks of that violent force, as if it had etched itself into her very soul. Yet even amid the terror, a stubborn hope burned within her—a belief that their defiance had sent a clear message: they would not be torn apart by fate or ancient decree.

Approaching the penthouse, the oppressive darkness outside seemed to recede ever so slightly. In that small, confined space, with the hum of the engine and the steady throb of their entwined hearts, Rebecca and Sarocha forged a silent pact—a promise that, no matter what the ancient forces or vengeful monks might demand, they would stand together. And so, in the flickering glow of city lights and the heavy, charged air of the night, they drove on—toward safety, toward the penthouse, and into the uncertain dawn of a future that had already been rewritten by their defiance.

Chapter Text

The car rumbled to a stop just as the horizon melted into a tapestry of molten gold. The river stretched wide and slow beside them, its current lazy under the weight of the humid dusk. Dragonflies skimmed the surface like living flecks of glass. Rebecca’s head leaned against the window, the seatbelt still crossing her chest, the ache in her temple dulled to a distant pulse.

Sarocha stepped out first, her shoes crunching softly on the gravel drive, then rounded to Rebecca’s door and opened it gently. “We’re here,” she said, her voice hoarse from the strain she hadn’t yet released.

Rebecca blinked, then stepped out into the sticky air. Her limbs trembled slightly—not from pain, but the slow return of adrenaline’s absence. Her eyes moved from Sarocha’s unreadable face to the house that stood before them.

The riverfront property was nestled in a clearing flanked by banyan and flame trees. Its architecture flowed in harmony with the land—long teakwood beams, shuttered windows, and sweeping eaves shaded by creeping vines. A carved naga balustrade guarded the steps leading up to a generous veranda. The whole structure breathed serenity, as if time here ran differently.

“It’s beautiful,” Rebecca murmured.

Sarocha nodded, her gaze lingering not on the house, but the river beyond. “This is the closest place I have to home,” she said. “To what we once had. The old kingdom… it was just up the river from here. Ayutthaya was its crown, but we lived below it, in the bends and tributaries no one thought to name.”

Rebecca turned to look at her. “We?”

“All of us. My kind. We were river-dwellers. Guardians. Traders. Watchers of fate.” Her voice softened, distant. “But after the curse, we scattered. Many simply… faded. With each passing century, they slipped from memory. Now, it’s just me.”

The ache behind Rebecca’s eyes shifted into something more complicated—grief that didn’t quite belong to her, yet bloomed as though it did.

“I want to know everything,” she said quietly.

Sarocha looked at her, finally. “You will,” she promised. “But not before I look at that wound.”

Rebecca tried to wave her off, but Sarocha was already ushering her up the steps. Inside, the house smelled of lemongrass and rain-polished wood. The open floor plan flowed like the river itself—large paneled doors thrown open to the breeze, silk drapes fluttering like temple flags, and a sunken lounge carved out in the heart of the space, scattered with plush cushions and worn tapestries.

Sarocha eased her down onto the couch, drew a blanket from the backrest, and tucked it around her shoulders. The gesture was tender, instinctive.

“Let me see,” she murmured, already brushing Rebecca’s hair aside.

Rebecca tilted her head reluctantly, letting Sarocha peel away the strip of gauze that had been hastily applied hours earlier, back in the penthouse. Sarocha drew back slightly, brows knitting.

“What?” Rebecca asked.

“There’s nothing.”

She held up a compact mirror. Rebecca leaned in, searching her reflection. The temple where the monk’s blow had struck—where she had slammed against the temple wall—was now smooth, unbroken skin. No bruising. Not even redness.

Rebecca stared at it, then slowly reached up to touch it herself. It didn’t even hurt.

“That’s impossible.”

“Not if…” Sarocha sat back slowly. “Not if something of mine is inside you.”

Rebecca blinked. “You think your power… healed me?”

“It shouldn’t be possible,” Sarocha said, almost to herself. “The bond has always been spiritual. Symbolic. A connection to temper power, not to share it.”

“But it’s not symbolic anymore,” Rebecca murmured. “It hasn’t been for a while, has it?”

Sarocha met her gaze—ancient, weary, reverent. “No. It hasn’t.”

A silence stretched between them, thick as the jungle air. Only the wind whispering through the screens and the distant ripple of the river gave shape to the stillness.

Rebecca curled her knees up beneath the blanket. “I felt something earlier,” she admitted. “Right before he hit me. When I stood up to him. It was like the air changed. Like… everything around me thickened. The water in the air, the river itself. It was reacting to me.”

Sarocha didn’t answer at first. Her jaw tensed.

“You’re afraid of what that means,” Rebecca said.

“I’m afraid of what it confirms,” Sarocha corrected. “The power is no longer mine alone. It’s moving through you. Responding to your will. Which means our bond has changed… mutated.”

“But why?” Rebecca’s voice sharpened. “I thought I was supposed to balance you. Instead, I’m making things worse.”

Sarocha reached forward and touched her wrist, fingertips brushing the familiar bracelet that now gleamed faintly in the dim light. “This was the vessel. It held the portion of me I gave to you, back then. When you died, it disappeared. So did my power. It was never supposed to be lost.”

“But I’m not dead anymore,” Rebecca said softly. “And I’m wearing it again.”

Sarocha nodded, a thread of awe in her voice. “That shouldn’t be possible either.”

“And yet…”

Here they were. Bonded once more. Rebecca, whose presence twisted fate. Sarocha, whose heart could level mountains. And a bracelet that had crossed time and death to find its place again.

Rebecca touched the gold softly. “So what does this mean for us now?”

Sarocha didn’t answer. Not yet. Her eyes had turned back to the river, golden in the last reach of daylight. The surface shifted with the breeze, hiding secrets beneath its skin.

Rebecca leaned back into the cushions, exhausted but too restless to close her eyes. The air carried that low hum again—like a resonance only she and Sarocha could hear. A quiet echo of something ancient reawakening between them.

Some minutes later, Sarocha’s fingers curled around the rim of the teacup she only held for warmth, but the steam had long faded into the breath of the room. The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It felt like the air before a monsoon—pregnant with the weight of something unspoken.

Sarocha's voice, when it came, was low, reflective. “I might have an idea. About what’s happening to you. To us.”

Rebecca’s brows lifted slightly, but she remained still, wrapped in the blanket, legs tucked beneath her.

Sarocha stood and crossed to one of the paneled walls, her hand brushing a hidden latch. With a quiet click, the wall eased inward, revealing a room beyond—dim and dry, filled with old scrolls, carved idols, lacquered chests, and bundles of palm-leaf manuscripts. A scent of sandalwood and aged ink rolled out into the open space.

Rebecca sat forward, instinct drawing her toward the threshold.

“This is where I keep everything,” Sarocha said, glancing back at her. “What’s left of us. Of my people. Artifacts. Histories. Curses. Prophecies. Every scrap of knowledge I could salvage before we disappeared.”

Rebecca followed her in, eyes wide. The room was larger than it appeared from the outside, its low ceilings ribbed with dark beams and shelves that seemed to stretch infinitely back into the dimness. She passed a Naga statue coiled in bronze, its emerald inlaid eyes eerily lifelike.

“You brought me here on purpose,” she said.

“I did.” Sarocha paused beside a table, where she began unrolling a scroll with careful fingers. “After what happened in the temple… after what you did, I had to be sure.”

Rebecca moved closer, gaze drifting over the delicate script etched in golden ink. She couldn’t read it—some archaic Siamese, older than most scholars had ever seen—but she didn’t have to. The reverence in Sarocha’s posture was enough.

“You said earlier that the bond between us changed,” Rebecca said. “That it mutated. Is that what you think caused all this?”

“In part.” Sarocha gestured toward the scroll, though she didn’t look at it. “Traditionally, the guardian bond—what links you to me through the bracelet—exists to temper a Naga’s power. It acts as a tether. A restraint.”

“To keep you from losing control?”

“Yes. And especially after the curse. Our powers dimmed and the guardian bond keeps them in check. But that’s not what happened with you, is it?”

Rebecca shook her head slowly. “No. I didn’t restrain anything in that temple. If anything… something broke open.”

Sarocha turned to face her, the golden light catching the edge of her cheekbone. “That’s what frightens me. Because the bracelet bond should not have given you access to my power. It should have suppressed it.”

“But I didn’t just take it, did I?” Rebecca asked, voice softening. “You gave me some of yourself when you… bit me.”

Sarocha stilled, the memory of that moment flickering in her eyes like flame behind glass. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

“Then maybe that changed the bond.”

Sarocha exhaled slowly, as though the thought had been circling her for some time. “That bite… it wasn’t just passion. It was instinct. Deep instinct. The kind that speaks through bloodlines older than the cities around us.” She stepped toward Rebecca, each word drawn carefully. “Among my kind, a bite given in that moment, in that way… it marks a mate.”

The word rang through the quiet, subtle but seismic.

Rebecca blinked. “Mate?”

Sarocha nodded, once. “Not like in the romanticized stories of beasts and brides. It’s rarer than that. A spiritual fusion. Not chosen lightly. It binds more than body. It binds essence.”

Rebecca’s gaze dropped for a moment. She remembered the heat of Sarocha’s mouth on her throat, the pain and ecstasy of her bite, how it lingered even now like a brand. She had never told anyone—not even herself—how something within her had changed after that.

“So that’s why I can draw from your power?” she asked. “Because I’m not just your guardian anymore. I’m—”

“My mate,” Sarocha said, voice barely above a whisper. “At least… that’s what I fear. And hope.”

Rebecca stared at her, heart thudding strangely. “Why fear?”

“Because if the bond has evolved into something new, something hybrid, then none of the old rules apply. And I don’t know what that means for you. For your humanity.”

Rebecca took a slow breath. “I’m not sure I am entirely human anymore. I felt something change in me, Sarocha. I didn’t just borrow your power. It felt… like it belonged.”

Sarocha stepped closer, her presence warm, magnetic. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Maybe not,” Rebecca murmured, “but it is.”

They stood in silence, the old scroll between them, history coiled like a serpent in the shadows. Rebecca reached out and lightly touched Sarocha’s hand.

“So maybe the old kind of balance—the guardian restraining the Naga—wasn’t right for us,” she said. “Maybe this new bond, the one we chose, is a different kind of balance. One where we… share the weight.”

Sarocha stared at her for a long moment. “A bond of equals.”

Rebecca nodded. “Of strength. And trust.”

Sarocha’s fingers closed over hers, and for the first time since the temple, something like peace passed through her shoulders. Not a full release—there were still dangers lurking, curses unbroken, monks unaccounted for—but in this moment, there was understanding.

And that was something.

“We’ll search the records,” Sarocha said finally. “If anything like this has happened before, it would be written. And if it’s never happened, then we will write it ourselves.”

Rebecca smiled faintly, the firelight catching her cheek. “Together?”

Sarocha nodded. “Always.”

Outside, the river moved on—slow, ancient, eternal. And somewhere in its murky depths, something stirred.

Something old enough to remember what had been lost.

The fire cracked softly behind them, casting molten light across the scroll-laden room. The weight of their conversation hung in the space between breaths—heavy, transformative, but not yet overwhelming. Rebecca’s hand was still resting over Sarocha’s, her thumb absently tracing the curve of her knuckles as her thoughts drifted deeper, following the trail of revelations they had begun to uncover.

“There’s something else I’ve been wondering,” Rebecca said, her voice hushed but unwavering. “About… the bite.”

Sarocha’s eyes lifted to hers, unreadable at first, but not guarded. “What about it?”

“When you bit me,” Rebecca said slowly, “it wasn’t just pain. It hurt, yes. But then—almost instantly—there was this rush. Like my blood had turned to gold and heat and music. Like I was dissolving into you.”

Sarocha’s throat worked around a swallow. She nodded, though her eyes dropped momentarily to the floor. “That’s the venom.”

“Right,” Rebecca said. “I figured. But what is it? What does it do, really?”

Sarocha drew a slow breath and leaned against the edge of a lacquered chest, arms folding loosely over her ribs. “Among Naga, venom isn’t only a weapon. It’s… a conduit. A form of essence. When we bite a mate, we give them part of ourselves. Not enough to change them completely—but enough to fuse a piece of our being with theirs. And when we love, when we desire… it changes the effect. Becomes something euphoric. Intoxicating.”

Rebecca gave a small laugh under her breath. “That’s one word for it.”

Sarocha glanced at her, and a reluctant smile curved the corner of her mouth. “It wasn’t meant to cause you harm. It’s meant to bind, to heighten. It’s old magic. Ancient instinct.”

“I believe that,” Rebecca said, voice softening. “Because it wasn’t just physical. I felt like… I could feel you. In my blood. In my bones. As if you were inside me in ways I couldn’t explain.”

Sarocha’s eyes shimmered slightly, gold catching at the edges. “That’s because I was.”

They fell silent again, but this time it was a softer pause, like settling into warmth. Rebecca exhaled and, emboldened by the quiet intimacy between them, asked the question that had been hovering at the edges of her thoughts since their first night.

“And when we—when we’re together,” she began, her gaze slipping away for a breath before returning, “sometimes it feels like you’re… inside me. Not just emotionally. Physically. Even though I know you’re not.”

Sarocha didn’t flinch, but her lashes lowered, her expression shifting to something unreadable. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I’ve wondered how long it would take for you to ask.”

Rebecca gave a sheepish smile. “I didn’t want to be crass.”

“It isn’t crass,” Sarocha murmured. “It’s real.”

Rebecca waited, watching her carefully.

Sarocha stepped away from the chest and moved slowly toward the window that overlooked the slow-moving river outside, its black surface reflecting the faint shimmer of stars. “Our kind… Naga… we’re shapeshifters by nature. We have our human guise, our serpentine form, and all the liminal spaces in between. But not all of those shifts are visible.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that sometimes, what changes is not what you see, but what you feel. Our energy shifts. Our bodies remember the forms we’ve worn across centuries. Desire, especially when it’s mutual and deep, evokes that memory in ways we can’t always control.”

“So during sex… your body remembers another shape,” Rebecca said slowly, piecing it together.

“Yes,” Sarocha said. “And it projects that shape onto you, into you. My energy doesn’t just press against yours—it moves through you. It makes the impossible feel tangible. Real.”

Rebecca flushed, breath catching slightly at the rawness of the idea. “And for you?”

Sarocha turned back to her, and there was something unguarded in her expression now—vulnerable and scorching. “For me, it’s… overwhelming. It’s need. It’s instinct. It’s as if something ancient inside me wakes up, and must be joined with you. The physical sensation—it’s hard to describe. Not quite penetration. Not quite merging. It’s like…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Like interlocking. Not just flesh, but power. Spirit. It’s primal. And when I feel you respond—when I feel you open to me—it’s ecstasy.”

Rebecca blinked, caught off guard by the frankness and heat of the admission. Her fingers tightened on the blanket wrapped around her.

“I can feel it,” she whispered. “When it happens. The way you move through me, the way it coils and pulses. It’s like being filled with fire and water all at once.”

Sarocha gave a small, almost pained sound—part longing, part restraint. “That’s exactly what it is. You’re not imagining it. And you’re not… taking it passively, either. You’re meeting it. Matching it. That’s why this bond between us is unlike anything I’ve ever known.”

Rebecca’s breath hitched, the closeness between them now electric again, not just because of desire, but because of understanding—the raw, rare thing that came from peeling back centuries of mystery and speaking plainly through it.

“You make it sound beautiful,” Rebecca said softly.

“It is beautiful,” Sarocha replied. “Even if it frightens me.”

“Why does it frighten you?”

Sarocha looked at her, expression unguarded. “Because nothing this powerful lasts without cost. And I’ve already lost too much.”

Rebecca stood and stepped closer, until she was in front of Sarocha, their bodies nearly brushing. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but certain.

“Then let’s find a way to keep it. Together.”

Sarocha stared at her, and for a moment, something in her eyes burned bright gold before it faded again.

“I will show you everything,” she said. “The scrolls, the stories. Our lost kingdom. Whatever prophecy might exist. Whatever remnants remain.”

Rebecca nodded. “Let’s begin tomorrow morning.”

And somewhere, deeper than memory, older than language, something stirred—watching, waiting.

Their bond was no longer a question.

It was becoming a force.

The archive room gave off a soft sigh as its doors closed. The quiet tick of ancient air returning to stillness echoed faintly behind them, as if the scrolls themselves exhaled. Rebecca rubbed her arms through the sleeves of Sarocha’s robe—warm silk stolen in passing when the evening chill rose with the river mist—and followed her into the main part of the house.

The rest of the space had the feel of being lived in, not curated: well-worn teak floors, handwoven mats, books spilling from shelves, the occasional relic perched incongruously beside an oil lamp. In the open kitchen, the cabinets were aged and oiled, the brass of the handles dulled with time and touch. A small basket of fresh herbs rested on the counter, and beside it, a heap of long beans, shallots, bird’s eye chilies, and garlic, ready for chopping.

“Let’s take a breath,” Sarocha said, voice softer now, threaded with something tired but fond. “Come help me with dinner before you start pulling every scroll off the shelf again.”

Rebecca gave a faint laugh, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “Only if you promise to tell me what ‘dok khae’ is this time before I eat it.”

Sarocha smiled, slicing a shallot with smooth precision. “A flower. Edible. Bitter.”

Rebecca raised a brow. “You know that’s not really an answer, right?”

“It is,” Sarocha said serenely. “Just not the one you were hoping for.”

They fell into a rhythm with surprising ease—Rebecca at the mortar and pestle, pounding garlic and chilies while Sarocha chopped and measured. The kitchen filled with the sharp scent of lemongrass and the sweetness of simmering coconut milk. There was something oddly grounding about it: domestic, familiar, almost absurd in the wake of the temple and the blood and the fire of transformation.

Still, Rebecca didn’t want to lose the thread.

“You said we needed time. Distance,” she said quietly, without looking up. “But we both know we can’t stay here forever.”

“No,” Sarocha said. She stirred the curry slowly, eyes focused but inward. “We bought ourselves safety. Not peace.”

Rebecca set the pestle aside. “We’ll have to face them again.”

Sarocha nodded once. “We will.”

“What do we do when that happens?”

The silence stretched. Sarocha finally turned the flame lower and wiped her hands on a cloth.

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t like her to admit that. Rebecca turned to look at her fully.

“They were coordinated,” Rebecca said. “That wasn’t some rogue monk striking out on his own. They’d been tracking us for weeks. And that one—the one who tried to kill me—he felt the change. When you… shifted. When the bond flared.”

“Yes,” Sarocha said, her voice quieter now. “That’s what frightened him. Not the transformation itself. The bond. It rewrote something in the current. Something they’ve been guarding against for centuries.”

Rebecca frowned. “You mean they felt it? How?”

Sarocha turned to the window, where the jungle kissed the edge of the riverbank beyond. “They’re trained to sense imbalance in power. Corruption, as they see it. Bonds between Naga and humans are taboo. But this bond? It’s something older. Deeper. It unsettles their dogma.”

Rebecca’s mouth twisted. “So we’re heresy now.”

Sarocha didn’t smile. “Something like that.”

Rebecca crossed to stand beside her, both of them watching the water beyond the trees. It moved slowly in the dusk, like a serpent sleeping beneath stars.

“You couldn’t stop the transformation,” Rebecca said after a moment. “Not completely.”

Sarocha shook her head. “I was too close to the edge. Seeing you hurt—it shattered something. I’ve always kept it buried. But when that happened…”

“I’m not blaming you,” Rebecca said quickly. “If anything, I’m grateful. I think you saved my life.”

A pause.

“But what if it happens again?” she asked. “What if I lose control? You said our bond lets me draw from your power. But I didn’t mean to. I didn’t try.”

Sarocha’s gaze met hers, eyes dark but steady. “Then we learn.”

Rebecca blinked. “What?”

“We train,” Sarocha said simply. “You and I. Here. Where it’s safe. Where no one else can sense it. I’ve never tried to teach someone to channel Naga power. But if anyone can do it… it’s you.”

Rebecca exhaled. Her chest ached with a feeling that was equal parts dread and exhilaration. “And then what? We go back? Face the monks again? Try to kill them before they kill us?”

Sarocha looked away. “I don’t want to kill them.”

“But do you think they’ll give us a choice?”

The silence returned—thicker now, denser with implication.

“I don’t know,” Sarocha said at last. “The head monk—he’s powerful. He’s old. He knew what we were before we even set foot in the sanctuary. And when I bit you… when the bond sealed… he felt it like a blade through his order. That kind of shift in energy—it echoes. He’ll never let it go. Not if he believes we’ve broken some sacred boundary.”

“Have we?”

Sarocha turned to her again. “Would you take it back?”

Rebecca stared at her for a long moment. “No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter what he believes.”

The curry began to bubble softly again, as if reminding them of the world still turning.

“We don’t have to decide tonight,” Sarocha said more gently. “We’ll stay here a day or two. Rest. Train. Search the scrolls. See what the old stories tell us. Maybe there’s something hidden—some path forward we haven’t seen yet.”

Rebecca nodded, though her eyes remained troubled. “And if there isn’t?”

Sarocha reached out and touched her cheek, the pad of her thumb tracing the faint place where her wound had once been.

“Then we forge one anyway.”

The curry had mellowed as it simmered, its sharp edges softened into a rich, golden broth. They ate cross-legged at the low teak table on the veranda, with the night air wrapping around them like silk and the sounds of the river lapping gently against the banks below. Lanterns swayed above them, their amber glow catching the warmth in Sarocha’s skin, the dark fall of her hair, the shimmer of her lashes when she glanced up.

Rebecca had eaten slowly, not from hesitation but from awe. The food was unlike anything she’d tasted in London—spicy, floral, complex—and she kept dipping her spoon back into the bowl long after she should have stopped, each bite layered with flavor and quiet gratitude.

“You cook like someone who’s been alive for centuries,” she teased, nudging Sarocha’s bare foot under the table.

Sarocha’s eyes flicked to hers, amused. “I’ve had some time to practice.”

They lingered in the hush of post-meal contentment. Rebecca leaned back on her hands, watching the flicker of fireflies dart between the trees.

“I want to ask something,” she said finally, breaking the gentle silence.

Sarocha looked at her, patient.

“What does it feel like?” Rebecca asked. “To… shift. When it happens like that. Like in the temple.”

Sarocha’s expression didn’t change right away. She set her spoon down gently, folding her hands in her lap.

“It’s like tearing off your skin,” she said after a moment. “But not in pain. More like… liberation. Like breathing after being underwater too long. Everything feels louder. Sharper. The body just remembers what it was before the curse.”

Rebecca leaned in, fascinated. “And the smaller shifts? Your eyes, the shimmer under your skin. It happens when you’re emotional, doesn’t it?”

Sarocha gave a soft hum of acknowledgment, the corners of her lips twitching. “You’ve noticed.”

“I’ve definitely noticed,” Rebecca said, her voice colored with intrigue. “Your eyes change when you’re angry. Or when you’re upset. Or…”

Her eyes fell slightly, voice dipping low.

“…when you’re turned on.”

Sarocha didn’t answer right away. The lanternlight caught her eyes just then, and Rebecca saw it—how the pupils narrowed, how gold burned in their depths, slow and molten.

It rippled down Sarocha’s arms, a shimmer just beneath the skin. Not full scales, not quite. But something old and iridescent, like pearls remembering their origin in the mud.

Rebecca swallowed.

“That’s not fair,” she murmured, eyes locked on the subtle glimmer at Sarocha’s collarbone. “You can’t just shift like that and expect me to think straight.”

Sarocha arched a brow. “You asked.”

Rebecca bit her lip, eyes still fixed on the flickering scales. “Is it different?” she asked. “Being with a human, I mean. Than with another Naga?”

Sarocha’s brow furrowed, just briefly. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Rebecca blinked. “You mean…”

“There’s never been anyone else.”

The words landed softly but heavily, like a stone placed in the center of a still pond.

Rebecca stared at her. “You’re not just saying that to make me swoon, are you?”

Sarocha looked at her then—really looked. “I couldn’t lie about something like that, even if I wanted to.”

Rebecca felt the breath leave her lungs. “But you’re… you. You’ve lived so long. You’re beautiful and mysterious and impossible. I just assumed…”

Sarocha smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “There were people who wanted me. Or thought they did. But I never… let them close. It was only ever you.”

A beat passed, full of something tight and tender.

“When I lost you,” Sarocha continued, voice gentled by the shadows, “I didn’t just lose a lover. I lost everything I was. The desire, the ache, the drive—it all vanished. There was no point in wanting anyone else. No point in anything at all, really.”

Rebecca’s throat burned. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe.

“Sarocha…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sarocha said, softly. “I know it’s heavy. But you asked. And I won’t pretend with you.”

The silence was sacred now, a delicate thing between them, humming with the current of unspoken need.

Rebecca moved without quite realizing it, shifting closer across the mat. “It’s not too heavy,” she said, her voice quiet but sure. “It’s… incredible. Terrifying. Beautiful.”

Her fingers reached out, brushing the edge of Sarocha’s hand.

“I feel it too, you know. Like something inside me has been lit. And now I can’t go back to how I was before.”

Sarocha’s breath hitched just slightly. The glow of her skin deepened—those same, soft scales blooming again across the line of her throat, down one shoulder.

Rebecca stared at them like they were stars.

“What does it feel like for you?” she asked. “When we’re together. When you… touch me. Bite me. When we…”

She flushed, but didn’t look away.

Sarocha’s hand turned in hers, their fingers weaving together.

“It’s overwhelming,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Like all the boundaries between us disappear. Your body, your heartbeat, the heat of your skin—it all becomes mine. And I lose myself in it. In you. I feel every flicker of your pleasure like a storm in my blood.”

Rebecca felt that now—felt the weight of the words, the pulse in her chest quickening, a low thrum blooming in her belly.

“And the bite?” she asked, leaning closer, her breath brushing Sarocha’s lips. “The venom?”

Sarocha’s eyes flashed amber. “It’s sacred. It’s claiming. It means I belong to you. That you are mine. The venom—it’s a gift. A bond. A piece of my power, inside you.”

Rebecca trembled. “I feel it. Even now. Like it’s humming in my veins.”

“It is.”

“And I want more,” Rebecca whispered.

Sarocha’s hand slid to her waist, pulling her into her lap with practiced ease, like she’d done it a thousand times in her dreams.

“Then take it,” she murmured against Rebecca’s skin, her voice dark silk and heat. “As much as you want. As much as you need.”

They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies folded into each other in the hush of the river night, their breath mixing in the soft air. Rebecca straddled Sarocha’s lap with the ease of someone who belonged there. Her knees pressed into the plush of the woven rug, her hands resting lightly on Sarocha’s shoulders as though measuring her next move by the weight of restraint.

Sarocha’s arms looped around Rebecca’s waist, firm but unhurried. Her eyes were hooded, watching every flicker across Rebecca’s face—every swell of heat, every flicker of hesitation drowned beneath something older, needier, rawer.

Rebecca’s fingers traced the line of her jaw. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

Her touch slid lower, skimming down the column of Sarocha’s throat where the last glint of gold still shimmered under the surface.

“Before,” Rebecca said softly, “before I died. Were we… fully intimate?”

Sarocha’s breath drew slow and deep. “Yes,” she murmured. “We were lovers in every sense. I knew your body as I knew my own breath. But—” She paused, her hands flexing on Rebecca’s hips. “I never bit you. Not like I have now.”

Rebecca’s brows lifted slightly. “Why not?”

“I didn’t dare. Back then, I thought biting you would mark you in ways you couldn’t return from. I was already hiding too much—my feelings, my power. I loved you too much to tether you to me like that. I thought I was protecting you.”

Rebecca leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “And now?”

Sarocha’s eyes gleamed. “Now that I’ve done it once, I can hardly stop thinking about it. It’s like I awakened something buried inside me. A hunger I kept buried for lifetimes.”

Rebecca smiled slowly. “Then I suppose it’s fortunate I want more.”

Her lips brushed over Sarocha’s in a kiss too light to satisfy, a tease more than a claim. She sat back just enough to unfasten the first button of Sarocha’s shirt, then the next. Her fingers were deft, but her eyes never left Sarocha’s face.

“Did I ever go down on you before?” she asked, voice low and deliberate.

Sarocha blinked once, startled—then let out a slow, amused exhale. “No,” she admitted, the barest edge of a grin curling her lips. “Not in our previous life.”

Rebecca made a small, mock-thoughtful sound. “That seems like a terrible oversight.”

Her hands slid beneath the loosened fabric of Sarocha’s shirt, easing it from her shoulders. Sarocha didn’t resist—she shifted just enough to let it fall, the garment pooling behind her on the carpet. Her skin was warm and silken beneath Rebecca’s touch, lit by lanternlight and the flickering tension thickening between them.

“You were always the one in control, weren’t you?” Rebecca asked softly, brushing her fingers down the length of Sarocha’s bare arms. “Always giving. Always leading.”

Sarocha’s eyes searched hers. “It felt natural to protect you. To worship you.”

Rebecca reached for the tie at her own waist, shrugging off the robe that had settled there since supper. It slithered down her back in a soft fall of fabric. Sarocha caught it, laid it gently aside, her hands reverent as they brushed Rebecca’s hips.

Rebecca’s breath hitched when Sarocha pulled her closer and lifted her shirt up, over her head and off her arms. The warm night air ghosted across her bare skin, but all she felt was Sarocha—her gaze, her heat, her hands resting at the small of her back.

Sarocha’s voice dropped, husky and sure. “Would you like to try now?”

Rebecca looked down at her, breathless.

Sarocha guided Rebecca’s hands to the waistband of her trousers, her own thumbs stroking gently over the backs of Rebecca’s knuckles. “Only if you want to,” she whispered, voice brimming with invitation and restraint. “But I think you do.”

Rebecca let out a soft, trembling laugh. “That obvious, am I?”

“You’re singing with it, chan rak. I can feel it in your skin.”

And she could. Rebecca was practically trembling, not with uncertainty but with anticipation, her blood singing in tune with the old magic thrumming between them. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Sarocha’s jaw, then her throat, then lower still—slow, reverent, burning.

Her hands worked the buttons, each undone with aching deliberation. She slid the trousers down over Sarocha’s hips, the fabric whispering against skin. Sarocha let her, eyes fixed on the woman before her as though she were watching the sunrise after centuries of darkness.

Rebecca took her time.

She kissed the dip at the base of Sarocha’s throat, the gentle swell of her collarbone, the flicker of a pulse beneath golden skin. She tasted warmth and memory, power and surrender. She took her time learning her again—this body, this soul that had been hers in another life and now stood offered to her once more.

Sarocha’s head tipped back, lips parted. Her hands threaded into Rebecca’s hair, not to guide her, but to anchor herself—to keep from unraveling too soon.

“You feel like lightning,” she whispered.

Rebecca looked up from where she hovered just above Sarocha’s belly, her lips parted in surprise. “What?”

“When you touch me,” Sarocha said, voice ragged with restraint, “it’s like being struck. Like being set free and devoured at once.”

Rebecca’s heart beat louder than the cicadas in the trees.

“Well,” she murmured, her eyes dark with promise, “then I suppose I should strike again.”

She slid lower.

And Sarocha, for all her strength and age and god-blooded composure, trembled as she let go.

Rebecca’s mouth was a revelation.

Sarocha had thought herself prepared for the experience. Had braced herself for the intimacy of it—for the reverence and the fire—but nothing could have prepared her for the way Rebecca touched her, with that blend of awe and hunger, that curiosity laced with worship. Her lips, her tongue, her hands—all were utterly devoted, yet exploratory, as though she were mapping something sacred for the first time. And in a way, she was.

Sarocha's back arched slowly as Rebecca worked her, her breath staggered, limbs taut. Beneath her skin, the golden shimmer of her scales threatened to break through, rippling along her thighs, her ribs, the underside of her throat. Her fingers fisted in the rug. Her entire form quivered with the power building inside her, the coil of ancient magic waking to a rhythm older than language.

And Rebecca could feel it. The moment Sarocha's energy shifted, it flooded her mouth with a taste like the moment before lightning strikes—a sharp, electric clarity that made her toes curl into the rug. The more Sarocha arched into her, the more that strange, charged essence moved between them, seeping into Rebecca’s bloodstream, making her head spin, her skin spark. It wasn’t just pleasure—it was possession, communion.

Sarocha’s thighs tensed on either side of her head. “Rebecca,” she gasped, voice strained. “Stop.”

Rebecca lifted her head slightly, breathless, flushed, mouth wet. “Why?” she whispered, dazed with desire.

Sarocha’s eyes glowed like twin suns, slitted and molten. “Because I can’t hold it back. I—I’ll lose control.”

Rebecca's breath caught. Sarocha’s entire body was trembling beneath her, taut with restraint, wild with need. There was something in her voice—an edge of warning, yes, but deeper than that, a plea. A thread of desperation. She was holding herself back for Rebecca’s sake.

Rebecca’s heart thundered. “Then don’t,” she whispered.

Sarocha froze.

“I want you to lose control,” Rebecca said, lifting herself up to kiss her, wet and deep, her fingers curling into Sarocha’s hair. “I want to see what happens when you don’t hold back.”

The last thread of Sarocha’s restraint snapped like an overstretched bowstring.

With a low, guttural sound that reverberated from her chest, Sarocha surged upward and flipped them in one swift, fluid motion. Rebecca let out a soft gasp as her back hit the carpet, but her eyes blazed with astonishment, with delight. Sarocha loomed above her, a goddess unmasked—her hair wild, her skin glowing with power, the flicker of scale patterns shimmering across her arms and hips like runes coming alive.

Her mouth found Rebecca’s in a bruising kiss, tongue plunging deep with possessive desperation. Her hands were no longer tentative—they were searing, decisive, undoing Rebecca’s pants with urgent efficiency before sliding them down her legs and casting them aside. Rebecca writhed beneath her, breathless, stunned by the speed of it, by the sheer force of Sarocha’s presence.

And gods, it undid her.

She had never felt so stripped, so seen. Sarocha wasn’t just claiming her—she was devouring her with body and soul. Rebecca’s back arched off the floor as Sarocha descended, hands gripping her thighs, spreading her, positioning her as though she belonged there—and she did. In every possible way.

Sarocha's mouth returned to her skin, trailing kisses lower, then lower still, until she claimed Rebecca completely, with a kind of reverence that bordered on madness. And Rebecca cried out, her fingers tangling in Sarocha’s dark hair, her hips lifting helplessly as pleasure overtook her in waves.

But it wasn’t just Sarocha’s mouth. It was the way her energy wrapped around Rebecca like tendrils of heat and magic, entering her, stirring something buried in her blood. It felt as though her own heartbeat had been synchronized with Sarocha’s, as though each pulse of pleasure was being echoed, magnified, looped through their shared bond.

And then—God—it shifted.

Sarocha’s moan against her was low and tremulous, and when she rose again, bracing herself over Rebecca, there was something different in her eyes. Something primal and aching. Her fingers curled under Rebecca’s thighs and lifted them slightly, her hips sliding forward—not quite touching, but close enough that Rebecca felt the radiant heat of her.

Then—pressure. Not quite physical, but undeniable. A deep, molten connection that bloomed from the inside, so intense it stole Rebecca’s breath. Sarocha’s energy pushed into her in a way that defied physical anatomy, as though the magic itself had conjured a bridge between their bodies. It wasn’t imagined—it was there. Heavy. Full. Impossible.

Rebecca gasped. “Oh—”

Sarocha moaned, forehead pressing to hers. “I feel it too.”

“It’s real,” Rebecca panted. “It feels real.”

“It is real,” Sarocha growled. “Our bond lets me take shape inside you—even without shifting. Even without… changing form.”

Her hips rolled forward and Rebecca cried out, her hands scrambling for purchase along Sarocha’s back. There was nothing gentle about it now—Sarocha moved with purpose, each thrust driven by instinct, magic, memory. Rebecca met her rhythm, body straining for more, her mouth catching on Sarocha’s shoulder as she moaned against her skin.

She’d never been claimed like this—never connected like this. Her body was flushed and open, every nerve alive, every breath a prayer to the goddess she had pinned between her thighs.

And Sarocha, too, was unraveling.

It wasn’t just sex—it was the culmination of lifetimes, of aching solitude and forbidden longing. Something more ancient than memory burned in the space between them. Each movement was a plea, a prayer, a tether thrown across the chasm of loss and time. Sarocha moved faster, harder, and Rebecca met her with a ferocity that bordered on madness, their bodies slamming together with a rhythm no human tongue could name.

“Sarocha—” Rebecca gasped, her nails raking down the woman's back, desperate, reverent. “Please—don't stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

“I can’t,” Sarocha panted against her neck, her voice raw—frayed at the edges. “I won’t. You’re—” her words faltered into a moan as Rebecca shifted her hips beneath her, deeper, closer, impossibly more. “You’re mine.”

Rebecca caught the glint of gold in her lover’s eyes then—brighter than before, molten and burning. She tilted her head to press her cheek against Sarocha’s jaw, and there—there—she saw the fangs.

Longer now. Sharper.

“Your teeth,” she breathed, shivering. “Your fangs… they’ve changed.”

Sarocha turned her face slightly, as if trying to hide them, but Rebecca caught her chin, firm and sure. “Don’t. Don’t hide from me.”

“I shouldn’t—” Sarocha’s voice was taut with restraint. “If I bite you again—Rebecca, I’ll lose myself.”

“Then lose yourself,” Rebecca whispered. “Bite me.”

And gods, the way Sarocha trembled against her—trembled like she might break apart. She pressed her lips to Rebecca’s neck first, slow, reverent, her tongue tasting the salt of her skin. Her breath hitched as she hovered there, caught on the edge of surrender.

Rebecca arched her neck, offering more.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I need it.”

The primal response in Sarocha surged, eclipsing all hesitation. With a low growl, she sank her fangs into Rebecca’s throat.

Rebecca screamed.

But not in pain.

Euphoria exploded through her like a starburst—white-hot, all-consuming. It was not like the first time—it was more. The venom sang through her blood, heat and pleasure mingling with an unbearable fullness, a sacred claim that didn’t just bind—it fused.

Her hips bucked harder, frenzied now, as her body tried to chase the rush Sarocha had lit inside her.

Sarocha withdrew only to meet Rebecca’s mouth with a desperate, blood-warmed kiss, her tongue dragging across the woman’s lower lip. “I can’t stop biting you,” she rasped, barely coherent. “I want you so much it hurts.”

Rebecca didn’t hesitate—she kissed her back with equal heat, tasting her own blood on Sarocha’s tongue and not caring, not caring about anything except this woman above her. “Then don’t stop.”

She rose up and shifted their position, dragging Sarocha with her until it was her back against the rug, Rebecca straddling her now, flushed and radiant, sweat-slick and shaking. The moment hung suspended—thick and sacred, the air crackling with energy. Rebecca reached down and wrapped her fingers around Sarocha’s wrists, pinning them beside her head.

“Stay still,” she said, voice dark, hungry. “Let me feel it. All of it.”

And she moved—slow, deliberate, dragging herself over Sarocha’s body like a current, like fire, like fate. The pressure, the friction, the magic between them built with every drag of her hips. Sarocha’s eyes fluttered, her fangs still showing, her lips parted on a moan that was part-worship, part-devastation.

“Gods—Rebecca—” she shuddered. “You’re going to destroy me.”

Rebecca leaned down, whispering against her mouth, “Good. Then I’ll rebuild you from scratch.”

Sarocha couldn’t help it—she surged up and sank her fangs into Rebecca again. This time into the curve where her neck met her shoulder, the claim deeper. Rebecca’s cry echoed off the walls. Her body jerked and her pace grew frantic, their bodies moving with a desperation that bordered on divine madness.

“I feel you,” Rebecca gasped. “You’re inside me, you’re everywhere.”

“I am,” Sarocha breathed, voice trembling. “And you’re in me. You always have been.”

Another wave of sensation overtook Rebecca and she stilled for a breathless second, hips locked with Sarocha’s. Her voice broke as she whispered, “I swear—it’s like you’re… seeding something in me.”

Sarocha went still.

Eyes wide. Then feral.

She flipped Rebecca beneath her in a single, fluid motion, as if the very suggestion of it had snapped some ancient instinct loose inside her. She pinned Rebecca with a kiss that was less about mouths and more about souls, moaning into her as their magic crackled in the air like a storm waiting to break.

“Let me mark you,” she groaned. “Let me bury myself so deep in you there’ll never be a place I end and you begin.”

Rebecca’s legs tightened around her hips, a sob tearing from her lips. “Yes. Do it. Take me.”

And she did. Sarocha thrust into her with wild abandon, her fangs grazing Rebecca’s skin, her mouth kissing and biting its way down her neck, her chest. Their hips moved in perfect rhythm—ancient, raw, irreverent. Rebecca couldn’t breathe for the pleasure—couldn’t speak for the weight of what they were creating between them.

And when it came—when it broke—it was a cataclysm.

Rebecca cried out, her whole body locking around Sarocha’s, limbs shaking with release. Her vision went white. Sarocha followed, voice breaking into a growl as her climax tore through her, blood and power and magic merging into one explosive, unstoppable wave.

One beat.

Two.

And then...

They collapsed, clinging.

Bodies slick and trembling. Mouths brushing. Hands still mapping skin too sacred to stop touching.

“I love you,” Sarocha whispered again, her voice wrecked, fangs still half-bared. “You’ve always been my only.”

Rebecca pressed a kiss to her lips, and then to her collarbone. “Then bite me again,” she murmured. “Every time I forget I belong to you, remind me.”

Sarocha only moaned, pressing her lips to the bite marks already blooming red on Rebecca’s skin.

And beneath them, between them, in the unspoken stillness after the storm, something shimmered in the air. A pulse. A possibility.

Something beginning.

Chapter Text

Morning drifted in like silk—light curling over bare skin, brushing golden warmth through the curtains, and casting a hush over the forest beyond the glass. The world felt quieted, as though some ancient hunger had been sated in the dark hours of the night, and now all that remained was breath and skin and the slow, lazy thrum of shared existence.

Rebecca stirred beneath the covers first, though she didn’t open her eyes. Her limbs were tangled with Sarocha’s, her leg thrown across the woman’s hip, her hand splayed over a bare chest that still rose and fell with steady rhythm. She shifted slightly and felt soreness, but it wasn’t unpleasant—it was a physical echo of passion, of union, of something that didn’t have a name in any language she knew.

A soft kiss was pressed to her hairline.

“You’re awake,” Sarocha murmured, her voice honey-thick with sleep.

Rebecca let out a faint hum. “Barely. Don’t ruin it by being smug.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sarocha said, though the smile was unmistakable in her tone.

They lay there in warm stillness, skin on skin, hearts beating in a rhythm grown impossibly close. Rebecca tilted her head up, brushing her lips over Sarocha’s jaw. “I can’t stop touching you,” she said quietly, as if the admission might crack something open.

“You’re not supposed to,” Sarocha replied, arms tightening around her. “You’re mine.”

The word no longer startled Rebecca. It curled into her instead, anchoring in her chest like a thread stitched through bone. “And you’re mine,” she whispered back.

They kissed slowly—lingering and soft, not hungry this time, but reverent. Sarocha’s hands cupped Rebecca’s face as if she feared she might drift away if she wasn’t held just so. There was no haste, only warmth. Only worship.

Eventually, Sarocha broke the kiss and glanced toward the soft grey light seeping into the room. “We should shower,” she murmured, brushing hair from Rebecca’s temple. “You’ll catch a chill.”

“I could stay like this all day.”

“And I would let you. But there’s something… different about you now. I want to see it in the light.”

Rebecca blinked, brows pulling slightly. “Different?”

“You’ll see,” Sarocha said, and kissed her once more before slipping from the bed.

Rebecca reached for her but Sarocha was already standing, naked and graceful, a silhouette touched with golden skin and the faintest shimmer beneath it. Rebecca swore she saw a flicker of scale, like a secret shifting just under the surface.

She followed her into the bathroom, and from that moment on, Sarocha’s touch never left her. She turned on the water, tested the temperature, and led Rebecca in beneath the warm cascade. She took her time—tender, reverent. Sarocha’s hands soaped her shoulders and slid over her breasts, down her spine, over her hips, each motion more a caress than a task.

“I can wash myself,” Rebecca said breathlessly, flushed from the attention.

“I know,” Sarocha replied, voice low. “But I want to.”

She tilted Rebecca’s head back beneath the spray, working shampoo through her hair, her fingers massaging her scalp in slow, circular motions that made Rebecca hum in contentment.

After she rinsed and toweled her dry, Sarocha kissed the hollow of her throat and murmured, “Let me dress you.”

Rebecca laughed softly. “You’re going to spoil me.”

“Good,” Sarocha said, and the silk robe she slipped over Rebecca’s shoulders felt like an embrace in itself. “You should be spoiled. You should be cared for.”

They moved together to the small kitchenette. The fire had died down in the hearth, but a banked warmth still lingered. Sarocha moved fluidly about the space, making tea and preparing breakfast—fruit, cheese, warm bread from the oven below. She served it to Rebecca with a glass of fresh water and a kiss to the temple.

Rebecca sat at the table with her legs drawn up, robe slipping from one shoulder, watching Sarocha with eyes still soft from the night. “You’re fussing.”

“I am,” Sarocha said without apology.

Rebecca took a bite of bread, chewed thoughtfully. “It’s strange,” she said after a moment. “I don’t want to be far from you. It’s not just emotional—it’s something else. Like—like I’m being pulled toward you.”

“I feel it too,” Sarocha murmured, sitting beside her. “Even now. I keep looking at you and thinking I need to keep you safe. Fed. Warm. Touching you.”

Rebecca turned to her slowly, the question forming even before she could tame it. “Do you think… it’s because of the bite?”

Sarocha stilled. “Possibly. Or maybe just because we’ve finally stopped fighting what was always between us.”

Rebecca glanced down, then back up. “There’s more though. Isn’t there?”

Sarocha nodded. “Yes. You’ve changed.”

“How?”

“Your scent, your pulse. There’s something under your skin I didn’t feel before. It’s mine, somehow—but it’s you.”

Rebecca felt a shiver run down her spine. “Do you think it’s because I’ve taken your venom?”

“Maybe. Or maybe something else has passed between us. Something older. Stronger.”

Rebecca touched her own chest lightly, where the bites throbbed faintly beneath her skin. “So, what do we do? Just stay like this forever?”

“Tempting,” Sarocha said with a smirk.

But then her expression sobered. “We need to understand what’s happened. We need to know what you’re becoming—if anything. And we need to know if you can use it.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “Use it? How?”

“Well,” Sarocha said, offering her a grape, “last night, when I bit you—your body responded to me, yes. But I also felt something move in you. Like a spark I didn’t place there. Like a door opening.”

“A door to what?”

“I don’t know,” Sarocha admitted. “But I think we need to find out.”

Rebecca chewed slowly, considering. “You mean… test it? See if there’s power running through me now?”

Sarocha nodded. “It could be protective. It could be dangerous. It could be a reflection of what you and I are together.”

Rebecca flushed again. “So how do we start?”

“We spend the day together,” Sarocha said softly, brushing a lock of damp hair behind Rebecca’s ear. “We explore. We test the edges. You let me show you how my power works—and then we see if it echoes in you.”

Rebecca looked at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable, until a smile bloomed. “Fine. But if I explode into a flaming snake goddess or something, that’s on you.”

Sarocha laughed, the sound rich and indulgent. “Then I’ll be right there beside you. Worshipping you as you deserve.”

Rebecca’s cheeks pinked, but she didn’t look away.

The day had only just begun, but something unspoken pulsed beneath the surface—an energy neither of them could deny. A power waiting to be summoned. A bond waiting to be tested.

And they would do it together.

---

The river curled like a silver ribbon through the woods, quiet and low, as if it, too, had risen early and was still in the process of waking. Dew clung to the grass beneath their bare feet, and the sun filtered down in slanted rays through the canopy, dappling the path in soft gold. There was no sound of other people, no distant echo of cars or footsteps—only birdsong, the murmur of the water, and the hush of their shared breath.

Sarocha led Rebecca by the hand down the worn stone steps carved into the slope of the riverbank, her grip firm but gentle. There was something sacred about this place, something untouched. Rebecca could feel it in her bones—like they were trespassing into an ancient quiet, and the land itself was holding its breath.

Sarocha paused at the water’s edge. “Here,” she said, gesturing to the flat stones near the bend of the river. “This is where I used to come, when I needed stillness.”

Rebecca lowered herself onto the stone, legs crossed, her robe folded beneath her to cushion her seat. Sarocha mirrored her, settling in with a grace that made her seem older than time. The river moved steadily between them, its voice a low, constant whisper.

Sarocha tilted her head, amber eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Water amplifies everything,” she said. “Emotion. Power. Memory. It’s the element I’m most attuned to. It listens to me.”

Rebecca glanced down at the current. “So you talk to water?”

“No,” Sarocha said with a faint smile. “I feel it. Like breath in the lungs. It’s not about control—it’s resonance. When I’m calm, it calms. When I’m angry…” She gestured to the water. “It crashes.”

“And what happens when you’re—”

“Don’t finish that question,” Sarocha said dryly, though her smirk betrayed her amusement. “But yes. It responds to that, too.”

Rebecca bit back her smile and straightened her spine. “Okay. So what do I do?”

“Close your eyes.”

She obeyed.

“Now breathe. Not just for yourself—breathe for me. Imagine I’m the one exhaling through you. Let your pulse slow to match mine.”

They sat in silence. The warmth of the sun touched her shoulders. The breeze feathered against her cheeks. Somewhere to her left, the water lapped gently against the shore. It was peaceful, but also unnerving. Rebecca could feel the pressure of expectation around her.

Sarocha’s voice was low, steady. “My power doesn’t come from thought. It comes from instinct. From body. From knowing. I don’t think about shifting—I feel it coming and I allow it.”

Rebecca kept her eyes closed, her brows drawing faintly together. “But that’s the problem. I don’t have those instincts. I’m not you.”

“No. But you’re mine. And that means there’s a bridge. Something between us you can cross.”

Rebecca exhaled slowly, trying to relax her limbs. “And what if I fall off that bridge?”

“I’ll catch you,” Sarocha said simply.

The water rustled again—quieter this time, softer. The air itself felt heavier, like it had soaked up some invisible charge. Rebecca shifted slightly, her hands resting palms-up on her knees. Something stirred in her chest, but she couldn’t name it.

“I don’t feel anything,” she whispered.

“Don’t reach for feeling. Let it find you.”

But the silence that followed only served to intensify her frustration. She could sense something stirring when Sarocha spoke, when she touched her—but now, trying to summon it alone, she felt like a fraud. The water didn’t dance, the air didn’t sing. She was just a woman, sitting by a river, trying to imitate something she didn’t understand.

Rebecca opened her eyes with a sigh. “It’s not working.”

Sarocha studied her for a long moment, not unkindly. “It’s not meant to work the way you think. You’re trying to push it outward. But you’ve been drawing from me all morning without even realizing it.”

Rebecca blinked. “I have?”

Sarocha’s mouth quirked. “I haven’t been able to stop touching you since dawn. I keep feeding you—literally. My instincts are in overdrive. You don’t think that’s significant?”

Rebecca hesitated. “I thought… that was just affection.”

“It is affection. But it’s also something more. You’ve been pulling energy from me since the moment you woke up. It’s subtle. It’s not magic as you understand it—it’s a pull. A need.”

Rebecca’s throat worked as she swallowed. “But I didn’t do anything. I haven’t been trying to pull power from you.”

“You don’t have to. That’s the point. Whatever’s changing in you—it’s not a spell, or a ritual. It’s organic. It’s happening on its own.”

Rebecca looked down at her hands. “But what am I pulling for?”

Sarocha didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she reached across the space between them and took Rebecca’s hand in both of hers. Her touch was warm, grounding, and the moment they connected, the surface of the river shimmered. Not violently—not even dramatically—but a ripple spread outward like a breath. As if the water itself had exhaled.

Sarocha’s gaze didn’t waver. “There’s more than just instinct passing between us now. You’re not only drawing from my power. You’re drawing from me.”

Rebecca looked at her, uncertain. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” Sarocha admitted, voice low, troubled. “But I feel it. The way you stay close. The way my body keeps reacting to yours. It’s like… like my instincts think I’ve already passed something into you.”

Rebecca flinched faintly. “What do you mean passed something?”

“I don’t know,” Sarocha said again, gentler this time. “But it’s different than before. Deeper. Hungrier.”

She let the silence settle again. The river murmured.

Rebecca sat back slightly, heart fluttering like a moth in her chest. “So… we don’t know what I am. Or what’s happening to me.”

“No,” Sarocha said. “But whatever it is… it’s ours.”

That word—ours—resonated deep in Rebecca’s belly in a way she couldn’t explain. She pressed her palm to her abdomen, uncertain of the gesture’s origin. Just a passing flutter, she told herself. Just a result of nerves.

The water shifted again, lapping gently at the bank.

“I want to try again,” Rebecca said softly.

Sarocha smiled. “Then try. I’m right here.”

They resumed their positions, the light strengthening around them, the river curling between. Power hung in the air, not quite realized, but pulsing—ancient, slow, inevitable.

The bond between them had opened something.

And it was only beginning.

The sun had risen higher by the time Sarocha took Rebecca by the hand and turned her steps away from the river’s edge, further into the thickened green. Trees loomed larger here, their trunks dense with moss, their roots snarled like ancient veins in the earth. The air grew heavy and fragrant, saturated with the scent of wet leaves, soil, and something older—metallic, mineral, faintly sweet.

Rebecca followed without hesitation, her trust tethered to Sarocha’s presence like an invisible thread. Her palm stayed pressed to Sarocha’s, their fingers laced, a grounding warmth between them. As the light narrowed and the canopy swallowed more of the sky, Rebecca felt as though they were descending—not just deeper into the jungle, but deeper into time itself.

Eventually, they came to a natural stone outcropping hidden behind a veil of liana and fern. Sarocha pushed the foliage aside and revealed a narrow arch in the rock face. A cave mouth, low and unassuming. But something about it made Rebecca pause.

The stone was carved—not by tools, but by time and intention. Serpentine forms twisted in fluid relief around the entrance, their eyes almond-shaped and watchful, mouths open in eternal song or warning. Tiny, glistening gems were embedded at regular intervals along the archway, shimmering faintly even in the muted light.

Rebecca drew in a breath. “This is a Naga site.”

Sarocha nodded. “One of the oldest. I haven’t brought anyone here before.”

She didn’t elaborate.

They stepped inside.

The shift was immediate. The air changed—cooler, denser, with a kind of reverence woven through it. Sound softened to a hush, their footsteps muffled by the damp stone beneath them. The passage widened into a vast cavern where the ceiling soared far above, vanishing into shadows. Luminous moss coated the walls in streaks, casting everything in a faint bluish-green glow.

At the center of the cavern was a wide pool, fed by a series of natural hot springs. Steam coiled lazily along the surface. A stream trickled away from the main pool, narrow and swift, and then fell—twisting down a hollowed spiral in the rock that shimmered with an otherworldly light.

Rebecca’s breath caught. “It’s beautiful…”

Sarocha’s hand remained warm in hers. “This is where the veil is thinnest. Where water speaks clearest. Where echoes of my kin still remain.”

Rebecca turned, her eyes wide as she took in the walls. Pearls—no, not quite pearls—were embedded in the stone, glittering like stars in an underground sky. Each one was subtly different in color and texture. Some glowed faintly, others pulsed with a dim, internal light.

“These…” Rebecca reached out, hesitated. “What are they?”

Sarocha’s expression shifted to something like reverence. “Essences. Fragments of those who’ve passed into Patala. The pearls form when a Naga leaves this realm and their connection lingers. They’re memories, pieces of power, identity… longing.”

Rebecca’s voice was hushed. “So this is… all that remains of them?”

“It’s what can remain. Not all leave traces. Not all choose to. Some go so willingly they leave nothing behind. But those who were forced, or torn away, or cursed…” She looked to one pearl, brighter than the others, her gaze softening. “They hold on.”

The stream whispered through the cavern like a song half-forgotten, its winding descent down the luminous hollow at once mesmerizing and mysterious.

“That’s the portal?” Rebecca asked, nodding to the swirl where the water vanished.

Sarocha’s gaze followed hers. “Yes. It leads to Patala. The lowest world. But not one of punishment. It’s the realm of the deep—the unseen. Where the Nagas fled when the curse fell. When the balance was lost.”

Rebecca’s fingers trailed through the moist air. “And you stayed.”

Sarocha’s eyes glittered. “I had to. I was the reason for the curse. The daughter of a royal line that would never rule if the curse was not broken. I took this role not to inherit a kingdom—but to guard its ghosts.”

Her voice echoed softly off the stone.

“I was told I might be the last. But I couldn’t accept that. Not without hope. If the curse can be undone—if the balance restored—then those who left might return. And so I stayed. To protect what remains. To remember.”

Rebecca looked around again, and the weight of the space settled on her—not heavy, but vast. Like standing within a cathedral submerged in myth. She stepped closer to one of the glowing pearls and whispered, “They feel… familiar.”

Sarocha came to stand behind her, arms loose around Rebecca’s waist. “Because they’re your kin now, too. Our bond connects you.”

Rebecca leaned back into her. “I don’t feel worthy of that.”

Sarocha’s voice was firm. “You are. Power does not lie. It does not share itself unless it recognizes what it sees.”

They stood in silence, the sounds of the cave wrapping around them like a veil. Dripping water. The distant rush of the stream. The almost imperceptible hum of the pearls in the walls.

Rebecca looked down at her hand. “And what does the power see in me?”

Sarocha turned her gently. “Potential. And hunger. And something… growing.”

The phrasing struck a peculiar chord, but Rebecca let it pass, unsure why her heart had given a small start at the word.

She glanced at the glowing pool. “Could I learn to… touch it? The way you do?”

Sarocha’s hand came to rest lightly on her abdomen. “You’re already doing more than you think. Something in you is already resonating. That’s why I brought you here. The water listens in this place. If you let it feel you… it may respond.”

Rebecca looked back at the pool, the gently rising steam, the faint gleam of light dancing over the water’s surface. She felt called to it—not in a dramatic sense, but in a slow, sinking way. As though part of her had always belonged here, waiting to be remembered.

She took a step forward.

The cave watched with patient silence.

The cave seemed to breathe as Rebecca stepped to the edge of the pool, the water's surface gleaming like molten glass. The moist heat rose in tendrils around her, wrapping her in a velvet stillness that was not silence, but reverence. Her fingers moved slowly to the ties of her clothes, undoing them one by one with a kind of solemnity, her eyes never leaving the water.

Behind her, Sarocha waited in silence, her presence a steady heat, a center of gravity that pulled without force. She made no move to hurry Rebecca. There was no urgency in this moment—only unfolding.

Rebecca let her clothes fall to the stone floor, the humid air instantly kissing her skin. The glow from the cave walls shimmered against her bare body in faint streaks of blue and green, painting her in otherworldly light. When she stepped into the water, it welcomed her with a warmth so complete it stole her breath for a moment, and she shivered—not from cold, but from the sensation of being fully enveloped, as if the pool had arms of its own.

The surface rippled as she moved deeper, until the water reached her waist. Her breath caught again when she felt it—something moving beneath the stillness. Not a current, not temperature. A presence. Like a thread brushing along her spine.

Sarocha disrobed behind her with the same quiet grace, and when she entered the pool, the water around her seemed to brighten, responding to her presence. She came up behind Rebecca, arms slipping gently around her waist, her body a living warmth against Rebecca’s back.

“Breathe,” Sarocha whispered. “Let it in.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, her head tilting back slightly as Sarocha pressed a kiss beneath her ear. She felt it—Sarocha’s presence lacing through her, beneath her skin, like silk-thread soaked in starlight. Their bond, no longer theoretical, hummed between their bodies like a current through a conduit.

The water began to shimmer.

Rebecca opened her eyes, startled by the way it now glowed faintly around her limbs. She could feel it differently now—alive, pulsing, as if listening to the rhythm of her heart.

“I feel it,” she said, voice hushed. “It’s… not like before. It’s inside me.”

“Yes.” Sarocha moved to face her, hands resting lightly on Rebecca’s waist. Her eyes, so dark before, now glinted like burnished gold. “It’s responding to what you are. Or perhaps what you’re becoming.”

Rebecca lifted her hand from the water and watched the droplets trace along her skin, pausing as they caught on something strange—tiny, iridescent ridges just beneath the surface. Her breath hitched.

“Sarocha…”

But Sarocha was already looking.

Where her hands touched Rebecca’s waist, something had begun to ripple beneath Rebecca’s skin. Pale scales—not gilded, like Sarocha’s—but a translucent sapphire, barely visible unless the light caught them just right. They flickered, like a heartbeat behind a veil.

Sarocha lifted a hand and touched her own cheek. Her skin responded with the glimmer of familiar opalescent scales. But this time, they moved—sliding across her shoulder, her collarbone—and toward Rebecca.

And Rebecca’s skin answered.

Where Sarocha’s fingertips traced her, scales of that same cerulean hue bloomed faintly in their wake before vanishing again beneath her skin. Rebecca trembled—not from fear, but from awe.

Then she looked up—and gasped.

Sarocha’s breath caught, too.

Rebecca’s eyes, usually soft brown, now gleamed a deep, clear cerulean. The pupils were vertical, slitted like a serpent’s. For a moment, they held—bright, ancient, knowing—and then blinked back to normal, leaving her blinking as though waking from a dream.

“Did you see—?”

“I did,” Sarocha murmured, voice low and reverent. “You shifted. Only for a moment, but it was real.”

Rebecca brought a hand to her chest, fingers spread over the rapid thrum of her heart. “I didn’t try to. It just… happened.”

Sarocha’s hand cupped her jaw, tilting her chin until their foreheads met.

“That’s because you’re not just drawing the power through me anymore,” she whispered. “It’s blooming within you.”

Their breath mingled, suspended in the warm air. Rebecca closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the intimacy, the vastness of it. The water, the light, the shimmer beneath her skin—all of it connected to the woman before her. All of it igniting something ancient and ineffable within her chest.

“Does this mean…” she began, but didn’t finish the question.

Sarocha shook her head slightly. “I don’t know yet. But I think the bond is evolving. Growing beyond even what I thought possible.”

Rebecca opened her eyes again, and they met Sarocha’s—still golden, still inhuman and utterly beautiful. “Is it because of… us? The biting... mating?”

“It could be. We are no longer separate. Not in power, not in flesh. Your body recognizes mine now—more than ever before. It may be responding to something even deeper.”

Rebecca drew in a breath. “Deeper how?”

Sarocha’s expression softened, but there was something unreadable in her gaze. “There are currents we don’t understand. Old magic, old instincts. Sometimes, when two bloodlines entwine… when power and purpose align…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

The water pulsed faintly around them. The glimmering whirl of the stream whispered its ancient secrets nearby.

Rebecca let herself float back into Sarocha’s arms, cradled in the sacred warmth of the pool. Her head rested against Sarocha’s shoulder, and Sarocha’s hands moved gently across her belly, her hips, her sides—as if memorizing the way her body was changing.

Whatever this was, whatever they were becoming, it was more than either of them had expected.

Or at all thought possible.

The water lapped gently around them, casting soft reflections against the cave walls as Rebecca rested with her back against Sarocha’s chest. Their bodies floated close, limbs entwined in quiet intimacy. Every so often, iridescent scales shimmered faintly beneath the surface of their skin, flashing and then fading as if testing the air. Sarocha’s fingers trailed in slow spirals across Rebecca’s bare belly, occasionally brushing one of those brief flickers of cerulean that now resided beneath her lover’s skin.

They hadn’t spoken in several minutes. The silence wasn’t heavy, only sacred.

Eventually, Rebecca tilted her head to glance up over her shoulder. “Do you think…” she hesitated, then tried again, “Do you think this—whatever’s happening to me—could be used against the monks?”

Sarocha’s hands stilled against her skin. The answer came slower than usual.

“I don’t want you to think of it that way.”

“But if I can do what you do—even a fraction of it—it changes everything. I could stand beside you. Fight beside you.”

Sarocha’s embrace tightened, a subtle possessiveness winding through her voice. “And if you were hurt in the process? If they stripped you from me, as they did before? As they tried to the other day?”

Rebecca turned in her arms, chest to chest now, and cupped Sarocha’s face. “I won’t be the helpless girl slumped in the corner again. That day… when they came at us—I’ve never felt such rage, such helplessness. I can’t go through that again, Sarocha. And I can’t watch you face them alone.”

Sarocha’s gaze dropped. For a moment, she looked painfully young—young and ancient all at once. “You’ve been drawing power from me all day. Even before you stepped into this pool, I could feel it. You’ve taken to it more quickly than I thought possible. But it’s still new. Untamed. It may protect you. That, I’m grateful for. But I will not make a weapon of you.”

Rebecca blinked, mouth softening. “You’re not making anything of me. I am something, already. Whatever this is—it’s mine too now. Our bond made it mine.”

Sarocha brushed her thumb across Rebecca’s cheek. “I know. But I also know them. Those monks, their masters—they don’t believe in compromise. They only believe in fear. In rules so rigid they’ve forgotten who they were ever meant to protect.”

“You said once that they were tasked to keep the balance,” Rebecca murmured. “But it sounds more like they’ve turned that task into their religion.”

A bitter smile curled at Sarocha’s lips. “Exactly.”

The silence lapsed again, save for the gentle sound of moving water. The heat from the spring soaked into their bones, into their bond. It seemed to soften the edges of everything—anger, fear, even time itself.

“But if confrontation is inevitable,” Rebecca said quietly, “what then?”

Sarocha’s eyes drifted to the glowing whirlpool farther in the cave. “Then we find a different path first. One that might open the door to peace.”

“Even if they’ve closed every door before now?”

Sarocha hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. We must try. For your sake. For mine. For what’s left of my kin. I don’t want fire and blood to mark the return of the Naga.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “So… we need a proxy.”

Sarocha met her gaze. “Someone who can navigate their world and ours. Someone they’ll listen to—but who won’t betray what they see here.”

The thought swirled between them, obvious the moment it took shape.

“Ananda,” they said in near-unison.

Rebecca blinked. “Do you think we can trust him?”

Sarocha’s mouth thinned. “I hired him because he’s competent, not because I trusted him.”

“You were ready to kill him for asking me to dinner.”

“And I regret nothing,” Sarocha said dryly, though her hand slid to Rebecca’s hip in quiet apology.

Rebecca smirked despite herself. “I told you it was harmless.”

“And I told you that anything which touches what’s mine will never be harmless.”

A shiver passed through her—not from fear, but from the memory of fangs against her neck, of being claimed. She breathed through it and refocused.

“But if we’re serious about trying to avoid violence,” she continued, “then we need someone who understands both the ancient and the modern. Someone with a foot in both worlds.”

Sarocha sighed. “Ananda is human. Ambitious. But not foolish. He has a reverence for the sacred, even when he doesn’t understand it. That matters.”

“And he’s seen the dig site. He already suspects there’s more. You wouldn’t have let him near it if you hadn’t already judged his character.”

“I judged his skills. His character…” Sarocha’s brow furrowed. “That remains to be seen. But yes, he may be our best hope.”

Rebecca touched her chin gently, guiding her attention back. “Then we try. We show him enough to earn his trust—and to test it.”

Sarocha’s golden eyes narrowed. “And if he fails that test?”

“Then I’ll stand beside you, fangs and all.”

Sarocha laughed softly—low, intimate, a sound like smoke. “You’ve never been more beautiful than when you threaten to bite someone.”

Rebecca leaned forward, brushing her mouth along Sarocha’s jaw. “Then maybe I should start doing it more often.”

Their lips met, slow and full, as if sealing something between them—agreement, hope, something older than words. Beneath the surface of the water, their bodies curved closer, sliding against one another in graceful glides. The magic between them hummed again, responding not to desire this time, but to unity. Scales shimmered faintly and then settled again beneath their skin, waiting.

The cave around them pulsed with power, and the stream beyond continued to spiral, as if drawing some ancient breath.

The world outside was still full of danger, still bristling with those who would rather destroy than understand.

But for now—just for now—they held one another in the heart of a myth reborn.

Chapter Text

The Land Rover rumbled steadily down a winding country road, the tyres kicking up small clouds of dust with each turn. Rebecca sat beside Sarocha in the front seat, her fingers resting lightly on the inside of Sarocha’s wrist atop the gearstick. Neither spoke for a long while, letting the hum of the engine and the rise and fall of the road lull them into a shared quiet. The jungle had long since swallowed the paved roads. Here, the trees bent close, casting long shadows even though the sun still climbed toward its zenith.

Rebecca broke the silence first. “Do you think he’ll believe us?”

Sarocha’s golden eyes flicked to her, unreadable. “He’s a man who’s always believed in the edge of things. This will only take him past it.”

Rebecca looked down at their hands, her thumb brushing over a faint shimmer just beneath Sarocha’s skin. “He’s curious. He always has been.”

“Yes.” Sarocha’s tone was neutral. “But curiosity has teeth. And appetites.”

Rebecca knew better than to press. Instead, she turned to look out the window, watching for the small clearing where they were meant to meet.

They found him waiting where the red dirt path forked into three trails, none of which looked promising. Dr. Ananda stood beside a battered white Jeep, arms crossed, sunglasses perched low on his nose. His khaki shirt was open at the throat and damp with sweat, the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms darkened by sun and time spent digging through layers of earth.

When he saw their car approaching, he straightened and shaded his eyes. Even from a distance, Rebecca could feel the tension prickling across the space between them.

Sarocha parked and cut the engine. Dust settled in the quiet.

“I’ll talk to him first,” Rebecca murmured, squeezing Sarocha’s hand once before stepping out into the heat.

Ananda met her with a cautious smile. “Bit of an unusual rendezvous point.”

“Sorry,” Rebecca said, giving him a sheepish smile as she approached. “The place we’re staying—it’s not easy to find. It’s protected.”

“Protected?” His brow arched. “From what? Nosy archaeologists?”

“Something like that.” She offered a light laugh and turned, gesturing toward the Land Rover. “Come on. We’ll explain on the way.”

Ananda eyed the vehicle warily. Sarocha was still seated behind the wheel, sunglasses now in place, her posture coiled and unreadable.

Ananda exhaled through his nose. “This some kind of cult compound? Should I be worried?”

“No cults,” Rebecca said gently. “But... yes. There’s something unusual about the place. You’ll see.”

“Let me guess: you’re not going to explain it to me until we get there?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “It’s easier to show you.”

Ananda gave her a look that hovered somewhere between exasperation and reluctant intrigue. Then he opened the passenger door and climbed into the back seat.

The Land Rover moved again, Sarocha saying nothing for the first few minutes. Rebecca turned slightly in her seat to look at Ananda.

“Thank you for coming. We know it’s… sudden.”

“Sudden’s one word for it.” He leaned forward slightly. “I’ve been working with the two of you for weeks and now, suddenly, you’re acting like I’ve stumbled onto state secrets. What’s going on, Rebecca?”

“It’s not just me,” she said. “It’s Sarocha’s story to tell. And she will. We brought you because we think… you might be able to help.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not reassured.”

Finally, Sarocha spoke, voice smooth as river stone. “We arranged to meet you here because the place we’re going cannot be found by accident. The protections that shield it are old. Older than the house. Older than this country.”

Ananda gave a soft snort of disbelief. “Protections?”

“Yes,” Sarocha said calmly. “Magic, if you need a name for it.”

Rebecca felt Ananda stiffen in the back seat.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m not,” Sarocha replied evenly. “You’ve studied the myths. The artefacts. The temples. And yet, when the world begins to act like the legends it gave birth to, you flinch.”

“I don’t flinch. I analyze. I test. I look for truth.”

“And you think the truth only lives in things that can be measured?”

Rebecca could feel the heat building between them, but Sarocha’s voice remained even.

Ananda exhaled and slumped back in the seat. “Look. I came because I trust Rebecca. But if this is some elaborate prank—”

“It’s not.” Rebecca interrupted, voice firmer now. “I’ve seen things, Ananda. Felt them. This is real. And I can’t explain it to you with words because I wouldn’t have believed it either.”

He was quiet then. Long enough for the jungle to reclaim the air between them.

Eventually, Sarocha guided the vehicle off the main trail, following what looked to be no more than a deer path. They passed through a narrow arch of trees, and as soon as they did, the air changed—cooler, denser. Sound dulled. The light shifted, warmer, like gold on water.

Ananda straightened. “What the hell…”

Rebecca turned to look at him. “Now do you believe me?”

He didn’t answer. He only stared through the window as the undergrowth gave way to a hidden lane that wound through tall grass and silent trees. The estate emerged slowly: first the rooflines, then the long curve of the veranda, nestled into the earth like it had grown there.

“This wasn’t here,” he said, voice low. “I’ve been all over this region. There’s no record of this structure. Satellite scans would have picked it up.”

“They didn’t,” Sarocha said. “They can’t.”

She brought the car to a slow stop before the front entrance. The breeze shifted as she killed the engine. It smelled of something ancient and sweet—lotus, woodsmoke, water on stone.

“Welcome,” Sarocha said quietly, turning in her seat to face him, “to the last place where the Naga remain.”

Ananda blinked, utterly still.

Rebecca unbuckled her seatbelt. “Come inside. We’ll show you.”

The house held the hush of sanctuary. Ananda crossed the threshold with a hesitation that caught in his gait, as though his body recognized the crossing before his mind had a chance to name it. The air was cooler here, dense with the fragrance of incense long since burned and something else—older, almost mineral, like rain on stone in the deep jungle.

Rebecca led them in with quiet familiarity, the hem of her cotton skirt brushing against her calves as she moved toward the kitchen.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said over her shoulder, voice gentle, too casual for the tension in the air.

Sarocha was already slipping off her shoes, disappearing down the corridor in search of something—perhaps to give Rebecca space to prepare, perhaps to let Ananda breathe before truths began to bloom like flowers pressed between old pages.

Ananda stood still for a long moment, taking in the room: the lacquered wood furniture, the woven wall hangings, the floor cushions worn from use. The space had the feel of a life lived deliberately—intent in every object, memory etched into grain and fabric.

He moved finally, settling onto a cushion at the low table in the main sitting area. Rebecca returned a moment later, sleeves rolled, carrying a lacquered tray with a cast iron teapot and three delicate porcelain cups.

“Tea?” she offered, her voice a little too bright.

“Tea would be good,” Ananda said slowly, watching her as she poured. “Especially since it seems I’ve wandered into something… unexpected.”

Rebecca handed him a cup with a small smile. “That’s putting it mildly.”

He took a sip, watching her carefully. “So. Where do we start? With the hidden house? The protective jungle? Or the fact that you and Miss Chankimha are apparently... something?”

Rebecca paused, then sat down across from him, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “I suppose that’s fair.”

He looked at her over the rim of his teacup. “I knew you two were working closely. I didn’t realise it was that close.”

Rebecca couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her mouth. “It wasn’t public knowledge.”

“No kidding,” Ananda muttered. “You know, when I asked you out for drinks that time, I thought maybe you were just politely declining.”

“I was,” she said, laughing softly. “And also very taken. Still am.”

A door opened, then shut softly. Sarocha reappeared, no longer in her sandals, a silk robe draped over her shoulders. Her gaze flicked briefly to Ananda, then softened when it met Rebecca’s.

“I told him,” Rebecca said, gesturing toward their guest with her teacup. “Sort of.”

Sarocha’s eyes settled on Ananda. “We haven’t shared the truth. Not yet.”

He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, which had the calm of a predator at rest. “I’d say I’m about ready to hear it.”

Rebecca inhaled. “You remember the guardian legends, right? The Naga who were meant to protect the veil between realms, their chosen bondmates, the balance they were meant to preserve?”

“Of course,” Ananda said. “I’ve dedicated the better part of the last decade to studying those texts. And the curses that followed.”

“Good.” Sarocha sat gracefully beside Rebecca. “Because they are not myths. Or rather—myth is just memory transformed. I am one of the last of the Naga.”

Ananda’s expression didn’t change at first. Then he laughed—short, uncertain. “You’re serious.”

Rebecca’s eyes didn’t leave his. “We’re serious.”

He stared at her. “Rebecca…”

“She’s telling the truth,” Sarocha said quietly. “The Naga were real. Are real. And I am the daughter of a royal line—born of river and stone and promise. My task was to guard the gate to the realms beyond, to preserve balance. But I—”

She looked at Rebecca now, something flickering in her expression. “—we failed.”

Ananda blinked. “We?”

Rebecca swallowed. “I was there too. Once. A long time ago.”

Ananda sat back, stunned into silence.

“You’ve heard of the guardian and the chosen,” Sarocha continued. “You’ve read the stories. The one where the bond was... broken. Where love twisted duty, and balance gave way to desire.”

Ananda nodded slowly. “It was meant to be symbolic. An allegory for misuse of power. The guardian fell in love with her bonded soul and turned away from the gods. It’s a morality tale.”

“It’s a history,” Sarocha corrected, voice still soft. “And a warning.”

Rebecca leaned forward. “I was her bonded soul. The girl she was meant to protect. But I loved her. And she loved me. We weren’t meant to transgress the bond. But we did.”

Ananda looked between them, disbelief still warring with the part of him that had always wanted to believe.

“So the curse,” he said slowly, “is real.”

Sarocha gave a single, solemn nod. “Our kin were banished. Their essences sealed into pearls and scattered across realms. The gates closed. The balance fractured.”

“And you—what?” Ananda asked, half-whispering now. “You stayed?”

“I had to,” she said. “I was not allowed to follow. My punishment was to remain, to guard what remained. To wait for the veil to lift again, and for her to return.”

Ananda’s eyes flicked to Rebecca, confusion slowly coalescing. “But... that would mean... reincarnation?”

Rebecca nodded. “I don’t know how it works. I don’t remember everything. Not yet. But I dream. And I feel it. Something is changing. Stirring.”

Ananda sat back, running a hand through his hair. “This is insane.”

“I know,” Rebecca said gently. “And yet.”

“And yet.” He looked down into his tea, then at the house, at the women in front of him. “You’re saying the legends are all true. That this isn’t just a cultural mythos—it’s... alive. Still unfolding.”

Sarocha nodded once.

“And you’ve been waiting all this time?” he asked her.

“I never stopped,” she said.

He looked at Rebecca, then. Really looked. “And you believe this?”

She met his gaze evenly. “I don’t just believe it, Ananda. I am it.”

Silence lingered.

Finally, he exhaled a long breath. “I’m going to need another cup of tea.”

Rebecca laughed, a soft, weary sound, and reached for the pot. “You’re not the only one.”

Ananda watched them both with an intensity that felt almost clinical—except for the slight furrow in his brow, the barely-veiled bewilderment softening his usually crisp demeanor.

“You realise how this sounds to someone who’s spent his life studying these legends with the assumption they were symbolic at best, syncretic myth at worst?” he said, lifting his cup again, cradling the warmth in both hands.

“We do,” Rebecca replied, voice low, calm. She sat close to Sarocha now, one leg folded beneath her, her shoulder just brushing against the other woman’s arm. “And yet, here we are.”

Sarocha hadn’t touched her tea. She was watching Ananda carefully, body still but alert. Not tense—but something close. The light of the afternoon caught her cheekbone, and for a moment her skin shimmered, not in any metaphorical sense but truly—a veil of iridescent scales flickering and vanishing just as quickly. Ananda blinked.

“Did I just—?”

“You did,” Sarocha murmured. “It happens more often now, when I feel something strongly. My form responds. Protects.”

Rebecca shot her a look—not chiding, but intimate, familiar. “You’re reacting to him, aren’t you?”

Sarocha did not deny it. She angled her face toward Rebecca. “You know what you mean to me.”

“Still territorial,” Rebecca said, amused, brushing her fingers lightly against Sarocha’s hand.

Ananda cleared his throat. “Should I... apologize for breathing near your mate?”

Sarocha’s eyes narrowed—not unkindly, but with a sharpness that made him immediately regret the phrasing.

“I’m not used to sharing,” she said simply.

Rebecca stepped in, gently. “Let’s... focus, maybe.”

“Right,” Ananda muttered. “Let’s focus.”

She settled herself, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “The thing that really started everything, in this life, I mean—was the bracelet. You remember it, right?”

He nodded slowly. “Of course. Ancient Siamese gold, pre-Ayutthayan design, inscription worn almost completely smooth.”

“Well,” Rebecca said, holding up her wrist. The bracelet gleamed there still, impossibly seamless. “It attached itself to me. Locked. No clasp. No key.”

“It chose you,” Sarocha added. “It was one of the few things that survived.”

“Survived what?” Ananda asked.

“The sealing,” Sarocha replied. “The breaking of the balance, the scattering of our kin. A few relics remained, scattered across the landscape. Most are inert. This one was waiting for her.”

Rebecca tapped it lightly. “When it closed around my wrist, something changed. We’d only just met—but it was like the air between us changed. Like gravity had shifted.”

“And I felt it too,” Sarocha murmured. “Like a thread pulling taut through time.”

Ananda let out a long breath. “And then?”

There was a pause.

Rebecca glanced at Sarocha, then back at him. “Then... things escalated.”

Sarocha’s voice was quieter now. “The bond, once awakened, began to stir again. But it wouldn’t solidify without intention. Without... recognition.”

Ananda’s brow furrowed again. “I assume this is the part where you ‘claimed’ her?”

Sarocha’s expression was unreadable. “Yes.”

There was a long silence.

“Bit her?” Ananda clarified, half-laughing, half-reeling. “Like an animal?”

Rebecca, to her credit, didn’t flinch. “Not exactly. It wasn’t like that. It was... a ritual. Ancient. Consensual.”

“Instinctive,” Sarocha added, voice low. “It is how we bind to one another. How we affirm the soul’s recognition of its match.”

“And it changed things?”

“It deepened the bond,” Rebecca said. “Not just emotionally. There are side effects.”

Sarocha’s scales shimmered faintly again, her fingers ghosting along Rebecca’s arm. “Our magic, our history, our forms—they began to reawaken in her. A slow unfolding.”

Ananda shook his head once, not in disbelief, but sheer recalibration. “So... what about the monks?”

That was enough to shift the air. Rebecca sat a little straighter.

“They’re part of a very old order,” she said. “They were meant to be keepers of balance. Overseers. They maintained the rituals that sustained the realm. But after the... fall, they became something else. Judges. Executioners.”

Sarocha’s tone sharpened. “They see our bond as a transgression that must be corrected. Permanently.”

“And they’re here?” Ananda asked.

Rebecca nodded. “They confronted us. At the temple.”

“I intervened,” Sarocha said. “They did not expect me to still have strength enough to challenge them. But they’ve grown stronger too. And more desperate.”

“They think killing us might restore the veil,” Rebecca said quietly. “Or stop whatever’s beginning again.”

Ananda looked troubled. “And something is beginning again?”

“Yes,” Sarocha said. “The stirrings in the veil, the signs—the pearls glowing, the dreams. Rebecca’s return. It’s all part of it.”

“They won’t just stop,” Rebecca said. “They think they’re righteous.”

“But if we strike first,” Sarocha murmured, “we prove them right. That we are dangerous. That we should never have been allowed to remain.”

“So you need a third path,” Ananda said slowly. “Mediation. Communication.”

“Exactly,” Rebecca said. “We need someone they don’t perceive as a threat. Someone they might be willing to speak with before things spiral.”

“And you thought of me,” he said, blinking.

“You’re respected,” Sarocha said. “You’re human. You’ve studied this history.”

“You already have access to places they watch,” Rebecca added. “You could make contact without them becoming immediately defensive.”

Ananda was silent for a moment. Then:

“You want me to be a go-between for a mythological being and a secretive death cult of monks.”

“Essentially,” Rebecca said, lifting her tea to her lips.

Ananda stared at her. “Why do you sound so calm about this?”

Rebecca glanced at Sarocha, her smile almost private. “Because I’ve already jumped off the edge. Might as well learn to swim.”

He watched her a beat longer, then looked at Sarocha again. She was silent now, her gaze steady and unreadable—but her fingers remained curled lightly around Rebecca’s wrist.

“If I help,” he said slowly, “if I even try to help—what’s the risk to me?”

Sarocha tilted her head. “They may see you as an accomplice.”

“They could kill me.”

“They could try,” she said, quiet steel under her words. “But I would not let them.”

The shimmer passed over her again, subtle, like light through water. For a moment, Ananda saw the shape of something vast beneath the calm surface—a coil, a glint, a promise of power unspoken.

He exhaled sharply. “Well. That’s reassuring.”

Rebecca snorted. “You’re handling this better than I thought you would.”

“Oh, I’m going to lose my mind later,” he said. “But for now—I’m intrigued. And terrified. But intrigued.”

Ananda set his cup down carefully on the lacquered tray, a pensive look knitting his brow. “Let’s say I agree to try this,” he said. “Convince the monks, open dialogue, play ambassador to an ancient supernatural standoff—what exactly do I tell them?”

He leaned forward slightly. “What could I possibly say to a group of men who have made it their life’s mission to eradicate the two of you?”

Rebecca looked to Sarocha. She gave a faint nod—permission, or perhaps encouragement—and Rebecca turned back to Ananda. “You’d be speaking to them as someone who seeks balance. Peace. That you’re a scholar, not a fighter. That you don’t intend to undermine them—but that you’ve seen the truth for yourself.”

“And you’d be willing to let me see more?” he asked carefully, eyes flicking between them.

“Yes,” Sarocha said softly. “But it must remain with you. If you carry this into the world unguarded, the veil between belief and knowledge collapses. That collapse has a cost.”

“I understand discretion,” Ananda replied. “But if I’m going to stand between two forces like this, I need more than vague metaphor. What exactly is it that I am standing between?”

Sarocha considered that a moment, then stood. “Come,” she said. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

Rebecca rose as well, brushing her fingers across his shoulder as she passed, a wordless signal of reassurance. Sarocha activated the latch that moved the entrance to her chamber of relics and scrolls, then waved them inside. The dim room was glowing with a soft inner fire. Carvings danced across the curved stone walls—Naga twisting through lotus blooms, waves curling around celestial patterns. At the far end of the room, an altar pulsed with gentle bioluminescence.

Ananda exhaled. “This is... ancient.”

“It predates the oldest temples,” Sarocha said. “This house was built around it. My father helped me protect it.”

Rebecca came to stand beside her. “This plot of land is the last place where the tether between the realms remains intact.”

“And the monks?” Ananda asked. “What do they believe this place is?”

“They believe it to be a wound,” Sarocha said quietly. “A scar left by defiance. They believe that until it is sealed—and we with it—the balance will never return.”

“But you don’t believe that,” he said.

Sarocha turned to face him fully. “I believe the wound is not the bond between us—but the pain of tearing it apart. I believe the curse was not born of love—but of shame, fear, vengeance. And I believe the world has lived out of balance ever since.”

Ananda rubbed a hand down his face. “Gods. I always thought the Naga legends were just... coded myths. Political metaphors. Cyclical creation tales. But you’re telling me they’re literal.”

“They were never just metaphor,” Sarocha said. “But yes. The bond Rebecca and I share was once sacred. Until it wasn’t.”

Ananda tilted his head slightly. “So you’re reincarnated? Rebecca?”

She shrugged, a little self-conscious. “Apparently.”

“You have no memory of your past life?”

“Only pieces,” she said. “Flashes. Dreams. Feelings. Sarocha remembers more.”

“And how long have you been—?” He gestured vaguely between them.

“Since the bite,” Rebecca said. “Before that, it was... impossible to name.”

Sarocha’s voice was softer now. “Even now, words are poor vessels for it.”

Ananda chuckled, a little wry. “Right. So I go to these monks, who probably think I’m already tainted for working with you, and I tell them you’re not a threat because your ancient love transcends death and rebirth and they just... listen?”

Rebecca shook her head. “You’d have to offer them something. Some reason to delay. Some possibility of redemption, or at least reassessment.”

“They value order,” Sarocha added. “Balance. You must appeal to that.”

“So not passion. Not justice.”

“No,” she said. “Stability. Legacy. Containment.”

Ananda sighed. “Do they have a leader?”

Sarocha’s expression flickered. “Yes. In the scrolls he is called Pra Sumet. He was young when the judgment was passed. I remember him. And he remembers me.”

“That could work in my favor,” Ananda said slowly. “If he has memory of your restraint. Of your power, yes—but also your mercy.”

Sarocha’s scales flickered again, iridescent along her collarbone. “He will not see mercy. Only the shadow of what he believes I might become.”

“You don’t believe he can be reasoned with.”

“At the very least I believe he can be delayed,” she said. “And that may be all we need.”

“Time to do what?”

“Find the source of the curse,” Rebecca said. “Find a way to undo it. Restore the balance.”

Ananda ran both hands through his hair. “Okay. Hypothetically—hypothetically—I agree to meet them. I speak to Pra Sumet. I ask for a delay. I insist that you are not an imminent danger.”

Sarocha nodded.

“And if they say no?”

“Then you run,” Rebecca said flatly.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“Because if they don’t listen... they won’t hesitate,” Sarocha added.

Ananda looked at both women, then turned back toward the softly glowing chamber. The scent of lotus and mineral water filled the air. This wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t madness. It was something ancient, real, humming with power beneath every breath.

“Well,” he said finally, his voice a bit rough. “I suppose I always did want to get closer to the truth.”

Rebecca smiled faintly. “You’ve jumped off the edge too, then?”

“Apparently so.”

Sarocha stepped closer, her expression still unreadable, her gaze sharp and weighty. “Then we prepare you properly. You must know what to say. And what not to say.”

“Agreed,” Ananda said. “But... one last question.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow.

He pointed toward the shimmering scales curling up her wrist, echoing Sarocha’s own. “What happens if the monks are right? What if the bond really is the cause of all this?”

Rebecca looked toward Sarocha, who had gone very still.

“Then,” Rebecca said quietly, “we’ll face that truth together. But I’m not giving her up. Not again.”

---

The house had taken on the hush of evening, the jungle murmuring in low, rhythmic breaths beyond the windows. Candlelight flickered from scattered alcoves, casting golden halos across the polished wood and stone. Rebecca had brewed a second pot of tea—this one more herbal, calming—and the three of them sat together on floor cushions in the open lounge, the air between them heavy with thought.

Ananda stared into his cup as if some truth might float to the surface. “They see you as... a disruption,” he said at last. “A cosmic one.”

Sarocha nodded slowly. “They believe that a Naga and her Guardian were never meant to... entwine. That the Guardian is to guard, not to love. That our union is an affront to the order.”

“An interruption to the wheel,” Rebecca added, fingers curled around her cup. “That we’re what broke it.”

“But you’re not,” Ananda said. “You can’t be the only thing that’s gone wrong in the world.”

“They think we opened the gate between realms,” Sarocha said. “That our bond invited something unnatural to seep through. Chaos. Corruption. The imbalance.”

“You didn’t,” Ananda said firmly. “Or if you did—it was because the bond was denied, not because it existed.”

Sarocha’s eyes softened, but her tone remained wary. “You believe that. We believe that. But faith is not so easily turned.”

Ananda let out a long breath, then looked at them both. “So what’s the strategy? What do you want me to say to them?”

“Start by appealing to their values,” Rebecca said. “Legacy. Harmony. The natural order.”

“Convince them that our union does not defy the natural order,” Sarocha added, “but may be the only thing that can restore it.”

Ananda raised an eyebrow. “And how do I argue that without sounding like I’ve been seduced by a forbidden myth?”

“You tell them that denying our bond didn’t stop anything,” Rebecca said. “That it only drove the sickness deeper. That cutting us apart won’t heal the wound—it will only reopen it.”

“And that the corruption that chokes the veil is a threat to us all,” Sarocha said. “We want to help fix it. But we need time. We need peace. And we need to eradicate the curse."

Ananda nodded, slowly absorbing it. “So I tell them that the cure might lie in what they thought was the disease.”

Rebecca smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

“And you’re sure they’ll listen?”

“No,” Sarocha said simply. “But we hope they’ll hesitate.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Sarocha stood and crossed the room to an ornate cabinet embedded in the far wall. From within, she drew out a small wooden box inlaid with patterns so fine they looked like threads of starlight.

She returned to the lounge and knelt before Ananda, placing the box in front of him with quiet ceremony. “Open it.”

He did. Inside, nestled on black silk, lay a pendant on a fine gold chain: a single scale, iridescent and gently pulsing with a faint inner glow. It seemed to shimmer in response to his gaze, shifting through hues of green, violet, and silver.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“It’s Naga,” Sarocha said. “One of my own. Shed willingly. It carries my protection.”

Ananda blinked. “It’s alive?”

“In a way,” she said. “It will dull their sense of you. Cloak you slightly. And if any power is cast at you... it may absorb the worst of it.”

Rebecca leaned forward. “Think of it as a spiritual sigil. Like a votive offering. It says you’re under her wing.”

Ananda hesitated, then lifted the chain carefully and slipped it around his neck. The scale settled against his skin with surprising warmth, like it had been waiting.

He looked up. “And what if they sense it?”

Sarocha’s expression was unreadable. “Then they will know that you are trusted. That you stand between us willingly. That, if they strike, they do not strike at a pawn, but at a chosen.”

“Comforting,” Ananda muttered, adjusting the chain. But there was no fear in his voice now—only curiosity, and something steadier, deeper.

“Ask them questions,” Rebecca added. “Let them speak. If they believe you’re there to learn, not to convince, they’ll talk more freely.”

“You’ll be their mirror,” Sarocha said. “Reflect back what they most need to see.”

He looked at them both. “You’re not just asking me to negotiate. You’re asking me to witness.”

“Yes,” Rebecca said. “Because if it comes to war... we want someone left who remembers why we tried to avoid it.”

Ananda leaned back on his hands, the pendant glowing softly against his chest. “I always knew there was more to that site than just relics. But this... this is living history.”

“And it’s yours now, too,” Rebecca said. “We trust you.”

He gave her a long look. “You really think this is what I was meant to find?”

“I think,” Sarocha said, “you were brought to us for a reason. And not just for your mind.”

Ananda grinned faintly. “Careful. Any more flattery and she might bite me next.”

Rebecca’s laugh broke the tension, sharp and sudden. Sarocha, however, did not smile.

“Unlikely,” the Naga said, her voice cool. “I do not share.”

Ananda blinked, then let out a breathless chuckle. “Duly noted.”

The room settled again into quiet.

“You’ll leave tomorrow?” Rebecca asked.

“At dawn,” he confirmed. “I should be at the temple ruins by midday. I could use some time to prepare before then.”

“Take the back trail,” Sarocha advised. “They’ll know your movements either way, but the long path shows deference. Humility.”

He nodded, storing that detail.

Then, softly, Sarocha said, “We’re trusting you with everything, Ananda. Don’t make us regret it.”

He looked at her, saw not just the glimmering of scales or the predator’s grace, but the weight of centuries in her eyes. “I won’t.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then inclined her head.

Outside, the jungle thrummed with nocturnal life, the sky beyond the house bleeding into indigo. Within, the firelight cast quiet shadows over the room, three figures caught in the slow orbit of fate. The kind of silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was sacred. The stillness before movement.

The eve before the next ripple.

Chapter Text

The sun had dipped low by the time the trees split to allow Ananda’s figure to emerge once more through the dense undergrowth. The light caught briefly on the soft gleam of sweat at his temples and the wear of the journey in his shoulders, though his steps remained steady. Sarocha had felt him long before his foot touched the path—her senses sharp and restless since he’d left. She stood at the threshold, arms folded, one eye tilted skyward as if she might interrogate the clouds themselves if they kept him too long.

Rebecca appeared from inside with a folded blanket in her arms, only to pause when she saw them both. “He’s back,” she murmured.

“Obviously,” Sarocha replied, but her posture loosened just a fraction.

Ananda reached the small clearing, greeted first by silence, then by Rebecca’s tentative smile. “Did they listen?” she asked. “You’re in one piece, so that seems promising.”

He managed a tired chuckle. “Listening? Yes. Agreeing? That’s… layered.”

They stepped inside. Rebecca moved to ready the kettle without asking; Sarocha lingered behind Ananda, sharp eyes raking over his form before settling in the opposite chair. The air inside still smelled faintly of ginger root and burnt candlewick, mingled with the tension that had never really left since he departed.

“I take it,” Sarocha said slowly, “you didn’t go entirely empty-handed.”

“No,” he replied. “But they didn’t either.”

He reached into his satchel and withdrew the scroll, its wax seal pristine, the lotus-engraved symbol unmistakable. He held it up between his fingers but did not hand it over.

“They will not call you enemies,” he began, “but nor do they yet call you kin.”

“Typical,” Sarocha muttered, and Rebecca placed the teacups down with a little more care than necessary.

Ananda continued. “They listened to everything. The bracelet. The bond. Your confrontation with them. Rebecca’s return. They were unsettled by it all, yes—but also… intrigued. It’s not lost on them that Rebecca is here now, still bound to you, despite their attempt to sever that connection.”

Rebecca sat beside Sarocha, brow creased. “So… what did they say?”

Ananda leaned forward. “They said that fate may have moved beyond their understanding—but they are not yet ready to trust that it has done so wisely. They see the strength of your bond, and in that strength, they still see danger.”

“They always saw me as dangerous,” Sarocha said. “That’s not new.”

“No,” Ananda agreed, “but what’s new is that they believe your union amplifies that danger. That your bond no longer balances your power but… reflects it. Echoes it. That what was once designed to temper you now strengthens you. That she strengthens you.”

Sarocha glanced sideways at Rebecca, and for a moment something darker, more tender passed between them—unspoken, but unmistakable.

“They still think we’re a threat,” Rebecca said, softly.

“They think you’re an unknown,” Ananda corrected. “But they’ve chosen to delay judgment. To hear you out. They’ve invited you both to appear before the Order—to speak openly. To answer their questions. And…” He hesitated.

Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “There’s a catch.”

Ananda nodded and reached for the chain at his neck.

“They saw this,” he said, drawing out and removing the necklace that Sarocha had given him, the scale now missing. “Even though I tried to keep it hidden. And they—well. They didn’t see it as a mere charm.”

Sarocha sat very still.

“They recognized it as a part of you,” Ananda continued. “Living, resonant. And they claimed it. Said that walking into their sanctuary with it was like offering a gift.”

“It wasn’t a gift,” Sarocha said, low. “It was for your safety.”

“They didn’t ask,” Ananda said carefully. “But they didn’t rip it from me either. They were… reverent. As if it was both sacred and volatile. The abbot himself said it would serve as an anchor. That if things went wrong—if you turned—this would allow them to… respond.”

“So it’s leverage,” Rebecca said bitterly.

“Yes. But also trust, in their own way. A symbolic weight wouldn’t have been enough. They wanted something real. And I—” He looked to Sarocha. “I didn’t fight them for it. I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Sarocha didn’t reply. Her hand closed around Rebecca’s slowly, and her eyes glinted gold for a heartbeat before the shift fell away.

“What else?” Rebecca asked.

Ananda unrolled the scroll, his voice steady as he read.

"They recognize your return as a possibility, not a promise. They acknowledge your bond, but do not yet accept it. They understand you want peace—but say peace must be built, not assumed. The scale will be fashioned into a relic, not to threaten, but to ensure the path remains balanced. It is not a weapon. It is a failsafe. And they offer an audience, under the assurance of safety, where truth must be laid bare."

Rebecca swallowed. “They’re scared.”

“Maybe,” Ananda admitted. “But fear isn’t all they feel. They’re also… curious. I don’t think they understand what’s happening any more than we do. But they want to.”

Sarocha’s voice was quieter now, but no less sure. “And if we go, they will expect us to explain not just our intentions, but our existence.”

“Yes.”

The scroll lay between them now, unrolled like a line drawn in the sand. No one reached for it. The candlelight licked at the script and cast flickering shadows up the wall, as though the words themselves were restless.

“They’re asking for too much,” Sarocha said finally. “My scale—my essence—given to them like a leash. And now they want our presence, like some… performance of humility.”

Ananda didn’t flinch. “It’s a gesture. A compromise. You know they’ll never give without taking.”

“They already took.” Her voice was quiet, but the edge in it was steel. “They took her. They tried to unmake us. And they failed.”

Rebecca reached out again, brushing her fingers along the back of Sarocha’s hand. “Then let them see that failure became something stronger. Something they don’t understand yet, but could—if we let them.”

Sarocha’s gaze slid toward her, some of the tension in her jaw easing. Their fingers threaded instinctively, like muscle memory. The air between them shimmered faintly, and Ananda—sitting with his elbows on his knees, watching the space between their clasped hands—felt again what he’d sensed upon arriving: their bond pulsed like a heartbeat. Quiet. Unyielding.

“I can feel it, you know?” he said aloud. “This… tether. I don’t need a monk’s training to know it’s more than affection.”

Sarocha looked away. Rebecca didn’t.

“It’s everything,” she said simply.

Ananda nodded, slowly. “Then that’s what they need to see. Not the fear. Not the flare of power when something touches a nerve. They need to see what I see now—what you are when you’re together.”

“And what are we?” Sarocha asked. There was no mockery in her tone, only exhaustion.

“A reason to hope,” Ananda said.

Sarocha let out a breath, long and unsteady, and her other hand came up to her brow. Her skin shimmered faintly beneath the candlelight—just there, above her cheekbone—scales rippling like water before vanishing again.

Ananda’s brow furrowed. “There. You see? That’s what they’re afraid of.”

“I know what they’re afraid of,” she snapped, standing abruptly. The motion jolted Rebecca’s hand loose, and for a moment, something surged in the air again—an echo of tension, heat, the faint sound of water somewhere that wasn’t.

“You’re doing it again,” Ananda said, calmly. “The shifting. It’s tied to your emotions, isn’t it?”

Sarocha didn’t answer. She turned her back to them both, shoulders stiff.

“Then how can you expect them to listen,” he continued, more gently now, “if you stand before them with power braided into your nerves, with scales slipping out when your voice rises? They’ll see confirmation of their fears.”

Rebecca rose too, moving to stand between them. “So what do you suggest? That she muffle herself? That she pretend she’s not what she is?”

“No,” Ananda said, carefully. “I’m saying you have to control it. She has to control it. Or they’ll never believe that either of you can coexist with their order.”

“I have control,” Sarocha said, turning now, face pale and drawn. “It’s just that—”

“—your control frays when it comes to me,” Rebecca finished softly.

Silence.

The truth of it hovered between them like steam rising from a cooling cup.

Rebecca stepped forward. “I know you want to protect me. That walking into that temple makes your skin crawl. That every instinct in you wants to keep me away from them. But I’m not leaving you. Not for a moment. If I’m not with you when you face them, they’ll never see the truth of what we are.”

“You think they’ll see it if you’re there?” Sarocha said, low. “Or will they just see a Guardian who’s been turned?”

“Turned into what?” Rebecca challenged. “Someone who chooses you?”

Sarocha looked at her like she was trying not to. Her eyes were luminous. “You don’t understand. I would tear them apart if they tried to hurt you again. No ritual. No vow. Just—gone.”

“I know,” Rebecca said, gentler now. She reached up, thumb brushing over Sarocha’s jaw. “That’s why I need to be there. Not just for you. For them. To show them that we both choose restraint. That we choose each other.”

Ananda watched in silence, something blooming in his chest that was both awe and sorrow. This bond—it was dangerous, yes, but not because it corrupted. Because it illuminated. It made everything more vivid—pain, loyalty, love.

“It’s worth it, isn’t it?” he said after a beat. “Whatever this is between you two. It’s worth the risk.”

Sarocha looked at him, eyes damp but hard. “It’s worth everything.”

Rebecca pressed her forehead to Sarocha’s shoulder. “And I won’t give it up. Not again. Not even for peace.”

“You’ll have to find a third way then,” Ananda said. “Peace without surrender. Power without threat. That’s what they’ll need to believe.”

Sarocha’s voice was quieter now. “And if they don’t?”

He didn’t answer.

But the silence said enough.

---

The night pressed soft against the windows, all shadow and hush, with only the whisper of wind moving through the trees. The house had settled around them—its walls no longer listening, its corners no longer watching. The hearth had been stoked low, the fire a slow, pulsing breath in the grate.

Sarocha sat at the edge of the bed, her back to the room, unbraiding her hair with slow, distracted fingers. Her shoulders held tension like a thread pulled taut, too long and too thin. Rebecca crossed to her without a sound.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured, laying a hand on Sarocha’s shoulder.

“I’m tired,” Sarocha said, but it wasn’t quite a lie, nor quite the truth.

Rebecca slid onto the bed beside her, curling one leg up beneath her. Her hand trailed down from Sarocha’s shoulder to her forearm, then linked their fingers loosely together. The quiet between them felt thick—not uncomfortable, just full. Full of the things they hadn’t said.

“You’re afraid,” Rebecca said finally.

Sarocha’s head bowed, just slightly. “Of many things.”

Rebecca didn’t press. Her gaze dropped to their hands—Sarocha’s fingers longer, stronger, but just as warm, just as trembling.

“They’ll never see us clearly,” Sarocha whispered. “Not the monks. Maybe not even the world.”

Rebecca was quiet, then said softly, “Then let them see us blurred. Let them squint. Let them try to name it and fail.”

That drew a breath of amusement from Sarocha, barely audible. “You speak as if their misunderstanding won’t matter.”

“Oh, it will.” Rebecca turned to face her more fully. “It already has. But we can’t build a life around being palatable to people who never intended to understand us.”

Sarocha turned now too, knees brushing against Rebecca’s. Her eyes were rimmed in shadow, tired and unspeakably lovely in the low firelight. “You always sound so certain.”

“I’m not,” Rebecca admitted, her voice a thread of silk. “I just… know what I can’t live without. That’s the only certainty that matters.”

The air between them thinned again, like something held its breath. Sarocha reached out slowly, her fingers brushing along Rebecca’s cheekbone, the corner of her mouth, her throat.

“You are my imbalance,” she said softly. “But I don’t want balance without you.”

Rebecca’s throat tightened. “Then we find another kind of balance.”

Sarocha’s hand stilled at the hollow of Rebecca’s throat, as if listening to the pulse there. “They’ll want to split us again.”

“They won’t succeed,” Rebecca said. “Not this time.”

There was a pause. Then Sarocha leaned in, forehead pressing to Rebecca’s. The contact was grounding, anchoring. Their breathing aligned without effort.

“I feel you,” Sarocha whispered, “even when you’re in another room. Even when I close my eyes.”

Rebecca’s hands came up to cradle her face. “I don’t know how we came back to this… but I’ll never walk away again.”

Sarocha closed her eyes. “There’s something in me… that reaches for you without asking. That needs you. And that frightens me.”

Rebecca kissed her—light, slow, almost reverent. “Needing someone doesn’t make you weak.”

“But losing someone does.”

Rebecca pressed another kiss just below her jaw. “Then don’t lose me.”

Their mouths met again, and this time, it wasn’t careful. It was unspoken grief and defiance wrapped together, slow-burning, rich with the weight of what they’d survived. Sarocha’s hands slid along Rebecca’s waist, holding her as though she might dissolve into smoke if not tethered.

When they parted again, they were lying in the middle of the bed, half-tangled, the fire casting shifting patterns on their bare arms and collarbones. Rebecca rested her head on Sarocha’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath.

“You’re shifting more,” she said after a while.

Sarocha’s fingers moved through her hair. “I know.”

“It’s not just when you’re angry anymore.”

“No.” A pause. “It’s when I feel… too much. When something in me forgets to keep the edges tucked in.”

Rebecca traced a circle over her ribs. “It’s part of you. I don’t think it’s wrong.”

“Maybe not.” Sarocha’s voice was a little distant now. “But the monks believe power and feeling should be separate. Emotion makes things unpredictable. Wild.”

Rebecca tilted her head up. “Do you believe that?”

“I used to.” Sarocha looked down at her. “But then I met someone who made me understand that being wild isn’t the same as being lost.”

Rebecca smiled softly. “We’ll show them. Not just with words.”

“They might not listen.”

“They might. If we show them not what we are, but who we choose to be.”

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty. Their hands remained entwined. The fire burned lower, but they didn’t move to add wood.

“I dreamed of you,” Sarocha said after a long pause. “When you were gone. I thought it was memory, but… maybe it wasn’t. Maybe something deeper remembered.”

Rebecca’s breath caught faintly. “I think I dreamed of you too.”

They didn’t speak again after that. They didn’t need to.

The stillness was the answer, soft and solemn and holy. As though the very air knew something neither of them could yet name.

The stillness between them was deep and unbroken, the hush of the room layered with more than silence—resignation, hope, the quiet ache of love that has already lost once and cannot bear to again. The fire’s glow sank lower, and yet neither stirred to feed it. They were warm enough, wrapped in each other.

Rebecca turned her face into Sarocha’s skin, breathing her in. The scent of woodsmoke and temple spice and something uniquely Sarocha—earth after rain, wild jasmine bruised on silk. Her hand flattened over the slow rise and fall of Sarocha’s chest. Steady, sure. But beneath it, a pulse she could feel deeper than blood. That same strange rush inside her, responding.

Sarocha shifted slightly to face her more fully, brushing a lock of hair from Rebecca’s brow. Her touch lingered, tracing the curve of her temple, the line of her jaw.

“You’re not sleeping,” Sarocha murmured.

Rebecca opened her eyes. “Neither are you.”

“No,” Sarocha admitted, softer now, almost shy. “I keep thinking this might be the last night that’s ours, untouched.”

Rebecca’s heart twisted. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t want it to be,” Sarocha said quickly. “I just… feel the weight of tomorrow pressing against the walls. And I want to remember tonight without any of that in it.”

Rebecca reached up, fingers slipping into Sarocha’s hair, still loose and dark as ink in the low light. “Then let’s fill it. With something that doesn’t belong to the past or the future.”

Their mouths found each other again, but not with urgency—rather, with reverence. A kiss as if rediscovering each other, not claiming, but marveling. It deepened slowly, one breath to the next, lips brushing lips, then parting to taste. A communion. A pledge unspoken.

Rebecca’s fingers moved to the curve of Sarocha’s shoulder, then down, over the line of her back, as though she could memorize her through touch alone. She felt Sarocha’s hand skim her side in return, gentle and reverent, no rush in the way she caressed her.

Sarocha drew back just enough to look at her. “You make me feel like I’m not cursed. Like this body—this power—was never something to be feared.”

Rebecca’s voice was a whisper. “You aren’t. You never were.”

Sarocha bent to kiss her again, softer this time, then trailed those kisses down the curve of her neck, along the collarbone, and lower still—slow, lingering, as though each press of her lips was a promise sealed in warmth. Her hands slid over Rebecca’s sides with aching tenderness, coaxing rather than claiming, until Rebecca arched into her with a sigh that trembled.

There was nothing hurried in them. They moved as if time had slowed to accommodate their need to feel, to know one another again—not just in the way bodies fit, but in the way hearts echo. Every inch of skin discovered again. Every touch rediscovered its language.

When Sarocha’s mouth descended reverently to Rebecca’s stomach, she paused, resting her lips just below her navel. Her hands pressed to either side, her touch feather-light but deliberate, like she was listening with more than her ears—listening with her whole being.

Rebecca shivered. Not from chill, but from the strange warmth blooming inside her. Her blood sang, a quiet crescendo, like she was lit from within where Sarocha’s mouth had met her skin.

“What are you thinking?” Rebecca asked softly, brushing Sarocha’s hair back.

Sarocha hesitated. “That you feel… different. Not wrong. Just… sacred.”

Rebecca’s breath caught.

Sarocha kissed her belly again, slower this time, her lashes lowered. “Something in me just wants to stay here. To keep you safe, right here, in my arms.”

Rebecca’s fingers threaded through hers. “Then stay. I’m not going anywhere.”

When their bodies came together again, it was like water meeting water. No barrier, no resistance. Only fluid, intuitive joining. Touch became breath, and breath became sound—quiet moans and gasps swallowed in kisses. They held each other through it, the rhythm of their connection as much emotional as it was physical.

Later, when the fire had died to embers and their bodies were still tangled in a loose, intimate knot of limbs and warmth, Rebecca rested her head again over Sarocha’s heart.

“I think we’re more dangerous when we love like this,” she whispered. “But not because it’s wrong.”

“No,” Sarocha agreed, her fingers stroking her back. “Because it’s powerful.”

Rebecca looked up at her. “Then let them fear it. We’ll teach them another way.”

Sarocha touched her forehead to Rebecca’s again, their breath mingling in the space between. “I love you,” she said, not like an oath, but like the quiet truth of morning. “I’ve loved you across worlds. Across lives.”

Rebecca kissed her softly. “And I found you in every one.”

They drifted to sleep that way, limbs entangled, hearts laid bare. The fire gone out. The dark no longer waiting, only watching—cradling them in its quiet before the storm.

---

Morning had not yet announced itself with full conviction—only a pallid hush of blue light bled through the edges of the drawn curtains, settling like breath across the room’s wooden beams and pale linen sheets. The world beyond their sanctuary was still, the hush before something sacred, and within the nest of the tangled blankets, they lay suspended in it, limbs loosely threaded, warmth pressed into warmth.

Sarocha stirred first, but only just. Her hand had remained where it had fallen in sleep—spread across the gentle curve of Rebecca’s waist, thumb cradling the slope just above her navel, as though it had found its home in the night and dared not let go. Her breath brushed the crown of Rebecca’s hair, and she leaned forward to place a kiss there, whisper-soft. The motion drew Rebecca closer in instinctive reply, like a flower tilting toward the sun, her body curving into the contours of Sarocha’s with a sigh that never quite left her lips.

There was no urgency between them now, no need to speak or to move beyond what touch could express. Sarocha’s fingers shifted in reverence, brushing reverently along the subtle lines of Rebecca’s skin, mapping out old patterns and newly noticed ones alike. She kissed the side of her temple, then her cheek, then the hollow beneath her ear, and murmured, “You always fit in my arms as though you were meant to.”

Rebecca smiled sleepily, nestling closer, one leg sliding between Sarocha’s, arms snaking tight around her ribcage. “I think I was.”

They lay in silence after that. The silence between them had never felt empty—it was weighty, thick with the warmth of shared breath and the way their heartbeats began to echo one another in rhythm. Sarocha’s hands wandered again, gently exploring, but they returned again and again to the bare plane of Rebecca’s stomach. She traced it idly at first, like she might trace the rim of a vessel she couldn’t quite name, but with each pass of her fingers, her attention grew more focused, her touch softer, more purposeful.

She leaned down, brushing her lips over the skin there in a slow, contemplative kiss.

Rebecca’s breath caught, a startled flutter that wasn’t quite desire but wasn’t anything else she could name. “Why… do you keep doing that?” she asked, voice barely more than a hum.

Sarocha blinked slowly, as if only now aware of what she’d done. Her hand flattened across Rebecca’s belly, fingers splayed, her palm curving protectively as though to shield something. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and she sounded almost perplexed. “It just… draws me. Like something in me is drawn to you there.”

Rebecca’s hand rose to cover Sarocha’s, pressing it more firmly against her stomach. “It feels… warm. Strange. But not bad. More like…” She trailed off, unable to capture it in words. The rush in her blood felt like recognition and surrender and longing all at once, her body alight under the weight of Sarocha’s affection. Her throat tightened. “Like being called home.”

That made Sarocha still.

She looked up, eyes storm-black in the dim light, and she looked as if she wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the shape of it. Instead, she bent forward once more, pressing another kiss to Rebecca’s belly, then to her hip, then to the ridge of her ribs as she nestled higher, wrapping her arms around Rebecca’s torso and tucking her head beneath her chin.

“You always say things like that,” Sarocha murmured into her skin. “And they make me afraid. Because I think… if I lose you again, I won’t survive it. Not again.”

Rebecca’s arms locked tight around her. “Then don’t lose me. Don’t leave without me. Don’t go anywhere I can’t follow.”

There was a trembling stillness in Sarocha’s breath then, a break in the steadiness of her usually contained exterior. “I can’t bear the thought of bringing you into danger. They tried to tear you away from me once. I don’t know if I can face them again with you beside me, knowing what it might cost.”

Rebecca lifted a hand to Sarocha’s cheek, cradling it, thumb brushing beneath her eye. “But we’re stronger now. We’re not the same as we were. I know you now, not just in my head, but in my bones. And I’m not leaving your side. Not for anything. You didn’t break when I died. You came back for me. You found me again.”

“I didn’t find you,” Sarocha whispered. “You came to me. You always come to me.”

They lay still after that, quiet except for the low symphony of breath and heartbeats, skin against skin. Rebecca drew lazy circles on Sarocha’s back while Sarocha resumed her quiet touches—gentle fingertips dancing along Rebecca’s collarbone, down the line of her spine, always returning, almost compulsively, to her stomach. Every time she did, Rebecca felt the same strange warmth well up in her chest—tender, aching, indefinable.

At last, Sarocha shifted just enough to meet her eyes. “Do you think it means something?” she asked. “That we keep ending up here like this, in this quiet? Like the storm pauses for us.”

Rebecca’s eyes searched hers. “Maybe the storm doesn’t pause. Maybe we’re the eye of it. Maybe everything else is spinning because it can’t understand what this is.”

Sarocha smiled faintly at that, the curve of it brushing Rebecca’s shoulder. “Then let it spin. I will hold you here, in the center of it.”

Rebecca turned, kissing her softly, not with hunger, but with something that felt like a prayer. She curled herself even tighter into Sarocha’s arms, burying her face in the hollow of her throat. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” Sarocha breathed. “Even if the world burns again.”

The morning pressed gently against the window panes, the light now stronger, more insistent. But inside their quiet sanctuary, time remained suspended. There was only touch, and warmth, and the weight of something ancient and mysterious pulsing between them. Not yet named. Not yet known.

But present.

Waiting.

---

The road narrowed the deeper they drove into the jungle. At first, it was paved in the loose, crumbling sense that roads in forgotten places often were—sun-baked asphalt veined with roots and cracked by time—but soon even that gave way to beaten tracks, half-swallowed by green. Vines hung like watchful eyes from the trees, and the air grew heavy, close. Above them, the jungle canopy stitched the sky shut, leaving only thin seams of light.

Sarocha’s hands were steady on the wheel, but her jaw was tight. The terrain demanded her attention, but the tension in the car was not merely from the road. It settled over the three of them like a second humidity—weighty and inescapable.

Rebecca sat beside her in the front, her fingers curled tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Ananda sat in the back, one arm slung along the door, gaze fixed on the passing foliage, but his posture was too still to be at ease.

None of them had spoken for some time.

It was Rebecca who broke the silence first. Her voice was soft, careful, as if it might jostle the fragile peace too suddenly. “When we get there… how should we begin?”

Sarocha didn’t take her eyes from the winding track. “With deference. And clarity. They’ll listen better if we show we understand the gravity of where we stand.”

“They’ll want to test you,” Ananda added from behind them. “Both of you. I suspect they already intend to. You should assume they’ll press against your will in some way—magically, mentally, perhaps even emotionally.”

Rebecca turned slightly in her seat to glance at him. “Can they do that?”

“They are monks,” Sarocha said. “And they are not ornamental. Their discipline was forged for balance, for containment. What they do, they do with purpose.”

Ananda leaned forward, resting an elbow on the center console. “They won’t strike unless they believe the world itself is at risk. But they’ve been wrong before. And they are afraid.”

Rebecca’s eyes flicked back to Sarocha. “So how do we make them not afraid?”

Sarocha’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know.”

The admission was like a stone dropping into still water. Rebecca reached out instinctively, brushing her fingers against the inside of Sarocha’s arm, a small tether. “We’ll be careful. We’ll stay together.”

“They won’t like that either,” Ananda murmured.

“I don’t care,” Rebecca replied, and though her voice was quiet, it held steel. “They don’t get to separate us. That’s not negotiable.”

The corner of Sarocha’s mouth twitched—part grim approval, part quiet worry. She reached for Rebecca’s hand and held it briefly, thumb brushing over the knuckles, before letting go to refocus on a steep bend.

The road sloped upward, the air thinning slightly with altitude. Strange birds called from somewhere high in the canopy, their cries distant and unearthly. The world felt ancient here, layered with a stillness that wasn’t peace so much as vigilance. As though even the trees watched.

Ananda exhaled slowly. “If something goes wrong… If they try to contain you—”

“I won’t let them,” Rebecca said.

“You may not have a choice,” Sarocha said gently. “If it comes to that, I need you to survive. That’s the only thing I will ask of you. If you have to run—”

“I won’t,” Rebecca said again, more firmly. “If they strike you down, they’ll have to strike me too.”

“That’s exactly what I fear.”

“But that’s not how this ends,” Rebecca whispered, turning fully to face her. “You know that. I feel it. In the marrow of me. This… us… it’s not a danger. It’s a bridge.”

Sarocha didn’t answer. Her face was unreadable in the changing light—flashes of sun and shadow as the trees shifted above them.

From the back, Ananda said, “We can prepare safeguards. Wards. Before we enter. Simple ones, woven into gesture and breath. Not to attack—just to shield.”

Sarocha nodded faintly. “But no aggression. No provocation.”

“I understand.”

“Will they know I’m not fully human?” Rebecca asked after a pause.

“They’ll know something,” Sarocha said. “But the bracelet may muddy their perception. They’ll sense its Guardian mark before anything else.”

“They may interpret your bond as a transference,” Ananda added. “They may think your connection allows you to channel power. It’s… not entirely wrong.”

“But not entirely right either,” Rebecca said.

“Exactly.”

The car lurched slightly as they climbed over a root. Sarocha slowed further, jaw tightening. “If they sense imbalance, they’ll react. Emotion is a trigger for fear. That’s why I must remain still.”

There was a beat of silence before Ananda asked, “Can you?”

“No,” Sarocha said quietly. “But I will try.”

Rebecca reached over again and found Sarocha’s hand, entwining their fingers. “I’ll be with you. That’s all that steadies either of us, isn’t it?”

Sarocha nodded once, her voice nearly inaudible. “Yes.”

The jungle deepened, closed in, muffled sound. Rebecca had never known such a profound silence. Even the insects here seemed to whisper. It was a place outside of time, made sacred not by human hands but by something far older, something watchful.

When she spoke again, it was with care. “What if we fail?”

“We don’t fail,” Sarocha said, not as reassurance, but as law. “We adapt. We survive.”

“And if they demand more than we can give?”

Ananda’s voice was steady now, no longer speculative. “Then we remind them of what was lost the last time fear ruled their judgment. We remind them of balance. That guardianship is not a weapon. That power tempered by love is not the enemy.”

Sarocha’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Let us hope they remember that.”

Rebecca rested her head against the window, watching the jungle blur past. Her stomach fluttered—not in fear, but in anticipation, as though something inside her already knew the way forward, as though her blood were guiding her deeper into what she was meant to be.

The sanctuary was close now. She could feel it in her bones.

Chapter Text

The car could go no farther.

Tree roots veined across the narrowing path like stone serpents, and a curtain of hanging vines marked the end of the drivable road. Sarocha cut the engine, and for a moment, silence reclaimed them fully. Even the jungle seemed to pause—as though aware of where they stood, or what might follow.

Rebecca stepped out first. Her boots met the earth with a soft crunch, the scent of loam and water rising around her. Sarocha followed, eyes scanning the trees, and Ananda was last, slinging a small satchel over his shoulder with a sense of ritual rather than utility.

They walked single file into the undergrowth. There was no path now, only instinct and memory—and Ananda’s quiet guidance. Rebecca held close to Sarocha’s side, but neither spoke. There was too much pressing in: not just the weight of the jungle, but of fate. She could feel it coiled in her chest, not dread exactly, but a poised readiness, like standing at the edge of a vast decision.

After perhaps twenty minutes of hiking—though time felt loose and strange—they reached it.

The sanctuary was not carved of gold or stone, but of presence. An open glade ringed with ancient trees that bowed toward a shallow clearing. At the center, a pool reflected the filtered light like silver glass, perfectly still. Around its edge stood five monks.

They wore robes the color of an ashen saffron, simple and loose, but it was not their clothing that drew Rebecca’s eye—it was their silence. They stood like they had been planted there centuries ago, unmoving, eyes closed. Only when Ananda stepped forward and bowed deeply did they stir.

One opened his eyes.

The oldest, perhaps—his skin creased like river-worn bark, his face expressionless. But the moment his gaze touched Sarocha, something behind his eyes flickered. Recognition. Or memory. Or warning.

Sarocha bowed with her hands pressed together. “Pra Sumet.”

The name hung in the stillness.

“We come as you demanded,” she said, voice measured but clear. “I bring no weapon. No deception. Only truth.”

Another monk opened his eyes now—a younger man, perhaps in his forties, though time seemed to sit strangely on all of them. “And yet you come with her.” His gaze shifted to Rebecca, unreadable. “The one who walked beyond the veil.”

Rebecca felt the air change. It wasn’t a threat exactly, but a shift. Like stepping into deeper water.

“I am Rebecca Armstrong,” she said. “I came here for answers. I came here with love.”

The oldest monk—Pra Sumet—tilted his head. “Love is not always the bringer of peace.”

“No,” Rebecca said. “But it may be the harbinger of truth.”

Silence again.

Sarocha stepped forward just half a pace. “I ask audience. As the daughter of Lord Niran, born of sacred blood. As the last of my line.”

“You are not the last,” said a third monk, sharp-eyed and silent until now. “Nor are you a child anymore. You are something changed.”

“Then ask what you mean to ask,” Sarocha said quietly. “We came to be seen.”

Pra Sumet extended one hand toward the pool. “Sit. All of you.”

The word was not invitation but command. Still, they obeyed. Sarocha sat first, cross-legged with spine straight. Rebecca joined her, knees brushing. Ananda took his place behind them, but slightly to the side, a quiet sentinel.

The five monks formed a ring around them, the pool at their center. Birds called somewhere far above, but the glade itself held stillness like a sealed room.

When Pra Sumet spoke again, it was not loud, but it carried. “The girl bears the bracelet.”

“Yes,” Sarocha said. “It returned with her.”

“You claim she is the Guardian reborn.”

“I do not claim,” Sarocha said. “I know.”

“And what proof have you,” asked the younger monk, “that this is not the echo of your own longing?”

Sarocha said nothing.

It was Rebecca who answered. “Because I remember things no living woman should. Because when she bled, I felt it across the ocean. Because when I wear this”—she raised her wrist, the bracelet shimmering subtly in the green light—“the world breathes differently around me.”

Pra Sumet turned to Ananda. “You have studied our history. You have walked the edge of our paths. What do you see?”

Ananda’s voice was measured. “I see no illusion. I see the bond. I have witnessed its power. But more than that—I see a pattern re-emerging.”

Pra Sumet’s brows furrowed. “What pattern?”

Ananda hesitated, then said, “Not repetition. Evolution.”

A rustle moved among the monks. Not dissent. Not yet. But discomfort.

Pra Sumet folded his hands. “There are truths you do not yet grasp. The curse was laid because imbalance nearly broke the world. The Guardian was corrupted by grief and obsession. The Naga rose in defiance of her duty. The love between them became possession. The bond became a chain.”

“I’m not a chain,” Rebecca said quietly.

Sarocha turned to look at her, and Rebecca met her eyes.

“I would never bind you,” Rebecca whispered. “And I am not here to hold you down. I’m here to hold you steady.”

A breath passed. Not one of the monks moved, but Rebecca could feel something—some tension in the glade, as though nature itself leaned closer.

Pra Sumet looked at her long and deep, and when he spoke, it was not unkind. “Then you will need to prove it.”

Sarocha’s hands curled into fists against her knees. “What does that mean?”

The younger monk answered. “It means the bond must be tested. If what you share is evolution, not descent, then it must be shown through trial. Through restraint. Through clarity under fire.”

Rebecca nodded slowly. “Then tell us what must be done.”

“We will,” Pra Sumet said. “But you must understand—if your love brings imbalance, if your bond begins to unravel the seals of this world—we will act. No matter what you are. No matter who you were.”

Sarocha’s voice was low. “Then I suggest you watch carefully. Because we are not here to destroy the world.”

Rebecca’s hand found hers again. “We’re here to heal it.”

The wind stirred—only slightly, but enough to ripple the surface of the pool. One monk reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a small vial, no larger than a thumb. Inside: something black and iridescent. Fluid, but alive.

Sarocha inhaled sharply. Her nails dug into her own palms.

“My scale,” she said.

Pra Sumet nodded. “It is your tether now. And our proof of what you have become.”

Rebecca looked between them, then at the scale. It pulsed faintly in the monk’s hand, like a heartbeat echoing her own. “You intend to use it against her.”

“No,” Pra Sumet said. “We intend to use it for balance.”

“You mean as a leash.”

“We mean as a safeguard,” the younger monk interjected. “Should her control break. Should your bond twist beyond itself. You walk the path of those who destroyed themselves before.”

“We walk the path forward,” Rebecca said, her voice steel.

“And yet you walk it blind,” said the third monk. “Do you know why the curse was laid? Not in story. In truth.”

Sarocha’s jaw tensed. “The curse was a punishment. For love the world called deviant. For powers it feared.”

“No,” Pra Sumet said simply. “The curse was not for love. It was for imbalance. The Naga of the past grew drunk on power, and their Guardians stopped grounding them. The bond broke from reverence into recklessness. Whole landscapes were drowned. People disappeared into the earth. Rain fell for a year without stopping.”

The wind was gone now. Everything listened.

“It was not your bloodline alone,” he continued, “but many. There were once dozens of Guardian families—descendants of mortals bound to Naga through sacred pact. When the pact was kept, there was balance. Prosperity. Rain and fertility. Wisdom. When it was broken—chaos.”

Rebecca frowned, heart beginning to race. “You said families—plural. So… others may remain?”

“Scattered,” said Ananda softly, “or hidden. Some may have diluted beyond recognition. But yes—if the curse is to be undone, the Guardian lines must return.”

Rebecca’s thoughts turned to Ayutthaya. Her grandmother’s voice. A cousin with quiet eyes and strange instincts. “I… might not be the only one.”

“You are not,” Pra Sumet said. “But you are the first to awaken. The first to stand at the threshold again. The question is—will you stand? Or will you fall as your ancestors did?”

“I won’t fall,” she said.

“You don’t know what falling means yet,” the younger monk said.

Rebecca opened her mouth to respond, but Sarocha touched her arm. “Let them finish.”

Pra Sumet raised a hand, settling the group. “This is our offer: We will begin research toward a ritual that may unravel the curse. The conditions will not be light. The return of the Naga will not be granted unless the Guardians return also—and the bond between must be proven stable.”

Sarocha’s gaze narrowed. “How do you define ‘stable’?”

“Not measured in docility,” Pra Sumet said. “But in restraint. In discipline. You are more powerful now, Sarocha Chankimha, than any of your kind in recent memory. When she is near”—he nodded toward Rebecca—“your aura warps rivers. Your anger scalds the earth. You must remain whole even when tested. Especially when tested.”

“And if I do not?” Sarocha asked. “If I falter?”

“Then the curse remains,” the third monk said. “Or worse. The ancient seals will rupture. You will not only forfeit your place in this world—you may destroy it.”

Rebecca felt her breath catch. The danger wasn’t new—but hearing it spoken aloud made it tangible.

“And if we succeed?” she asked.

“Then the balance is reestablished,” said Pra Sumet. “The curse lifted. The Naga returned. But more than that—the world changes. The old order falls away.”

Sarocha gave a short, dry laugh. “So the monks would adapt at last.”

“It is not the monks who must adapt,” said the younger one. “It is the world. We are merely its witness.”

Pra Sumet turned his gaze to Ananda. “You will be our eyes. You will walk with them when they allow it. You will record what transpires.”

Ananda bowed his head.

“And if things go wrong?” Sarocha asked.

The scale in the monk’s hand pulsed.

“We act,” Pra Sumet said. “And we do not ask again.”

Sarocha’s mouth tightened, but she nodded. “We accept.”

Rebecca reached for her hand beneath the hem of her coat and squeezed once. Sarocha returned it, brief but sure.

Pra Sumet’s eyes lingered on their joined hands. “You carry more than you know,” he said softly. “And the world will ask more than you expect.”

Rebecca didn’t answer.

She couldn't.

Because somewhere in her chest, something ancient stirred.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

But the feeling that their trial had already begun.

The scale was sealed once more into its vial, and tucked away in Pra Sumet’s robes. The gesture was ceremonial, yet charged—like sheathing a blade beside the body it might one day cut.

“You are to leave the temple before dusk,” Pra Sumet said. “This place will not protect you. It must not. You will return to the world, to your business and politics, and to the pressure of being seen. That is part of your trial.”

Rebecca’s stomach tightened. “What exactly do you mean by trial? Is there something specific we must do, or simply not do?”

“Both,” Pra Sumet replied. “You must live—and not unravel. You must remain joined—but not dependent. You must endure the ordinary world with extraordinary restraint. There is no ritual to perform yet. There is only proof to offer.”

“Proof to whom?” Sarocha asked.

“To us. To the other Guardians, if they begin to awaken. To the Naga who still dream. And most of all, to the land itself. If your union destabilizes the ley lines beneath your feet, we will know.”

“And if we don’t?” Rebecca asked.

Pra Sumet nodded. “Then we begin preparing the rite. To lift the curse. To call back what has been locked beneath the mountains and rivers. To restore the pact of Guardian and Naga—not as it once was, but as it must be now.”

A silence fell over the room. Even the lanterns seemed to flicker more gently, as if unwilling to disturb the gravity that now hung between them.

Sarocha’s voice was low, but steady. “You said the pact must evolve. You implied… our bond may be the start of something new.”

“We do not bless it,” said the younger monk, tone clipped. “We do not understand it. But we can no longer pretend it is aberration alone.”

“The old order is brittle,” Pra Sumet said, almost gently. “It cannot hold the weight of the world that is coming. If your bond is a corruption, it will break. If it is a foundation, it will endure. That is why we watch.”

Rebecca glanced at Ananda, whose expression remained unreadable. The weight of his presence had changed—no longer the pursuer, not quite an ally. A witness. A thread of tension strung between past and future.

“And the cost of failure?” she asked. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Pra Sumet did not answer right away.

“The seals will hold. But you will be separated. Perhaps forever. If Sarocha becomes unstable, we will lock her in one of the vaults below. If you turn out to be the trigger, you may be… removed.”

Sarocha moved to stand in one swift and sure motion, amber sparking at the edges of her pupils, a shimmer lightly grazing her skin. “Touch her, and I’ll—”

“You’ll destroy what little case you’ve built,” Pra Sumet interrupted, his voice like the clang of temple bells. “Your power is not in question, Sarocha. Your judgment is.”

Silence.

And then Sarocha said, with aching deliberation, “I understand.”

The vow tasted bitter on her tongue. But she would make it. For Rebecca. For what they might become.

The monks turned to go. Ananda lingered, gaze briefly meeting Rebecca’s. Something passed between them—an understanding, perhaps, of the strange, sharp intimacy that arises from surviving each other.

Then even he followed.

Leaving them alone by the pool.

For a moment, neither spoke. Rebecca’s hand was still in Sarocha’s, warm and trembling.

Finally, Sarocha said, “You should have let me take the blame.”

Rebecca shook her head. “I didn’t come back to stay silent.”

“You came back,” Sarocha whispered. “You came back.”

They folded into each other’s arms—no performance now, no seduction. Just breath, and body, and the thudding promise of survival.

And deep between them, a thrum.

Barely perceptible.

But ancient.

Not yet known, not yet revealed.

But present.

Carried within Rebecca.

Shielded by gold and blood and something older than both.

Life.

---

The jungle had not uncoiled itself in their absence. If anything, the path back to the car seemed narrower than before, as if the trees had leaned in, curious—or cautious. Rebecca said nothing as they walked, her hand still lightly brushing Sarocha’s, not to guide, but to anchor. Sarocha moved with a steadiness that belied the slow twist of dread in her stomach. Neither had spoken since the monks had vanished between the trees like ghosts dissolving into mist.

Their vehicle waited just as they had left it, dappled with leaf-shadow, heat clinging to its metal skin. Rebecca paused at the passenger door, looking back over her shoulder.

“Will they keep their word?” she asked, low.

“They never speak idly,” Sarocha replied. “But I don’t yet know if that’s a comfort.”

The crunch of approaching footsteps drew both their eyes. Ananda emerged from the trees, his expression unreadable, his hands loose at his sides. He had removed his sandals to walk on the sacred ground; now he stepped barefoot over leaf-litter and root, unhurried. When he reached them, he exhaled as though releasing more than breath.

“They've given their ruling,” he said simply.

Rebecca straightened, instinctively bracing. “And?”

“They will not lift the curse. Not yet.” He looked to Sarocha, then back to Rebecca. “But they have agreed to begin preparations—should your actions prove you are capable of shifting the balance without breaking it.”

Sarocha’s jaw tightened. “We already risked everything to meet them. How much more will they ask before they acknowledge that what we have is not poison?”

“They don’t see it as poison,” Ananda said quietly. “They see it as… volatile. Unprecedented. Sacred, yes—but ungoverned. And the last time something sacred went unchecked, it brought war between realms.”

Rebecca stepped forward. “So what do they want from us? What does this trial look like?”

Ananda hesitated. Then: “They want you to investigate a rupture.”

Sarocha’s brow lifted. “Where?”

“Near Loei. In the hills above the Mekong. Something old has surfaced—an opening. They believe it may be the mouth of a Naga burrow, or the remnant of one. But the energy is—wrong. Distorted. The veil between realms is thinning there, not naturally, and not safely.”

Rebecca glanced at Sarocha. “You think it’s related to the curse?”

“Possibly,” Ananda said. “Or to something that was buried by it. The monks can’t approach directly without agitating the spirits. But you”—he looked pointedly at both of them—“you exist in the breach. You carry it. So you might be able to read what they cannot.”

Sarocha folded her arms, weight shifting onto one hip. “So we are their canaries.”

“You are their hope,” Ananda countered. “If you can stabilize that site without unleashing something worse, it may convince them that your bond doesn’t erode harmony—it deepens it.”

Rebecca rubbed her forearm absently, fingers trailing over the bracelet. “And if we fail?”

“Then the site collapses. The boundary between worlds weakens. The curse tightens. And they’ll come for you. Fast.”

There was a silence. The kind that buzzed faintly in the heat, where insects dared not chirp.

Finally, Rebecca said, “We’ll go.”

Sarocha’s head turned sharply, but there was no surprise in her eyes—only the shadow of fear, held in check.

“I won’t wait for them to decide we’re worthy,” Rebecca added. “We’ll show them. And if the ground swallows us in the attempt, so be it.”

Ananda gave a faint nod. “They’ve assigned me as liaison. I’ll go with you. Not to interfere—only to observe, assist where needed, and report back.”

Sarocha’s lip curled slightly. “And ensure we don’t deviate.”

“Yes,” Ananda said, unflinching. “But also because I believe in you. Both of you. If there is a future for our kind, it lies in what you’re becoming. The monks know it too—they’re just too afraid to admit it yet.”

Rebecca opened the car door and slid inside without another word. Sarocha lingered a moment, her gaze fixed on Ananda.

“You understand that what we’re becoming… it doesn’t end at balance,” she said.

“I know,” he replied.

“It changes everything.”

“Then let it.”

She held his gaze a moment longer. Then she turned, entered the car, and started the engine.

---

The drive back to the river house was quieter than the one that had taken them to the temple. Not because the tension was gone—it wasn’t—but because something had crystallized. The fear was still there, but it had form now. A shape. A name.

Loei.

Rebecca stared out the window as the jungle unspooled around them, denser here in the lower valley. The closer they came to the Chao Phraya, the more the air felt charged—not with dread, but with some subterranean pull. Like something just beneath the river’s surface was beginning to wake.

When they finally reached the private road that curved toward the estate, the protective wards shimmered faintly in the heat haze—sigils etched into stone pillars, half-swallowed by moss and time. Sarocha drove them through without a word, and the feeling changed instantly. Here, within the boundaries of the sacred grounds, the air was still—but not dead. Watching.

The house emerged slowly from the tree-line. Rebecca had never quite grown used to its presence. It wasn’t ostentatious—no sprawling mansion—but it held weight, as though grown rather than built. Ancient wood, worn stone, and thatch braided with enchanted thread. A house carved out of memory and myth.

As they parked and climbed out, Sarocha paused.

“Tonight,” she said softly, “we rest. Tomorrow, we begin to prepare for the hills.”

Rebecca nodded. “How long a journey?”

“A few hours north,” Ananda said. “The site is remote. We’ll need offerings. Supplies. Wards.”

“I’ll begin the inventory,” Sarocha said.

“I’ll gather maps and trace recent disturbances,” Ananda added.

Rebecca hesitated, then turned toward the riverbank, toward the waters that pulsed faintly at the edge of sight.

“I’ll go there,” she said. “Just for a while. To listen.”

Sarocha’s eyes flicked to her. “Take care. It stirs easily now.”

Rebecca gave a small nod and slipped away, her footsteps light on the old stones.

Ananda waited until she’d gone before he spoke again.

“There’s one more thing the monks said,” he said, voice pitched low. “They didn’t intend for me to share it yet. But I think you should know.”

Sarocha’s eyes narrowed. “Say it.”

“If the energy at Loei is what they suspect… then something may already be trying to come through. Something bound before the curse was laid. Something that remembers what it means to be free.”

Sarocha went very still. “And they’re sending her there?”

“They’re sending you both there. Together.”

He met her gaze.

“And if that frightens them—it should.”

---

The sun hung low above the horizon, its descent casting the Chao Phraya in honeyed gold. The water moved slowly, wide and dignified, each ripple a soft breath, a rhythm older than any city that lined its banks. Rebecca stood barefoot at the river’s edge, the packed earth still warm beneath her soles, and the scent of the water—mineral-rich, tinged faintly with incense and silt—filling her lungs with something both grounding and ancestral.

She’d said little since they left the temple.

The house had seemed overwhelming once they returned, too brimming with tension and memory, so she had slipped away, following the narrow trail that wound through groves of banyan and tamarind down to the riverbank, where the land opened up and the world could exhale.

Now she stood with her arms loosely crossed, the guardian bracelet heavy on her wrist. She glanced down at it—not for reassurance, but to study it, as if she might see through the fine filigree and aged metal to the mysteries it had kept hidden from even her. It had brought her back. It had shielded her from the monks’ sight. And it was still hiding something—she could feel that now. A warmth at the pulse point, gentle but steady, like the heartbeat of something waiting.

She sat slowly, knees drawn to her chest, and watched the current.

Everything had changed.

Not just in the obvious ways. She was alive again. She was bound to something—someone—more deeply than any vow or tether she’d ever imagined. But the restlessness in her chest wasn’t only fear of the trial or the monks’ judgment. It was something stranger: a hollow space inside her that felt like it had once held grief, but was now occupied by something unnamed. Something growing.

Rebecca rested her chin on her knees. “What are we supposed to become?” she whispered, not really asking the river. Not really asking anyone.

She heard the footsteps behind her only once they were close—quiet, deliberate, familiar. Sarocha did not announce herself. She simply sank down beside Rebecca, folding herself into a graceful seated position, her hands resting on the tops of her thighs. They didn’t speak for a while.

Sarocha’s presence altered the air, not by force, but by attunement. The kind of shift that made you realize your skin had been too tight until it loosened. Her gaze wasn’t on the water, but on Rebecca. Studying her in silence. Waiting, as always, for consent to enter whatever space she sensed Rebecca had retreated into.

Eventually, Rebecca tilted her head. “Do you remember this river?”

Sarocha nodded. “It remembers me.”

There was no smile in her voice, but no sorrow either. Just something reverent. Rebecca turned her eyes back toward the water.

“I feel like I’m remembering it for the first time,” she said. “And also like I never left it. Isn’t that strange?”

“Not strange,” Sarocha murmured. “Only sacred.”

Rebecca drew a slow breath. “I thought dying would be the hardest part,” she said. “But it’s this. Being back. Being seen again. Every step forward feels like it’s pulling something loose in me I didn’t even know was there.”

Sarocha reached over gently, her hand resting atop Rebecca’s where it gripped her own ankle. She didn’t try to answer. She only offered warmth.

“I don’t think the monks wanted to destroy us,” Rebecca said after a while. “Not really. I think they were afraid. And still are.”

Sarocha’s fingers tensed slightly. “They nearly succeeded regardless.”

Rebecca turned to look at her, the angle of her face catching the orange light, softening the tension in her brow. “But they didn’t. Because you didn’t let them.”

Sarocha’s throat moved, a quiet swallow. “I would burn the world before I let them take you again.”

Rebecca leaned in, resting her head gently against Sarocha’s shoulder. The scales just beneath the skin hummed faintly beneath her cheek, a quiet vibration of power held in restraint.

“You didn’t have to,” she said softly. “You held back.”

A long silence passed between them. The sun slipped lower, casting long shadows across the river’s gleaming surface.

“I think they saw that too,” Rebecca continued. “That restraint. That it wasn’t just rage. You weren’t claiming vengeance. You were… containing it. Choosing me, over power. That’s what shook them.”

Sarocha looked down at her. “And what did you choose?”

Rebecca tilted her chin, meeting her gaze. “You.”

It wasn’t said with bravado. Only truth.

“Even if they curse us again?” Sarocha asked quietly. “Even if this trial ends with them hunting us down? With the earth itself closing around us?”

Rebecca sat up just enough to cup Sarocha’s face, her thumb brushing the faint curve of scale that surfaced near her jawline. “Even if all of that happens, I would choose you every time. Every life.”

The admission felt like a stone dropped into still water. No rush of drama, only a ripple that would carry through everything else.

Sarocha closed her eyes, then leaned forward until their brows touched. “Then we will face Loei together.”

Rebecca’s eyes opened slowly. “Will it be dangerous?”

“No,” Sarocha said. “Not in the way you fear. It is not a threat, but a test. A wound that echoes ours—but one we did not cause. The monks are sending us not to fight, but to listen.”

“To listen to what?”

Sarocha drew back, just slightly. “The land. The silence. The dissonance. They want to know if we can soothe what we did not break. If our bond can reach beyond itself.”

Rebecca considered that. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Then we will listen.”

They sat in silence again as the river darkened, the last light of day flickering on the slow surface like tiny flames. In the hush, the world seemed to lean closer. Not threatening. Not even expectant. Just attentive.

Waiting. Watching. Listening.

And, somewhere deeper, already beginning to stir.

---

Evening settled like a benediction across the sacred grounds, cicadas buzzing their lullaby in the trees, the moon not yet risen but the stars already pricking the sky through the gaps in the canopy. The open-air dining pavilion glowed softly under the hanging lanterns that swayed with the breeze, their golden light warming the polished wood and casting long shadows behind the carved posts.

Dinner was simple, local: grilled river fish wrapped in banana leaves, sticky rice in woven baskets, a tangy som tam that made Rebecca’s lips burn and Sarocha’s brow quirk in amusement.

They sat around a low table on floor cushions, a jug of cool pandan water between them. It wasn’t silence, but it was peace—the kind with enough space in it to let the nerves settle, the thoughts rise gently to the surface.

Rebecca picked at a thread of papaya with her fingers, her wrist brushing the cool rim of her bracelet. “So… Loei.”

Ananda looked up, setting his chopsticks down. “The monks weren’t exactly generous with their details.”

“No,” Sarocha agreed, reclining back slightly with feline grace, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. “But they didn’t need to be. Loei is not chosen at random.”

“It’s a curious place,” Ananda said, leaning in. “Historically significant, but off most radar. People forget how many sacred sites lie tucked into the limestone mountains. Shrines, caves, forgotten temples half-swallowed by jungle. Many of them were once dedicated to the river spirits—specifically Naga.”

“And now?” Rebecca asked.

“Mostly abandoned,” Ananda said. “Some converted to more modern Buddhist worship. Others left to decay.”

Sarocha added softly, “But the ground still remembers. That cannot be undone. The Naga once coiled beneath those mountains, curled like smoke through the forests and springs. Not from my own colony—but we knew of them. A proud, reclusive branch. More bound to dream than to water.”

Rebecca frowned. “Dream?”

Sarocha nodded. “Some Naga dwell primarily in sleep. They rest long, wake rarely, and exist as both memory and force. When the curse fell, those who dreamed fell deeper. Cut off from the bonds that once tethered them gently to the surface world, they drifted. Many are likely still there, waiting for the balance to shift.”

Rebecca glanced between them. “So if something is stirring now, what does that mean?”

Ananda rested his elbows on the table. “That the old ties are fraying, or reforming. Perhaps both. The monks want to know if the world can hold the Naga again—not just the powerful ones like Sarocha, but the quiet ones. The waiting ones.”

“And we’re supposed to… what? Find one?”

“Not necessarily,” Ananda said. “But you’re both a… barometer, of sorts. If your bond can exist without destabilizing the environment, maybe it means the others can begin to return too. Carefully. Gradually.”

Sarocha’s voice was low. “The trial is not about action. Not yet. It’s about resonance. If there is an imbalance in Loei, we are to witness it. Understand it. Offer what we can, if anything.”

Rebecca exhaled slowly, letting her body relax into the cushion. “And if something is… wrong there?”

Sarocha’s eyes met hers, steady. “Then we will not fix it by force. That is the monks’ warning, and their test. We must approach this as proof of our bond’s harmony. Not its might.”

Rebecca looked down at her plate, then past it, out into the night beyond the glow of the lanterns. The dark trees shimmered faintly under starlight, their forms ancient, familiar, watching.

“It’s strange,” she murmured. “I always thought of this connection—between Naga and Guardian—as something inherited. Something passed down like a duty or a title. But it feels… more than that now. Like it’s evolving.”

“It is evolving,” Ananda said. “The old pairings were based on balance, yes, but also control. Symbiosis forged under structure. You and Sarocha… you’re something new. Something the curse didn’t account for.”

“That’s what frightens the monks,” Sarocha said. “Not just our love. But that it changes the bond. And if the bond changes—so do the rules.”

Ananda leaned back slightly, expression contemplative. “And that’s why Loei matters. Because if your connection can begin to mend what’s broken there… even quietly, even spiritually… it suggests that this evolution isn’t a corruption, but a correction.”

Rebecca gave a small, thoughtful smile. “A rebalancing.”

Sarocha reached for her hand under the table, fingers cool and certain. “You are not alone in this. We will move at your pace. We will prepare. And when we go, we go together.”

“I know,” Rebecca whispered, eyes soft. “I’m not afraid of Loei. I just… want to understand. What this is becoming. What we’re becoming.”

Ananda rose to refill their water, pausing at the edge of the lantern light. “Then you should know,” he said quietly, “the monks don’t believe yours will be the last bond to reform.”

Rebecca glanced up. “You mean more Guardians?”

“Yes,” he said. “When the curse breaks—and it will—others may wake. Others may remember. The bloodlines are scattered but not extinguished. If even one begins to stir…”

Sarocha finished for him, her voice like the river at night: “Then the Naga will return. And they will look for us.”

The table was silent for a long moment.

Then Rebecca smiled, slow and sure. “Let’s make sure they have something worth finding.”

Chapter Text

The light filtering through the shutters was soft, warm, and unhurried, like a whisper of the river’s own rhythm—languid, ancient, and patient. Morning came slowly here. The house, enfolded in mist and birdsong, felt like it floated somewhere between time and myth, suspended.

Inside, the bedroom was drowsy with golden haze and the residual heat of two bodies tangled together beneath the linen sheets. Rebecca stirred first, not from any alarm, but because she could feel Sarocha already awake—barely—her breath deep and even, her arms wrapped possessively around Rebecca’s waist, one leg slung between hers.

Rebecca let her eyes open slowly. She turned her head just enough to see the top of Sarocha’s head where it rested near her shoulder, dark hair spilled like ink across the pillow. A strand brushed Rebecca’s collarbone. She didn’t move it.

It was quiet like this. Sacred.

Sarocha sighed in her sleep and nuzzled lower, her lips brushing Rebecca’s collarbone. Rebecca felt the kiss like a flicker of heat through her whole body.

“I know you’re awake,” Rebecca murmured, voice still hoarse with sleep.

A soft hum. Sarocha didn’t open her eyes. “You’re warm. I like this version of waking.”

Rebecca chuckled, but it came out more like a sigh. “You’re always warm.”

Sarocha finally cracked one eye open, gaze still lazy, unfocused. “Mm. Not just me. You feel... different. Like you’re glowing.”

Rebecca blinked. “What?”

Sarocha’s hand had already begun to slide down from her waist, slowly—gently—until it rested across the curve of her lower belly. She didn’t press. Just laid it there like it belonged, like it had always belonged.

Rebecca went still. Not startled, just... aware. Suddenly, powerfully aware.

“This is becoming a morning ritual,” she said quietly. “You touching me there.”

Sarocha didn’t apologize. Didn’t move her hand either. “I can’t help it,” she admitted, voice hushed, reverent. “It feels like... something’s calling me. Like I need to be close to this part of you.”

Rebecca felt the heat bloom beneath her skin again. Not embarrassment. Not confusion. Something heavier. Hungrier.

Sarocha shifted, propping herself on one elbow now, the sheet slipping slightly down her bare shoulder. Her eyes were clearer, though still soft with sleep, and they studied Rebecca’s face with open devotion.

“You don’t think it’s just... me being clingy?” she asked, quieter now.

“No,” Rebecca whispered. “I think you know something I don’t. I think maybe you’ve always known before I did.”

There was silence between them, but not emptiness. It buzzed with unsaid things—curiosity, longing, heat. And then Rebecca added, almost reluctantly, “I feel... strange lately. Not bad. Just... full.”

Sarocha’s thumb began to move in small circles against her skin, just beneath the sheet. The touch wasn’t sexual, not at first. It was grounding. Anchoring. But it stirred something in Rebecca anyway—something ancient and instinctive and inexplicable.

Sarocha leaned in and pressed her lips just below Rebecca’s navel.

Rebecca gasped.

It wasn’t a kiss meant to seduce, but it unspooled her all the same. Her body arched, only slightly, and her breath caught in her throat.

Sarocha froze, sensing the shift. “Too much?”

Rebecca shook her head, dazed. “No. Just... intense.”

Sarocha’s mouth lingered. She kissed again. Slower this time. Then nuzzled her cheek against Rebecca’s belly like a cat marking something precious.

“You’re glowing,” she said again, more to herself this time. “I feel it. It’s not just your magic. It’s you. All of you. Changing.”

Rebecca’s fingers found Sarocha’s hair, threading through it without thought, pulling her closer rather than easing her away. Her heart was racing now—not from fear or anxiety, but something deeper. Some thread of instinct tugging at the roots of her spine.

“Sarocha,” she breathed raggedly. “I want... I don’t know.”

But she did know. Not with her mind. Not with language. But with the part of her that had opened when she stood barefoot in the river weeks ago and let the world break her open.

She wanted to give in.

She wanted to be seen—completely. Wanted to be known so thoroughly that there would be nothing left to hide.

Sarocha lifted her head slowly, her mouth still close enough that Rebecca could feel her breath against her skin. “You don’t have to know. Not with words. Just show me.”

That simple offer shattered whatever restraint was left between them.

Rebecca reached for her then, pulling her up and over until Sarocha’s body hovered above hers. Her doe eyes were begging, pleading for Sarocha to take her. But instead of taking control, Sarocha paused—hands planted on either side of Rebecca’s shoulders, gaze dark and steady. She could sense Rebecca's need, her hunger to be covered by her mate.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmured.

Rebecca’s voice was a raspy whisper. “You won't. Just... hold me down. Please..."

Sarocha inhaled sharply. Something in her eyes shifted—like hearing a call she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for. And then she sank, slowly, her mouth finding Rebecca’s again, but this time it wasn’t sweet or tentative. It was consuming.

There was reverence in her hands, yes—but also hunger. Not just for touch, but for surrender. Not domination, but a claiming that neither of them had the words for.

Rebecca felt herself slipping into something. Not passivity—no. It was deeper than that. A yielding that had nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with trust. She wanted to be seen. To be taken into Sarocha’s arms and kept there, fully. No more proving. No more deflecting.

Just this.

And all the while, even as hands slid lower and kisses deepened, Sarocha kept returning to that one place—Rebecca’s belly. Her hands circled there, her lips brushed reverently there, and with every touch, Rebecca felt the heat coiling tighter inside her.

Sarocha’s voice, ragged and low, barely broke through the haze: “There’s something in you that sings to me. Not just your magic. Not just your soul. Something more.”

Rebecca gasped, hands fisting in the sheets. “Then listen. Take it. Whatever it is, it’s yours too.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that. Words would have only broken the spell.

The air between them was thick now—humid with wanting, heavy with need. Sarocha hovered above Rebecca, her breath shallow and drawn tight, like the tension coiling in her spine. She could feel herself edging toward something primal, something ancient, some wild inheritance that slumbered just beneath her skin.

Rebecca lay beneath her, mouth parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her skin glowed faintly in the morning light—dewy, flushed, golden. She looked like some lost goddess remembered only in half-whispers and river songs, her hair splayed across the pillow, her body arched and open.

The silence between them was a drumbeat. It pulsed. It beckoned.

Sarocha leaned down again, slower this time, her lips ghosting over Rebecca’s collarbone, then lower, tracing the dip between her breasts. She paused there, breath stuttering. Her hand remained splayed over Rebecca’s stomach, unmoving, but every fiber of her being was drawn there. Like gravity. Like fate.

Rebecca trembled beneath her. “Sarocha…”

The sound of her name like that—barely a whisper, heavy with need—shredded the last of her restraint.

“I need—” Sarocha’s voice cracked. “I need to feel you. All of you.”

And then, with a tender firmness that left no room for doubt, she guided Rebecca to roll onto her front.

Rebecca went willingly, her breath hitching as her cheek pressed to the pillow and her spine curved ever so slightly in offering. Not submission for its own sake, but a deliberate surrender. A gift. One Sarocha would treat with the reverence it deserved—even if her hands were already trembling from how much she wanted.

She knelt between Rebecca’s legs, her hands framing her hips, palms splayed across smooth skin. Her thumbs stroked lazy circles, grounding them both.

And then—just beneath her right hand—she felt it.

A flicker. A pulse. Something not quite beneath the skin, not quite magic. Like... a ripple in the river.

She leaned down, nose brushing the nape of Rebecca’s neck, inhaling her scent. Her lips parted against warm skin, and her voice dropped lower, velvet and guttural.

“There’s something inside you waking up.”

Rebecca didn’t answer, but the shiver that rippled through her body said everything. Her back arched just slightly, spine flexing like a bowstring, and for a split second, Sarocha saw something shimmer at the base of her back.

Not a trick of the light.

Scales.

Just a whisper of them—iridescent and fleeting, like oil on water. And then they were gone.

Sarocha’s breath caught.

She blinked, and her vision sharpened beyond the human spectrum. The amber of her eyes deepened, then fractured into gold-veined slits. Her fingers flexed against Rebecca’s hips, the nails just a little too pointed, a little too sharp.

Something was stirring in her, too.

Not just want. Not just the pull of body to body.

It was the claiming.

Her kind—Naga—were possessive, instinctual, territorial. To love was to protect. To protect was to mark. And though she tried to fight to keep those instincts buried, now, with Rebecca bared beneath her and that shimmer of matching magic beginning to wake within her, there was no stopping it.

She bent down, kissed Rebecca’s shoulder blade, then trailed her tongue along the curve of it, tasting salt and skin and something new—something electric.

Rebecca moaned softly, hips shifting back just enough to brush against Sarocha’s thighs. “Whatever’s waking up,” she whispered, voice muffled by the pillow, “don’t stop it.”

Sarocha growled low in her throat, and the sound surprised them both. It wasn’t human. Not quite.

“I couldn’t if I tried,” she rasped.

As she moved, her body shifted slightly—almost imperceptibly. The curve of her spine lengthened slightly, her skin shimmered faintly along her arms and ribs. Not fully transforming, but bleeding at the edges of her humanity. Where her fingers gripped Rebecca, small patches of scale surfaced, bronze-gold and faintly glowing.

And yet, despite the hunger roaring inside her, she moved slowly. Reverently. She worshipped each inch of skin she touched with her lips, letting her tongue taste the magic blooming beneath Rebecca’s surface.

Rebecca turned her face just enough for her voice to reach back to her. “Sarocha…”

That sound. That tone. It was laced with more than desire now. There was need in it. Something deeper. Something ancient.

Sarocha moved one hand from Rebecca’s hip to her lower back, thumb brushing the curve of her spine. “You’re changing,” she said again, voice low and shaken.

Rebecca’s breath hitched. “So are you.”

And she was right. Sarocha could feel it in her bones—in the burn beneath her skin, in the way her jaw ached as the tips of her fangs pressed down, just barely beginning to show. Her pupils were slits now. Her whole body hummed with the need to claim.

But what stole her breath entirely was when Rebecca shifted again—just a breath of movement—and another flicker of iridescent scale shimmered at the side of her ribs.

Not from Sarocha.

From her.

“Rebecca,” she said, reverently now, a whisper and a prayer. “There’s Naga in you.”

Rebecca’s eyes fluttered closed, her hands clutching at the sheets. “I feel it. I don’t understand it, but... I feel it.”

Sarocha bent forward again, laying the full length of her body over Rebecca’s back. Her hands braced the mattress on either side of her. Their skin met from shoulder to thigh, and the charge between them ignited.

“You’re mine,” Sarocha breathed against her ear, not as a demand—but as a vow.

Rebecca’s whole body trembled beneath her. “Yes.”

Sarocha kissed her neck again, but this time it was rougher, edged with a hint of teeth. Her hips aligned with Rebecca’s now, slow and deliberate. She rocked into her, not yet fully, but enough to feel the echo of how close they were to something other.

Rebecca gasped.

Sarocha felt her own magic flare in response, curling around them like vines, or serpents, or ancient smoke from deep jungle temples.

“I won’t hurt you,” she said again, voice hoarse and trembling. “But I will take you.”

Rebecca’s only answer was a soft moan, her body pressing back into Sarocha, a silent 'yes' offered in flesh.

And so Sarocha leaned into instinct.

Not all at once. Not with violence. But with an ancient rhythm, as if their bodies remembered a song older than language.

The room was a slow bloom of heat and golden morning light, pooling against their skin like warm honey. Time had lost its grip here—no ticking, no passing, just the steady rhythm of breath and pulse and the quiet crackle of something older than language unfurling between them.

Sarocha pressed herself against Rebecca with aching care, her chest flush against Rebecca’s back, the length of their legs brushing with each breath. Beneath her palms, Rebecca’s skin was glowing with heat, soft and radiant, and every flicker of magic beneath her surface sent a pulse through Sarocha’s spine.

The shimmer returned—faint scales across Rebecca’s sides, fluttering into existence like something breathing in sync with her heartbeat. Sarocha’s own body answered. Her vision shimmered as her pupils narrowed again, sharp and slitted, and a subtle sheen of golden scale surfaced along her arms, glinting like armor from a half-remembered dream.

Their magics were calling to each other—wild and searching, craving connection deeper than skin.

Sarocha held herself still for a moment, forehead pressing between Rebecca’s shoulder blades, breathing her in.

This wasn’t just desire.

It was claiming.

It was bonding.

It was homecoming.

She let herself sink into that pull—not shifting fully, not losing herself to the beast within—but surrendering just enough to let instinct lead her. Her hips rolled forward as she let her energy soften, stretch, reshape itself, becoming fluid, a warm silken thread drawn between them. It reached into Rebecca, not forcing, not demanding, but merging. Fitting inside her like it had always known the way.

Rebecca gasped—a full-body sound—and arched into her, spine trembling.

“Sarocha…” she whispered, her voice tight with wonder and heat. “God... That feels so...”

“I know,” Sarocha breathed against her skin, “it feels right.”

And it did. The energy between them pulsed gently, settling into place as if the universe had just clicked into alignment. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t overwhelm. It simply was—a bridge between them, humming with pleasure and safety and something so intimate it made Sarocha ache.

Rebecca made a soft, keening sound, hips rocking back, welcoming the contact, the merging.

Sarocha moved in response, her body adjusting, matching. Her fingers slid along Rebecca’s sides, brushing the flickering scales that came and went like a secret language written in light. Her thumbs circled over the place where skin met magic, coaxing it forth.

And still, the bond deepened.

Sarocha’s mouth found Rebecca’s neck again, that perfect space just below her ear. Her lips parted, breath warm, and she let her fangs slide free—not fully, just enough. The bite would come. It always did now, when they joined like this. It was no longer just an act of dominance or desire—it was ritual. Reaffirmation.

A promise made again and again.

She kissed the spot gently first, reverent.

Then—slowly—she bit.

Rebecca cried out, hips jerking, her hands fisting in the sheets. The toxin worked quickly now, familiar to her body, welcomed. It rushed through her bloodstream like liquid fire, not burning but igniting everything it touched. Her nerves lit up. Her thoughts scattered. Her body became pure sensation.

Sarocha held her steady, one hand gripping Rebecca’s hip, the other stroking down her stomach—drawn there, always drawn there, though she didn’t understand why. There was a warmth beneath her palm, something that pulsed back at her in quiet rhythm, like a second heartbeat, faint and hidden.

She didn’t question it.

She just leaned in.

The bond between them flared, golden and strong, and Rebecca’s scales flickered brighter, more solid now—ribs, lower back, the base of her spine. Just hints. Just whispers. But real.

Sarocha’s own scales answered, shimmering down the curve of her back, across her thighs, barely there and pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

They weren’t shifting fully—something in them knew not to, not yet—but the edges of that instinct shimmered beneath the surface. They were too caught in each other, too anchored in the moment. The beast within them didn’t roar—it purred.

Rebecca turned her face into the pillow, moaning as Sarocha rocked against her, deep and slow, with that seamless energetic merging between them. She felt full—complete—like every part of her body and soul had been made for this connection.

And deeper still, the flicker of something ancient moved.

Inside her, magic stirred—hers.

Not Sarocha’s. Not borrowed.

Her own.

Subtle, yes. Soft and almost shy. But present. It sparked in her bones and belly, coiling in the warmth that Sarocha kept returning to. She gasped as her hips rolled again, chasing the rhythm, the contact, the claim.

Sarocha growled low in her throat, not threatening—possessive.

“Mine,” she whispered against Rebecca’s neck, licking the bite mark with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. Her hand tightened on Rebecca’s stomach again, not pressing but holding, cradling.

Rebecca melted beneath her. She felt herself falling, unspooling, surrendering completely. She wanted nothing more than to give herself over—to be Sarocha’s, utterly and without question.

Whatever primal thread had begun weaving between them weeks ago was now drawn taut with meaning.

She twisted under Sarocha slightly, breath ragged, wanting to see her—only to find her eyes catching on the golden glint of scale at Sarocha’s throat, her collarbones, her hips.

“You’re glowing,” Rebecca breathed, dazed.

“So are you,” Sarocha murmured, her voice hoarse and thick. “It’s like you’re waking up.”

They stilled for a moment—just long enough to feel the magic between them pulsing in unison, synchronizing.

A flicker passed through Rebecca’s belly again.

Sarocha felt it too.

A shared, unspoken wonder filled the space between them—just for a second—before the heat surged again, and the moment dissolved into instinct and movement once more.

The bond didn’t dim.

It only deepened.

The tension between them soon shattered like glass under pressure. It wasn’t abrupt—it was inevitable, a slow collapse into something far older than thought. The heat thickened around them, heavy as wet silk, clinging to their skin, sinking into their bones. Each breath was an offering. Each movement, a response. They were no longer choosing—they were chasing.

Rebecca trembled beneath Sarocha, utterly open, utterly bare, her fingers knotting in the sheets as she arched again. The sounds escaping her were raw now—half-whimpers, half-calls, drawn from the marrow. The bond between them throbbed with intensity, more than just pleasure—it was purpose, instinct, magic.

Sarocha’s fangs remained just at the edge of her lips, exposed, gleaming. She didn’t retract them. Her mouth hovered close to Rebecca’s skin as if the taste alone might tether her to this world. Her hands roamed with deep certainty, no longer tentative, no longer shy.

She knew every inch of Rebecca now. She knew how to coax every sigh and every shudder—but more than that, her hands and magic remembered. The way her palm cradled Rebecca’s stomach was not random. It was ritual. A returning.

That deep, quiet pulse in Rebecca’s belly answered her again.

Something more was there. Sarocha could feel it. Not a presence exactly, not something they could name, but it tugged at her. It was warm and ancient and curled inside Rebecca like a sleeping star. Her instincts howled reverently around it. Without understanding, she lowered her mouth and kissed her skin again, reverent, possessive.

Rebecca moaned at the contact, hips twitching, body arched in offering. “You keep touching me there,” she gasped.

“I can’t stop,” Sarocha admitted, her voice a ragged growl. “It’s like… you’re pulsing light. From the inside.”

Rebecca’s breath hitched—something inside her did pulse, and the flicker of it surged in answer to Sarocha’s words. She felt her skin ripple faintly, heat flooding her womb, her hips, her chest. Her magic, her blood, was reacting to Sarocha like tides to the moon.

Sarocha shifted her grip, steadying Rebecca’s hips as her own thrust harder, deeper, grinding with a rhythm born of something untamed. Her body surged with energy—not full transformation, but the constant flicker of it. Golden scales bloomed in waves down her spine, shoulders tightening, her muscles rippling with latent power. Her breath came in growls now, soft and relentless.

The primal edge was growing sharper.

Rebecca’s head tilted, her hair spilling across the pillow as her breath dissolved into helpless sounds. She could feel herself dissolving into Sarocha—into the rhythm, the bond, the sensation of being held, claimed, filled, stretched. The bridge of Sarocha’s energy within her didn’t waver—it pulsed deeper within the velvet centre of her, throbbing against her fluttering walls, fusing them in a way no mere physical act ever could.

The need to submit—fully—was consuming her. Not in fear. Not in weakness. But in recognition. Sarocha was her mate. Her protector. Her storm and her calm. And whatever was happening inside her—whatever she carried—it knew Sarocha too. It responded to her.

“Please,” Rebecca whispered, voice breaking, not even knowing what she was begging for—just more. More contact. More of Sarocha’s heat. More of that bond tightening and threading around her soul.

Sarocha’s hand found Rebecca’s wrist and guided it gently above her head, pinning it into the mattress with no force—just presence. She leaned down, her mouth brushing Rebecca’s cheek, her voice like thunder rumbling far off.

“You’re mine,” she said, the words pulsing with ancient weight. “Say it.”

Rebecca’s thighs shook. “Yours,” she gasped. “I’m yours.”

The words unlocked something between them.

Sarocha bit again—lower, harder, just at the base of Rebecca’s neck. Rebecca cried out, her whole body convulsing under the wave of toxin-laced magic. It didn’t hurt. It cracked her open. Her magic surged up in answer, her fingernails dragging along the sheets, her body arching as though possessed.

Her own scales flickered bright, crystalline along her ribs, her thighs, even her throat for a breathless moment. Her eyes fluttered open and caught Sarocha’s—amber, slitted, wild. But hers—hers were changing too. Hints of chartreuse rimmed her irises, flaring with every pulse of pleasure.

“I see you,” Sarocha rasped, her voice breaking with reverence. “You’re waking up.”

Rebecca didn’t understand—but her body did.

And it wanted.

She pressed her hips up again, desperate now, every nerve alight. Her voice broke in a pleading sob. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

Sarocha growled low, something like a warning, something like worship. She surged harder, deeper, her hands framing Rebecca’s hips as if she were holding the whole of her universe. She was beyond words now. Beyond reason.

They both were.

Magic erupted between them—not violent, but consuming. The bond flared golden, radiant. The bridge between them thickened, wove tighter. Sarocha’s energy wrapped around Rebecca’s womb like a promise, like a claim. It didn’t penetrate the life forming there—it wove with it, pulsing like the beat of a drum.

Rebecca felt it. Felt something respond from within. And she knew—without knowing—what Sarocha’s energy was doing.

It was marking.

Claiming all of her.

The intensity swelled again, and Rebecca screamed—a sound of overwhelming release and surrender. Her body seized, flooded with wave after wave of magic and pleasure and something else, something deeper, anchoring her fully to Sarocha.

And Sarocha held her through it—growling, gasping, trembling. She succumbed to the rush of her own essence surging in ecstasy, every muscle tightening in anticipation of the ground giving way beneath her.

The fall was nothing short of life-altering. They grasped, choked, writhed in desperate attempts to merge the very core of what bridged them. The fire raged and consumed, relentless.

They didn’t break apart. For so long they could not even attempt it.

Not yet. But the edges seemed to soften as the seconds stretched and lingered.

The magic still pulsed between them, softer now, but still electric. Sarocha’s mouth brushed her shoulder, her lips dragging open-mouthed kisses across sweat-slicked skin, her tongue lapping gently over the bite.

“You’re mine,” she whispered again, this time tender, hoarse, with awe. “My mate. My heart.”

Rebecca turned her face, her eyes swimming with tears she didn’t remember forming. “And you’re mine,” she whispered back.

And somewhere between the two of them, the magic curled into itself and settled—watching, waiting, growing.

---

The door creaked open.

Sarocha stepped into the hallway first, towel-drying the ends of her hair, her cheeks still flushed in the way that came from too much steam—and not just from the shower. Behind her, Rebecca emerged with the kind of dazed serenity that only occurred after a prolonged and very… thorough delay in morning activities.

They had intended to be up hours earlier. Really, they had. But somewhere between tangled sheets and the hot spray of water that hit just right, they’d gotten… distracted. Again.

Rebecca bumped into Sarocha’s back as they stopped just past the threshold. “Why are you—?”

Then she saw.

Ananda stood at the far end of the hallway, just outside the guest room, blinking at them with the wary, waterlogged expression of someone who had been caught in a sudden coastal drizzle. His hair was damp and hanging around his face. His clothes clung slightly to his skin, not drenched but definitely… moist. The whole hallway was heavy with humidity. A fine mist clung to the air like a ghost that hadn’t quite gotten the memo to move on.

“Ananda?” Sarocha squinted. “Did you… take a walk through a cloud?”

Rebecca snorted before she could stop herself.

Ananda gave a long-suffering sigh and dragged his fingers through his wet fringe. “No. Though, in fairness, I might as well have.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “Was it raining?”

“There’s not a cloud in the sky,” he said flatly, gesturing toward the half-open window. Sunlight filtered through, golden and entirely innocent of any rainfall.

They looked past him.

The window glass was fogged over.

Rebecca blinked. “Oh.”

Sarocha frowned, slowly putting pieces together. The hallway air was suspiciously heavy. The walls glistened with a faint sheen. And from somewhere outside, the sound of the river had shifted from its usual gentle babble to a full-on, excited rushing, like it had witnessed something scandalous and was trying to wash the memory away.

Ananda raised an eyebrow, expression perfectly neutral—except for the barely restrained twitch of amusement at the corners of his mouth. “You two really aren’t subtle, are you?”

Sarocha’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“I mean…” He gestured vaguely around the hallway. “Mist. Condensation. Elevated barometric pressure. I stepped out to get tea and nearly slipped on the floor. The river flooded slightly for fifteen seconds. That’s… not normal.”

Rebecca buried her face in her hands with a groan. “Gods, we misted the house…”

Sarocha’s hands landed on her hips in indignation, though her ears were pink. “I don’t recall needing to be subtle in my own house.”

Ananda gave her a pointed look. “I’m merely the messenger. But when your emotional and magical output registers like a small weather event, it’s worth a polite flag.”

There was a pause.

Then Rebecca snickered helplessly. “Oh my God. We created a localized humidity event.”

Sarocha whipped around to her, scandalized. “Don’t laugh. You’re supposed to be as embarrassed as I am.”

“I am,” Rebecca wheezed. “But also… slightly impressed.”

Sarocha blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “Well. That is fair.”

She squared her shoulders slightly, and the barest hint of pride flickered across her face. “I mean. If you’re going to stir the river spirit into a frenzy, may as well do it properly.”

Ananda coughed, trying—failing—not to laugh. “I don’t think that’s exactly the kind of spiritual disturbance the monks are keen on observing.”

Sarocha groaned. “Please don’t tell them.”

“They probably already know,” Rebecca muttered, rubbing her face. “The forest is whispering. You can feel it.”

“And the river is practically giggling,” Ananda added.

Rebecca scowled playfully at him. “Don’t rivers have a right to a good time, too?”

“Oh, sure. Rivers. But what about your neighbour’s laundry line?”

Sarocha threw up her hands. “Okay, enough. What do you want, Ananda? You’ve been sleeping under our roof for days, haunting our guest room like a judgmental spirit. Are you really here for ‘observation’ or just voyeurism by osmosis?”

Ananda blinked. “I came out for tea.”

“You were lurking.”

“I was soaking. Which, again, was not intentional.”

Rebecca, still red-faced, reached for Sarocha’s arm, gently grounding her. “Okay. Okay. Let’s all take a breath.”

They did. A long one.

The mist in the hallway began to lift ever so slightly.

“I’m not trying to scold you,” Ananda said after a moment, softer now. “But it’s worth remembering… your power, especially combined, doesn’t go unnoticed. Emotions heighten it. So do physical bonds. The monks—”

“—need to mind their own business,” Sarocha muttered.

Ananda continued, “—aren’t inherently your enemies. But they are bound by ancient laws and expectations. Unregulated energy like this… even if it’s not destructive… it’s going to raise flags.”

Rebecca crossed her arms. “But no one’s being harmed.”

“No,” he allowed, “not yet. But you don’t know how far it can go. You’re changing. Evolving. That bond is feeding something ancient inside you both. It’s not just sex. It’s not just affection. You’re awakening each other.”

Rebecca hesitated, then tilted her chin. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“No,” Ananda said. “But you’ll need to control it before it controls you.”

A beat passed. Then Rebecca added, wryly, “Still doesn’t sound like a reason to be mad about a little mist.”

Sarocha’s lips quirked, triumphant. “Exactly. We didn’t blow a hole in the wall. We just… steamed the place up a little.”

Ananda muttered something about ‘heat signatures’ and ‘sudden animal behavior spikes’ and turned to walk toward the kitchen.

Rebecca called after him, grinning, “You sure you don’t want to join us for tea and sauna next time?”

“Pass,” he called back. “Though if the mist turns pink next time, I’m out.”

They waited until he vanished around the corner.

Then Sarocha turned to Rebecca, looking somewhere between amused and mortified. “So… should we open a window?”

“Or three,” Rebecca agreed, stifling another laugh.

She glanced at the hallway’s fogged windows, the puddled floor, and the faintly dripping chandelier.

“Maybe next time we close the door tighter,” she added.

Sarocha took her hand, eyes dancing. “Or maybe we don’t.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “You’re far too proud of yourself.”

“And you,” Sarocha murmured, drawing her close, “are a walking storm.”

They kissed again—just once. Soft. A little dangerous.

The river murmured, still rushing.

And the house, humid and alive, watched them with amusement.

Chapter Text

The hidden chamber hewn from the rock wall of the house had always felt like something separate from time.

Tucked behind layers of misdirection, sealed doors, and spells older than the house itself, it was both museum and sanctuary—a testament to Sarocha’s years of quiet, relentless obsession. Scrolls lined the deep walls in carefully sealed cases. Artefacts shimmered faintly on velvet-lined shelves. Some objects pulsed with dormant power, waiting. Others slumbered in silence, relics too long forgotten.

Now, the long oaken desk at the center of the room was a chaotic sprawl of parchment maps, faded ink sketches, translated fragments, and more than a few half-drunk cups of tea. Ananda hunched on one side, thumbing through an old tome in Pali. Rebecca sat cross-legged at the corner, munching idly on dried mango from a small bowl she'd brought down with her, even though they'd finished lunch not an hour before.

Sarocha prowled behind them, a thick scroll held open between her hands, her eyes narrowed and gleaming as she read.

“Here,” she said, suddenly sharp. “There’s a mention of the Dreamers again.”

Rebecca perked up. “The ones you said might’ve been the first Naga to… turn inward, right?”

Sarocha nodded, gently laying the scroll across the table. “The Dreamers weren’t just wise Naga. They were the ones who maintained the oldest pacts. They knew the river’s language better than anyone, and they dreamt with it—in it. The Mekong wasn’t just sacred to them; it was part of their body, their mind. They kept its balance.”

Ananda leaned over, scanning the scroll. “But when the curse came…?”

Sarocha’s mouth pulled tight. “They vanished.”

“Vanished how?” Rebecca asked, chewing thoughtfully. She reached for another mango strip without even looking, leaning against Sarocha’s side as she did. “Killed? Went into hiding?”

Sarocha’s hand found its way to the small of Rebecca’s back, warm and possessive. She didn’t seem to notice she was doing it. “No one knows. There’s no record of a massacre. But their names and voices disappear from the lineage records. Like they were erased. Like something decided they couldn’t be allowed to survive.”

Rebecca frowned, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Or… like they chose to fall silent.”

Sarocha paused, eyes flicking to her. “What do you mean?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Maybe the Dreamers didn’t die. Maybe they buried themselves in the river—deep. To wait. To sleep.”

Ananda murmured, “Or to protect something.”

Sarocha looked between them, thoughtful now.

“They may have gone to preserve what the curse couldn’t touch,” she said slowly. “A deeper current, beneath everything else. Something sacred and untouchable.”

“And if that’s waking up now…” Ananda trailed off.

“Then maybe the rupture is less a threat,” Rebecca said quietly, “and more a return.”

The room fell silent.

Rebecca absently reached for another mango strip.

Sarocha’s hand had slid around her waist now, thumb resting gently over her abdomen, almost as if unconsciously guarding her. She wasn’t even looking at her—eyes still locked on the scroll—but her body had shifted toward Rebecca’s without her realising it, like a compass drawn to something buried just beneath the surface.

Ananda didn’t comment, but he watched the subtle movement with a faint crease in his brow.

Rebecca let herself lean into the contact, vaguely aware of how Sarocha’s warmth calmed the strange hum that had been pulsing inside her all day. She’d chalked it up to the lingering charge of the morning, or the research. Or the way food suddenly had this captivating edge lately—like her body was always just a little hungrier than expected.

She shook the thought away and reached for the sketch of an ancient seal etched into river stone.

“What’s this?” she asked.

Sarocha glanced down. “A warding sigil. Some believe the monks used it to lock away the Dreamers—or the place they were kept.”

Rebecca blinked. “They sealed them?”

“It’s a theory,” Ananda said. “Some say it was out of fear. Others say it was mercy. If the curse couldn’t reach them… maybe neither could anyone else.”

“And now that ward’s weakening,” Sarocha finished.

“Because of us?” Rebecca asked, quietly.

Sarocha’s hand tightened slightly against her.

“Because of something that was always going to happen,” Ananda said, surprising them both. “The seals weren’t eternal. The monks were the last generation to understand how they worked. And even they weren’t sure. This… might’ve always been inevitable.”

Rebecca ran a finger over the seal sketch. “Then Loei might not be cursed ground. It might be waiting to awaken.”

Sarocha turned to her with a strange, fierce softness in her eyes. “Exactly.”

There was silence again, only the faint buzz of energy in the chamber and the quiet rustle of pages turning.

Rebecca pulled another snack from the bowl—some sticky rice wrapped in banana leaf this time, which she swore hadn’t been in the bowl earlier. She didn’t even question it as she unwrapped it and took a bite, eyes still fixed on the maps.

Sarocha’s attention flickered, lips twitching in amused confusion. “Are you still hungry?”

Rebecca froze mid-bite. “I guess I am?”

Ananda glanced over from his place near the bookcase. “Didn’t you eat two bowls of rice earlier?”

Rebecca scowled. “So? We’re doing intense magical research. I need fuel.”

Sarocha chuckled, but she moved a little closer, her arms now loosely wrapped around Rebecca’s midsection. She pressed her cheek briefly to her shoulder before resuming her search on the desk—though her hand remained spread protectively across Rebecca’s stomach.

Neither of them seemed to notice the way the air in the chamber grew subtly warmer again, the faintest shimmer crossing Rebecca’s skin as if some dormant magic had stirred and turned over in sleep. The scrolls on the desk fluttered slightly, as if breathing.

Ananda did notice. He said nothing, but his gaze lingered just a bit longer on Rebecca, and then flicked to Sarocha. His lips pressed into a thoughtful line.

Rebecca, now crunching on a handful of candied tamarind, said through a mouthful, “We need to find where the original Dreamers were sealed. That’s the next step.”

Sarocha nodded, reluctantly pulling away to trace the map. “If we overlay the river’s old course… here. Somewhere near the Phu Luang cliffs. Hidden caves. The monks avoid the area.”

Ananda murmured, “Then that’s exactly where we need to go.”

Rebecca nudged her bowl closer, still chewing. “But maybe tomorrow. I just found more sticky rice.”

Sarocha laughed under her breath, but again, her fingers found their way back to Rebecca’s side—drawn there like instinct, like gravity. She didn't understand the reason. Only that it calmed something primal in her chest, something ancient and coiled and protective.

Ananda turned away to thumb through another aged book.

He didn’t say it aloud, but he was already thinking the truth: something had awakened in Rebecca, long before Loei, long before the river stirred.

And whatever it was… it was only just beginning to breathe.

---

Evening had begun to fold its arms around the forest, draping the house in shades of indigo and silver. The sounds of insects and frogs were rhythmic now, hypnotic. From the back steps of the house, a narrow path wound through tangled bamboo and sleeping banana trees, leading toward the water. Sarocha had once carved it herself with a machete, long before she ever imagined someone else might walk it with her.

Now, the three of them walked it together—quiet, contemplative. No one had said it aloud, but they all knew this night mattered. It hung suspended, fragile and full, like a held breath before the plunge.

The river waited.

It wasn’t a wide stretch, not here, where it forked around a ridge and gathered slow in a cupped bend. Its surface mirrored the sky, glassy and dark, lit with bruised streaks of twilight. The trees leaned in from either side, and somewhere nearby a night bird cried out once, then was still.

Sarocha crouched first near the bank, brushing her fingers through the wet loam and moss. “This place has always been quiet,” she murmured. “But tonight it’s… listening.”

Rebecca stepped in close behind her, arms folded. She said nothing, but Sarocha could feel the gentle heat of her body—anchoring, familiar. Her presence was a balm.

Ananda trailed a few paces behind, carrying a small oil lamp cupped in both hands. He looked, as he always did, vaguely out of place—more academic than mystic, but something had shifted in him over the last few days. His edges were softening. His doubt had grown quieter.

“I read once,” he said, lowering the lamp to rest on a flat stone, “that Naga spirits live in the memory of rivers. Not just in the water, but in the flow. If they’re disturbed—by curses, war, broken vows—they stir. They ripple backward.”

Sarocha tilted her head, eyes catching the fading light. “Then what we do next, it echoes both ways.”

Rebecca stepped closer to the edge. Something tugged at her to kneel. She didn’t question it. She plucked a frangipani flower from behind her ear—white, waxy, delicate—and set it gently on the river’s surface. It drifted for a moment, then circled once, caught in a curious eddy before slipping forward again.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to know,” Sarocha said, placing a hand on her back. Her touch lingered a second longer than necessary, fingers splayed. Her thumb traced the soft curve of Rebecca’s spine without thought. “Instinct is enough.”

Ananda reached into his coat and pulled out a weathered parchment. “This was supposed to be burned long ago. A chant meant for release… or passage. I never had the nerve.”

Sarocha raised a brow. “Now?”

He shrugged, then rolled the scroll tight and held it to the flame. It caught fast, orange embers racing up the paper, curling the edges in blackened tongues. He let the ash fall into the river, where it hissed and vanished.

Rebecca, watching, felt a strange tightness in her chest. Not fear. Not sorrow. Something older. Something she couldn’t name.

The air around them shifted. The breeze grew damp. The scent of river water and wild ginger thickened. The trees seemed to hush. Even the insects paused.

Then the water stirred.

Not much. Not violently. But a ripple danced along the surface, wide and sure, cutting upstream rather than with the current. Sarocha’s eyes narrowed. She stood slowly, protective by instinct, and subtly stepped in front of Rebecca without meaning to.

The candle flame Ananda had placed flickered blue for half a second, then flared gold, before settling again. No one breathed.

Sarocha’s voice was low. “Did you feel that?”

Rebecca nodded. “Yes.”

Ananda looked pale but steady. “The river answered.”

A long moment passed. Then Sarocha exhaled and shook her head, a crooked smile rising. “Of course it did.”

“What does it mean?” Rebecca asked, but even as she spoke, she already knew it didn’t matter—not right now. This was acknowledgment. Permission, perhaps. Or a warning. The river remembered.

And it had seen them.

They lingered a little longer, but the magic had passed, fading like mist under moonlight. It left behind something quiet and almost sacred. Not fear, but weight. The awareness of being part of something ancient.

As they turned to walk back, Sarocha slipped her arm around Rebecca’s waist. Rebecca leaned into it, her head briefly resting on Sarocha’s shoulder as they moved.

“You okay?” Sarocha asked softly.

Rebecca hesitated. “Yeah. Just… hungry again.” She laughed under her breath. “Didn’t we just eat?”

Sarocha smiled, but her hand didn’t leave Rebecca’s lower back. She pressed her palm there, fingers splaying wide again. Protective. Possessive. She didn’t even realise she was doing it.

“I’ll fix you something when we get in,” she murmured.

“I’m not helpless, you know.”

“No, you’re not. Doesn’t mean I won’t fuss over you.”

Behind them, Ananda gave a soft snort. “That’s one word for it.”

Sarocha glanced back. “Careful. You’re on thin ice after today’s weather report.”

He raised his hands. “Hey, I didn’t create a humidity pocket so intense the books in the library curled at the edges.”

Rebecca laughed—bright, unguarded. “We said we were sorry.”

“You didn’t say sorry,” Ananda countered. “You bit her again.”

Sarocha didn’t answer. But there was a flicker of something in her smile—half smirk, half pride. Rebecca caught it and elbowed her lightly.

“Seriously,” Ananda said, more gently now, “that energy you two stirred… it wasn’t nothing. Be mindful tomorrow. Loei might not be as forgiving.”

Rebecca’s smile faded just a little. “It didn’t hurt anyone.”

“No,” Ananda agreed. “But that river wasn’t just watching. It was choosing.”

They reached the edge of the house. The lights were warm inside, casting soft golden rectangles onto the grass. The night had fully settled, stars threading themselves between the leaves.

Rebecca glanced back once toward the water, now still and black beneath the trees. It looked peaceful again. Ordinary. But something inside her whispered otherwise.

She couldn’t shake the feeling.

Something had begun.

And the river… the river knew.

---

Rebecca stood ankle-deep in water. It wasn’t cold, but neither was it warm—just present, surrounding her in a still, impossible quiet. Mist drifted across a dark plain, hiding the horizon, folding the world in on itself like a secret. Above, the sky glowed the color of bruised lotus petals, deep lavender bleeding into ash.

She turned slowly, barefoot in the shallows. No sound of frogs, no cicadas. No wind.

Only the river, quiet and waiting.

And then she saw her.

A girl—no, not a girl. A woman who moved like a whisper, like memory. She sat coiled on a stone just beyond a grove of reeds, watching Rebecca with eyes that shimmered violet-gold. Hair flowed like ink over her shoulders, too dark to catch light. Her skin was moon-pale. A faint shimmer clung to her limbs, as though scales lay just beneath, blinking in and out of visibility.

Her form shifted at the edges, sometimes a person, sometimes something more serpentine.

Her expression wasn’t frightening—it was… soft. Aching, even. Young, but full of time.

She cradled her stomach with both arms, hands splayed protectively. Her fingers moved in slow circles, almost like she was drawing a spiral. She didn't speak, but Rebecca felt the message all the same—an echo in her chest, a gentle pressure behind her ribs.

'Help me.'

Rebecca tried to step forward. “Who are you?”

But her voice didn't carry. It was eaten by the mist. She opened her mouth again and the woman’s eyes widened—something urgent in the way her gaze clung to Rebecca’s.

'You carry it too. Don’t you see? It’s waking… waking with you…'

The ground shifted.

Rebecca blinked and found herself waist-deep in the river. The water didn’t feel like water anymore. It throbbed, alive, beating gently against her like a heart.

The woman raised one hand slowly and reached toward her. Not touching, but close. Beckoning. Pleading. Her mouth opened.

A sudden rush of wind blew through the dream—carrying a scent so familiar it caught in Rebecca’s throat: lemongrass, rain, and iron. Then the woman began to fade, mist coiling around her, dissolving her edges.

“No—wait—” Rebecca gasped, reaching for her.

But she was gone.

The river fell silent again.

---

Rebecca sat bolt upright in bed, skin clammy, breath shallow. Her heart pounded in her ears. For a long second she didn’t know where she was. The room was dark, filled with the soft sounds of early dawn—distant birdsong, the slow creak of bamboo.

And the warmth around her—Sarocha’s arms, still wrapped around her waist, one hand draped protectively across her belly.

Her skin buzzed, nerves still alive with the feel of that strange river.

Rebecca exhaled shakily.

“Hey,” came Sarocha’s voice, sleep-rough and low. She stirred behind her, pressing a kiss just below Rebecca’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“I…” Rebecca swallowed. “I had a dream. I think.”

Sarocha blinked her eyes open, shifting to prop herself up slightly. “Another vision?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t feel like one of mine. It was… someone else’s, I think. Someone trying to reach me.”

Sarocha’s eyes sharpened despite the hour. “What did you see?”

Rebecca hesitated. “A girl. Or… no, a woman. Young. But not. She looked like… like us. Like you. She was by a river. She was—” She placed a hand to her own stomach instinctively, confused. “She was pregnant. I think.”

The words tasted strange in her mouth. Sarocha tensed subtly behind her.

“Did she say anything?”

“Not out loud. But I felt her. She wanted help. She said it was waking. Something was waking. With me.”

Sarocha reached to brush Rebecca’s damp hair from her forehead. “We’ll figure it out. You’re safe here. Nothing touches you without going through me.”

“I know.” Rebecca turned slightly into her embrace, needing the anchor. “It just felt so real.”

A beat passed.

Then—without warning—a twist in her gut.

Her face contorted. “Oh no—”

“What—?”

Rebecca lurched upright, scrambling out of the sheets. “Bathroom—!”

Sarocha blinked in confusion but was up in an instant, already tossing the covers back as Rebecca dashed for the en suite. She made it just in time, gripping the cool ceramic of the sink as a wave of nausea rolled through her.

Sarocha hovered in the doorway, eyes wide, unsure whether to rush forward or hang back.

Rebecca groaned, spitting into the basin and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That was new.”

“I’ll get you water,” Sarocha said, already turning toward the kitchen.

“No, wait, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“You are not okay, you’re vomiting, Rebecca. Gods—was it the curry last night? Or the fried bananas?”

Rebecca managed a laugh between dry heaves. “I don’t think this is food poisoning.”

Sarocha returned with a cool cloth and pressed it to her forehead. “You’ve been eating constantly.”

“I’m just hungry a lot.”

“You’re glowing weird. And you smell different. And I keep wanting to—” She cut herself off, ears going slightly pink.

Rebecca lifted her head slowly, brow arched. “Wanting to what?”

“…Nothing.”

“Sarocha.”

Sarocha scowled, but it didn’t hold. “I keep wanting to wrap around you. Not just touch. Wrap. Like I want to coil around you and never let go.”

Rebecca blinked. “…That’s new.”

Sarocha huffed. “It’s the magic. Or something in the house. Or—” She exhaled, then leaned down to press a kiss to Rebecca’s temple. “Or maybe we’re just connected more than I know how to explain.”

Rebecca leaned into the kiss. “Maybe.”

“I’m still making you tea. Sit. Don’t move.”

“Bossy,” Rebecca muttered.

Sarocha didn’t even turn around. “You know it."

Left alone in the bathroom for a moment, Rebecca caught her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes brighter than usual. Her hands drifted to her stomach again.

The girl from the dream was still there in her mind. Her eyes. Her voice-without-sound. The weight of what she carried.

Rebecca whispered, just to herself, “Who are you?”

The morning offered no answer.

But deep in her belly, something shifted again—small, secret, and alive.

---

The heat of the day had grown steadily, sunlight bursting into the radiance of late morning. Inside the cool, shadowed heart of the house—hidden behind a hinged bookcase and heavy teakwood panels—the secret chamber buzzed with quiet activity.

Scrolls lay unfurled like dried leaves across the wide desk. Ancient sketches of serpent-like figures curled through water inked in rusted reds and faded golds. A map of Loei and the upper Mekong region had been pinned with coloured markers and tiny brass weights to keep it from curling at the corners.

Sarocha hovered near the map, rolling her neck to ease the tension that had crept into her shoulders. Rebecca sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through fragments of a shattered relic they’d unearthed the week prior. Ananda paced slowly along the shelves that lined the back wall, skimming the aged spines of books and personal notes that Sarocha had collected over the years.

“So,” he said after a time, breaking the comfortable silence, “assuming the monks are correct and there’s a rupture of some kind in Loei—what exactly would that mean? And why now?”

Sarocha didn’t answer immediately. She tapped her knuckle against the map. “If the old stories are true, then the dreamers were meant to be untouched. Kept safe. Hidden.”

Rebecca glanced up. “You’ve mentioned them before—the dreaming Naga. What exactly were they dreaming for?”

“It’s… complicated.” Sarocha crossed her arms, brow creasing. “The Naga who entered the dream didn’t just rest. They entered a suspended state—part of this world, but not entirely within it. From there, they anchored balance. They watched the river, guarded its passage, held back things we weren’t meant to face.”

“Sounds like a stasis field, if I were still in archaeology and not folklore,” Ananda quipped, though there was a seriousness in his tone. “So this rupture might be more than just symbolic.”

“Much more,” Sarocha said. “If something is waking them—or worse, disturbing them—it could mean the protections they wove are breaking down.”

Rebecca exhaled softly, her fingers stilling on a curved fragment of carved stone. “When I was dreaming last night… I think I saw one of them.”

Both Sarocha and Ananda turned to her.

“You did?” Ananda’s tone was cautious, inviting but neutral. “What happened?”

Rebecca furrowed her brow, trying to untangle the strange emotions the dream had left her with. “I didn’t see a place, not clearly. Just the edge of water—so still it felt endless. And a woman. Young. Barely older than me, if that. She was… radiant. But distant. Like I wasn’t seeing her in real time.”

“Was she aware of you?” Sarocha asked gently.

“I think so. She kept reaching toward me, like she wanted to speak but couldn’t. Her mouth moved, but no sound came. And she kept her hands on her stomach, like she was—” She paused. “Like she was protecting something. Or carrying something important.”

Ananda’s brow arched, curious. “You’re sure she was Naga?”

Rebecca nodded. “Her eyes. Her skin—it shimmered like yours does sometimes. Or mine." She glanced at Sarocha.

Sarocha looked away for a moment, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Ananda tapped his fingers against his chin thoughtfully. “A dreaming Naga. Reaching out. That would imply a link… perhaps only you could receive, Rebecca. Especially now.”

She blinked at him. “Why?”

He gave a vague gesture, already distracted by the idea. “You’re tied to Sarocha. More deeply than most humans could comprehend. Maybe the connection formed when your bond did. Or perhaps something older, buried in the bloodlines, was awakened.”

Sarocha studied him from the corner of her eye. “You’re thinking this isn’t a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Ananda said simply.

Rebecca sat back on her heels, the images from her dream still prickling at the edge of her memory. “She felt… sad. Not afraid. But waiting for something. Hoping.”

Ananda moved to sit on the edge of the desk. “Do you remember anything else? Symbols, surroundings, language?”

Rebecca shook her head. “Just… water. Deep, heavy. Like it was pressing in from every side. But quiet. Sacred, somehow. Like the world was holding its breath.”

Ananda was quiet a moment longer, and then, almost casually, asked, “Sarocha, what do you know of Naga pregnancy?”

Sarocha blinked at him. “Why are you asking that?”

He shrugged, almost sheepishly. “The woman in Rebecca’s dream—if she was cradling her stomach, it might not be metaphor. Perhaps she was pregnant. Wouldn’t that be significant?”

Sarocha gave a low hum. “It would. But I don’t know much. Pregnancy among us is rare. We don’t reproduce often. There’s no need. We’re… enduring.”

“Immortal,” Ananda filled in.

“Yes. And when children are born, they’re usually tied to prophecy. Or crisis. Not ordinary life.”

He nodded slowly, jotting a quick note in the worn leather notebook he kept on him at all times. “Makes sense. Stories always present the offspring of powerful beings as harbingers of change. Especially if they come from bloodlines meant to sleep.”

“Which is what worries me,” Sarocha said under her breath.

Ananda looked up. “Then we’ll need to approach this carefully. The shrine ruins in Loei might offer some insight. And if these dreamers are truly stirring, their remnants may hold a memory. We just have to find it.”

Sarocha’s eyes were on Rebecca now, soft and unreadable. “We’ll be careful.”

Rebecca reached across the table and touched her hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

Satisfied they’d reviewed everything, Ananda stood, stretching his shoulders. “I’ll check the truck, make sure we’ve got the satellite relay set up in case we lose signal on the mountain roads.”

He exited the room, his footsteps light.

Once they were alone again, Rebecca tilted her head and said with a faint smile, “He always goes stiff when something rattles his logic.”

Sarocha huffed a laugh, brushing unruly strands of hair behind Rebecca’s ear. “He’s used to studying dead myths, not walking them.”

As she said it, her hand drifted—almost absently—to rest over Rebecca’s stomach. A simple touch, protective, thoughtless. She didn’t seem aware of what she was doing, nor did Rebecca take special note. The gesture passed like a shadow across the surface of a still pool.

Outside, the wind shifted through the bamboo. Somewhere in the forest beyond the house, the river murmured against its banks—just loud enough, perhaps, for the dreaming to begin again.

---

The road to Loei shimmered beneath an overcast sky, clouds thick but high, casting soft shadows on the hills. They moved steadily through a quilt of farmlands and forested ridges, the air growing cooler and more ancient the further they travelled. In the back seat, Rebecca had drifted into a half-sleep, lulled by the rhythmic bump of the road and the scent of petrichor filtering in through the open window.

Sarocha drove in silence, one hand resting on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing her fingers over Rebecca’s knee, checking in, before moving back to the gearshift. She didn’t speak, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her watchfulness. Ananda, in the passenger seat, scribbled into a worn leather notebook between observations. He didn’t talk much either—there was something about the terrain here that invited quietude. Reverence, almost.

They passed shrines, offerings in banana leaves left by roadside spirit houses. Nagas carved into weathered stones. Serpent statues coiling around posts and stair rails. The signs were everywhere, as though this land still whispered the names of beings long since vanished from the modern imagination.

By the time they reached Loei, the sky had paled into a silvery dusk. The city itself unfolded slowly—less a city, more a large town caught between river and mountain. The Mekong ran broad and languid nearby, copper-gold in the light, its surface betraying an unseen depth.

Their guesthouse was an older home-turned-inn, perched slightly uphill from the river. Built from dark wood and shaded by tall areca palms, it offered a wide veranda with carved balustrades and faded silk cushions, their threads kissed by time. The elderly woman who ran the place barely raised her eyes as she handed them the keys, already returning to the small clay stove where something fragrant simmered.

Once they’d unloaded their bags, Sarocha guided Rebecca upstairs while Ananda lingered below to chat with the host and ask about the area. Their rooms overlooked the river. The air carried that wet mineral scent that only came from proximity to ancient water.

Rebecca sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her temple. “I feel like I’ve been vibrating all day.”

“It’s the river,” Sarocha said, crouching in front of her. “It’s awake. Has been since before we got here.”

Rebecca nodded absently. “It’s not… bad. It’s just a lot.”

“You’re pale,” Sarocha said gently. She reached up, cupping her face. “Maybe we rest for a bit before we go exploring. Just tonight.”

“That’s probably wise,” Ananda’s voice floated from the doorway. “Besides, the place I want to start—the cave system near the tributary—will require permits. I have a contact who can help. Tomorrow morning, we can set the groundwork.”

“Good,” Sarocha said. “One night to settle.”

As evening deepened, they gathered in the sitting room. Rebecca lay sideways across the couch, absently nibbling at fruit from a small platter. Her appetite came in waves—she wasn’t hungry, but her mouth kept needing something. Mango slices, dried tamarind, sticky rice. She didn’t seem to realise she was grazing.

“Do you feel anything?” Ananda asked suddenly. His tone wasn’t clinical, but curious.

Rebecca blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“From the land. From the river. You’re closer to it now than ever. After the dream…” He hesitated. “There’s a frequency to places like this. You’re attuned to it.”

Rebecca was quiet for a moment. “It feels… familiar. Not the dream, but something older. Like I’ve stood here before, even though I haven’t. Or maybe… I’ve been remembered by it.”

“That’s significant,” he murmured, jotting something down.

Sarocha had taken to pacing by the window. Her eyes were golden in the dim lamplight, not quite shifting, but always near. She had been restless since the road curved along the river’s edge an hour ago. Her instincts were pulling her taut.

“You’re thinking about the dreamers,” Rebecca said.

Sarocha stopped pacing. “Yes. And the timing.”

“They’ve woken. Something has changed,” Ananda added. “You said as much before we left Ayutthaya, Sarocha. The question is what woke them—and why now.”

“Rebecca,” Sarocha said, without turning. Her voice was quieter than usual.

Ananda looked up at that, watching carefully. “You believe her presence is part of the catalyst.”

Sarocha didn’t reply right away. “I don’t know what I believe. Only that the rupture we keep sensing… it began when she and I bonded. Fully. That night.”

Ananda nodded slowly, tapping his pen. “That’s not a coincidence.”

“I didn’t mean to break anything,” Rebecca said, her voice a whisper.

“You didn’t,” Sarocha said quickly, moving to her. She knelt beside the couch and took her hand. “You didn’t break anything. Something was broken already. We just… made it move.”

Ananda leaned forward. “And now, those long asleep are stirring. The caves we’re heading toward—locals say they’ve seen lights under the water. Felt movement. That didn’t happen before.”

“You think the dreamers went there?” Rebecca asked.

“They’ve always been drawn to the portal,” Sarocha murmured. “Even in sleep. It’s one of the last places of crossing that wasn’t sealed entirely. If anything were to stir... it would be there.”

Rebecca rested her hand on her belly again. Still unaware. Still unconsciously connected. Sarocha’s eyes flicked down to it, her expression unreadable, then softened.

“Tomorrow,” Ananda said, standing. “We’ll start the search with care. If the dreamers are there, we approach with reverence. No force. Just presence.”

Sarocha nodded. “Agreed.”

As the house quieted for the night, the river outside moved like breath—slow, ancient, patient. And somewhere beneath its surface, something else stirred. Watching. Waiting.

Chapter Text

The hike to the tributary cave was slow-going. The sun hung low behind a quilt of mist, painting the jungle in a golden haze that shimmered with something almost sentient. Rebecca paused more than once, one hand braced against a tree trunk, the other on her belly, though she didn’t seem to realize it. Sarocha stayed close, hyper-aware, her eyes constantly scanning the overgrown path, one hand always brushing Rebecca’s back or curling protectively at her waist.

Ananda trailed a few paces behind, quiet. His eyes darted over the trees, the earth, the water. He had the look of a man tracking more than wildlife. He was watching for shifts in reality—strange angles, fractured reflections. He said little, but jotted something down in a small, leather-bound notebook whenever the birds stopped singing or the breeze grew unnaturally still.

“It feels... heavier here,” Rebecca murmured, her voice soft as if speaking too loud might wake something. “Like the air's holding its breath.”

Sarocha nodded, brushing a damp curl from Rebecca’s cheek. “We’re close. I can feel them.”

“The Dreamers?”

“Mm. Or the edge of their world.”

Ananda caught up, brushing a hand along the moss-covered bark of a tree whose roots twisted like sleeping serpents. “These tributaries have always been considered sacred. Locals say they lead to the first waters—places where the old spirits drink. Places where the veil between realms never fully closes.”

Rebecca glanced back at him. “Have you ever seen anything here?”

He gave a soft laugh, not unkind. “I've seen footprints where no one had passed. Water moving with no wind. Heard singing from deep within the rocks. But nothing like this.”

They came upon the cave mouth tucked behind a curtain of vines. It looked ordinary at first glance. Humble. But the moment Rebecca stepped close, the vines seemed to sway toward her, as if in recognition. The stone shimmered faintly beneath the filtered light, and ancient carvings along the edge of the entrance seemed to thrum in time with her pulse.

Sarocha pressed her hand to the rock and breathed deep. “It remembers.”

“The cave?” Rebecca asked.

“The place. The magic. It hasn’t forgotten its purpose.”

Ananda knelt beside a carved naga face etched into the stone near the ground, running his fingers lightly over it. “It’s older than anything I’ve catalogued before.”

Without further ceremony, they stepped inside. The coolness hit instantly—not just a change in temperature, but a shift in sensation, like stepping through water, even though the air was dry. The light changed too, becoming bluish and soft, diffused through the stone as if the cave itself glowed.

The passage widened into a dome-shaped cavern, partially flooded, where shallow water pooled with a mirrored stillness. Moss clung to the walls in swirling patterns, and at the center, a stone platform rose barely above the water’s surface.

Rebecca stepped forward first, drawn in silence. She moved almost like she was dreaming. Sarocha shadowed her without a word. Ananda lingered at the entrance, instinct telling him to remain back.

As Rebecca reached the edge of the water, the surface stirred. No splash. No ripple. Just a slow, pulsing light emanating from the depths below. She knelt, fingertips grazing the surface—and the world shifted.

Suddenly, she wasn’t quite there anymore.

Or maybe she was, but the world wasn’t.

The cavern melted into something liminal, the edges of reality dissolving into glowing mist. A figure stood across the water—a woman, though not human. Her eyes were liquid gold, her skin kissed with a pearlescent shimmer. Scales flecked her brow and shoulders, and her dark hair flowed like water around her.

She was visibly pregnant, though not due to the size of her belly. Rather it was in the softness of her aura, the gentle thrum of the air around her. The tender acknowledgement in her gaze seemed to show recognition of the treasure she guarded beneath her ribs.

Rebecca froze, breath caught in her throat.

The Dreamer did not speak, not with words. But Rebecca felt her. Emotions, impressions, fragments of meaning flooded her.

Curiosity. Relief. Kinship.

A warm pulse of 'you too?'

Rebecca reached out, but the Dreamer remained just out of reach. Not out of rejection, but because she couldn’t step further. She was tethered elsewhere. Caught in a boundary too thin to pass.

She touched her own belly gently, then looked at Rebecca’s. Her smile was soft and knowing. She turned, pointing downward, toward the deeper waters, where the glow thickened like liquid light. There, within the depths, shimmered something ancient and vast—a dormant gate, perhaps. A doorway waiting to be opened.

Rebecca staggered back as the vision faded. The cave returned to its natural shape. The light dimmed. She was kneeling at the water’s edge, trembling.

Sarocha was at her side in an instant, pulling her into her arms.

“You saw her,” Sarocha said quietly, not a question.

Rebecca nodded, her face buried in Sarocha’s shoulder. “She was... beautiful. And she was...”

“Pregnant,” Ananda supplied gently from the shadows. “The same woman from your dream?”

Rebecca lifted her head, eyes wide. “Yes. And she... she felt like she knew me. Not who I am, but what I am. Like we shared something.”

Ananda stepped closer, studying the water thoughtfully. “She was only showing slightly, yes? That means it’s been a few weeks maybe, if Naga gestation is anything like ours.”

Sarocha looked over her shoulder at him. “It isn’t. They carry longer. Much longer. But we don’t know enough about this. Naga pregnancies are... rare. Our kind doesn’t usually reproduce. There hasn’t been a birth in centuries.”

Ananda nodded slowly. “So if one happened now, it could explain the rupture. A sudden surge of life magic might be the trigger.”

Rebecca, still pale, looked back at the glowing water. “Then what now?”

Sarocha squeezed her gently. “Now we try to understand what they need. And why you were the one she called to.”

They stood together in silence, the echoes of the Dreamer’s presence still lingering, the cave around them alive with quiet knowing.

Somewhere, just beyond the veil, something stirred.

---

The water lapped gently at the mossy stones near the riverbank, the sun caught somewhere behind the soft haze of late morning mist. The tributary curved like a silver ribbon around the dense brush, quiet except for the occasional call of a distant bird. Everything was still, as though the land itself was holding its breath in the aftermath of what had transpired.

Rebecca stood close to the edge, her boots half-buried in damp earth, arms folded across her chest. She wasn’t cold, but something inside her had chilled with awe. Not fear—never fear—but that tremulous sense of being in the presence of something vast and old and sacred. Something not meant for mortal understanding.

Sarocha remained just behind her, silent, watchful. Her gaze lingered not on the water, but on Rebecca—tracking the subtle shifts in her expression, the quiet way she breathed. Sarocha’s protective instincts pulsed beneath her skin like a current, her body humming with unspent energy and an unfamiliar sense of urgency she couldn’t place.

Ananda crouched beside the riverbank, sketching faint impressions in his notebook with a soft pencil—symbols he remembered from Naga sites, the flowing script of an ancient tongue long lost to most human understanding. His brow furrowed.

“I’ve never heard of the Dreamers showing themselves this way,” he said after a moment. “Never directly. Certainly never with... resonance.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “Resonance?”

He glanced up at her. “That’s what it felt like, didn’t it? Not just a vision. A harmony. They met you in a space between knowing and being. That’s old magic.”

Sarocha crouched beside her partner and touched her hand briefly, grounding her. “They didn’t speak in words,” she murmured, “but I heard them all the same.”

Rebecca nodded, eyes still fixed on the water. “She was reaching for me.” Her fingers touched her abdomen instinctively—though she didn’t realize it—and then slowly dropped back to her side. “It wasn’t language. It was... shared emotion. Recognition.”

“Of what?” Ananda asked, though he spoke gently, not pushing.

Rebecca hesitated. “Possibility.”

Sarocha looked toward the shaded mouth of the cave where the shimmer had first emerged, and the surface of the water beyond. “They were held in place for so long... dreaming. What does it mean, that they’ve woken up now?”

Ananda set his notebook down and stood, brushing moss off his trousers. “We’re witnessing a chain reaction. Something’s begun to unbind—slowly. The veil that kept the worlds apart isn’t what it used to be. And with the curse unraveling, their consciousness is leaking back into our realm, not through will, but... necessity.”

Rebecca shifted her weight, scanning the water for another sign, but there was nothing now—just light and reflection.

“They didn’t seem frightened,” she said at last. “Just... uncertain. Like something is coming that none of them have prepared for.”

“They’re Naga,” Sarocha said quietly. “Born of rivers and myth. They don’t experience time the way we do. But even they must feel what’s stirring.”

Rebecca finally turned to face her. “And what is that, exactly?”

There was no immediate answer.

Ananda bent again and touched the damp earth where the light had shimmered. It was faint now, almost gone, but the ground still felt warm. “I think the Dreamers are gathering at the portals because they sense something returning—something they once protected or guided. But they’re no longer certain of their role. The world has changed. Magic is no longer shepherded. The Guardians have dwindled.”

Rebecca glanced to Sarocha.

“We still don’t know the full extent of the curse,” Sarocha admitted. “Only what it did to isolate our kind. Maybe its weakening is allowing natural cycles to resume. Fertility. Movement. Awakening. But... that kind of restoration doesn’t happen without consequence.”

“You think the bite—” Rebecca caught herself, frowning slightly, confused by her own words. She had spoken instinctively, not consciously. “You think... maybe us mating triggered this?”

Sarocha blinked, surprised by her phrasing. But she didn’t correct it. She only stepped forward, brushing a damp strand of hair from Rebecca’s forehead with aching tenderness. “I think we’ve done something the curse wasn’t built to contain. And now... the world is reshaping around that.”

“Or returning to itself,” Ananda added. “Maybe the curse was an interruption. Maybe what we’re witnessing is simply the Naga world realigning with what was always meant to be.”

Silence stretched again, thick with wonder.

Rebecca bent slightly and touched the water’s edge. Her fingers sank just beneath the surface, where the current brushed her knuckles. For a heartbeat, she thought she felt something there—something alive. Not a creature, but a pulse. A faint rhythmic echo, like the heartbeat of the river itself.

She drew back quickly, startled.

“What is it?” Sarocha asked, instantly alert.

Rebecca looked at her hand, then the water. “I don’t know. Just... it felt like it remembered me.”

Ananda raised his brow. “Interesting choice of words.”

Sarocha stood closer to her now, hand resting protectively against her back. “It might have.”

There was a quiet conviction in her voice that neither of the others challenged.

Behind them, the forest whispered in a faint breeze. The moss glowed a shade brighter in the filtered sunlight. Something unseen passed through the land—like the aftershock of magic breathed into soil and root.

“I don’t think the Dreamers are asking for anything,” Rebecca said finally. “Not in the way we’d expect. I think they just want us to understand what’s happening. Maybe even help them make sense of it.”

Ananda considered that. “They’ve been dreaming so long... Maybe they no longer know how to be awake.”

“And we’re not just witnesses anymore,” Sarocha added. “We’re part of it.”

Rebecca met her eyes. “You said once the river called to you. That you could feel its voice. Does it feel different now?”

Sarocha tilted her head slightly, searching the current with her senses. After a long pause, she nodded. “It’s... full. Like it’s brimming with something that hasn’t spilled yet. Like the moment before rain.”

They stood together a while longer, letting the air wrap around them, dense with the scent of wet earth and ancient moss. No more visions stirred the surface, no more figures flickered beyond the veil—but the weight of the moment remained. Something had changed, and though the world hadn’t shifted violently, it had undeniably begun to move.

And they were moving with it.

---

Late afternoon stretched golden over the hills beyond Loei, bathing the town in a syrupy warmth that settled over rooftops and swayed gently in the flowering trees. The sounds of distant chatter, motorbikes, and birdsong formed a quiet backdrop as Ananda wandered the local streets, a satchel of notes at his side, moving from a riverside café to the modest temple library perched near the edge of town. He was in his element—absorbing, sifting, parsing scraps of myth for relevance.

But up in their temporary lodgings, tucked away on the edge of a quiet road with a modest view of the Mekong’s glittering bend, the atmosphere was far more subdued.

Rebecca was curled on the futon beneath a thin woven blanket, legs tangled, hair a little messy from her nap. She had woken not long ago, ravenous, and then—ten minutes into devouring an assortment of fruit and sticky rice—suddenly nauseous again. She now rested on her side, watching Sarocha with a wary look that spoke of discomfort and curiosity in equal measure.

Sarocha was seated beside her on the edge of the futon, brushing her fingers gently through Rebecca’s hair as if trying to soothe something restless. Her other hand rested on Rebecca’s hip in a steady, grounding touch.

“You’re fussing,” Rebecca muttered, voice scratchy from sleep.

“I am,” Sarocha agreed softly, not stopping.

Rebecca sighed, part contented, part agitated. “It’s like I’m on a seesaw of moods. I want you close but I also want to be left alone. I want to sleep but I’m starving. I want to eat but then I feel like throwing up. It’s exhausting.”

“You’ve had a long day,” Sarocha said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Rebecca’s ear.

Rebecca blinked slowly at her. “It’s been a long few days.”

Sarocha only nodded, fingers still moving slowly, reverently.

They sat in silence for a stretch. The overhead fan hummed quietly, pushing cool air in a slow circle. Outside, a dog barked once and then quieted again.

Eventually, Rebecca stirred. “That Naga woman. In the water... she felt familiar.”

Sarocha’s brow furrowed. “Familiar how?”

“I don’t know. Like she was echoing something inside me. Or maybe... drawing it out.” She paused, chewing her lip. “And she was pregnant.”

Sarocha nodded carefully, not speaking.

Rebecca glanced at her. “How did you know?”

“I felt it,” Sarocha said. “The moment I saw her.”

Rebecca considered this, letting the weight of it settle in her chest. “Sarocha, can I ask you something? And you have to be honest, even if it’s weird.”

“I always am,” Sarocha replied, tilting her head. “Go on.”

Rebecca sat up slightly, propping herself on one elbow, blanket slipping off one shoulder. “Naga... conception. How does it work?”

Sarocha blinked. “That is weird.”

“You promised.”

Sarocha’s lips twitched, but she nodded. “Alright. I’ll try.” She shifted to face Rebecca more directly. “It’s... complicated. And rare. Our kind are long-lived, nearly immortal in some forms. We don’t reproduce the way humans do. Most Naga children are born after significant spiritual unions—when two souls resonate deeply. It’s... not just biology. It’s power. Alignment. Magic.”

Rebecca’s brows knit together. “So, like... intentional?”

“Not always,” Sarocha admitted. “Sometimes it happens by accident, like it may have with the Dreamer. But it’s never... casual.”

Rebecca bit her lip, hesitant. “But you’re female.”

A pause.

“Yes,” Sarocha said softly.

“And I’m female.”

“Yes.”

“So...” Rebecca’s voice grew tentative, even sheepish. “You couldn’t have gotten me pregnant, right? That’s not how... any of this works. Right?”

Sarocha’s expression shifted—there was no panic, no denial, but a creeping seriousness as she considered the question with new weight. “That’s what I believed,” she said carefully. “But you’ve felt what happens when we... when we’re together. What passes between us.”

Rebecca swallowed, throat dry. “Yes. I have.”

“It’s more than just sensation,” Sarocha continued, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s energy. Deep magic. When I... when I connect with you, I can feel myself inside you—not just physically. My essence. My power. It... fuses with you. Grounds in you.”

Rebecca’s heart thudded in her chest. “I’ve felt it too,” she admitted. “Like something shifting inside me. Growing. And it’s always so... intense. Like I’m being remade.”

Sarocha nodded once, slowly. “I’ve never bonded like this with anyone. Never imagined it could be possible to... leave a part of myself in someone else. Let alone... create something new.”

The words hung between them, fragile and terrifying.

Rebecca looked down at her hands. “Do you think it’s possible?” she asked quietly. “Could I be... like her? The Dreamer?”

“I don’t know,” Sarocha said honestly. “But something is changing. In both of us. I can feel it.”

Rebecca leaned into her, resting her forehead against Sarocha’s shoulder. “It’s insane.”

“It is.”

They sat like that for a while, their breathing slowly falling in sync. The weight of possibility pressed gently against their spines, not yet solid enough to claim but too persistent to ignore.

“I’m not saying I believe it,” Rebecca murmured. “I just... I can’t stop thinking about it. And what if I’m not wrong?”

Sarocha held her tighter. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

Rebecca remained pressed to Sarocha’s shoulder, quiet, as if the weight of what they’d said had drained some invisible energy from the room. Outside, the day was beginning its descent into evening, the slant of the sunlight warmer, softer, stretching golden fingers through the sheer curtains.

Sarocha’s hand traced light, unconscious circles along Rebecca’s back. “If it were even possible...” she said slowly, voice low with thought, “wouldn’t I have felt it?”

Rebecca pulled back just enough to look up at her. “I was wondering that too. You said your energy reaches inside me. Wouldn’t you... I don’t know. Sense something there?”

Sarocha’s eyes flickered, uncertain. “I’ve felt you change. But it’s been subtle. I thought it was just... the bond deepening. Or the aftermath of the curse weakening, the way it’s destabilizing our thresholds. Everything is shifting.”

Rebecca let out a breath. “What about the monks? They’re sensitive to all this magic stuff. Wouldn’t they have noticed something that... that big?”

“They might,” Sarocha admitted. “But they’re also cautious. And ever since we were marked by the curse and then unbound by it, I think they’ve been reluctant to interfere too deeply. Watching, not acting.”

There was a pause, tension in the silence.

Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “Wait. The bracelet."

Sarocha’s expression stilled, her gaze flicking briefly to the gently glowing gold around Rebecca’s wrist, still securely clamped in place. “It’s supposed to shield your presence. So others can’t trace or track your energy across realms. A protective barrier.”

“Could it be blocking more than just outside attention?” Rebecca asked, brows raised. “Could it be keeping us from sensing something too?”

Sarocha hesitated. “Possibly. If it was enchanted with layered intent... yes.”

Rebecca looked down at it. The ancient metal seemed so plain, so simple, except for the intricate engravings. “It might be for protection, but... what if it’s also hiding me from myself?”

Sarocha’s hand moved instinctively to cover Rebecca’s. “If that’s true, there may be reason for it. Maybe not a negative one. But... it means we’re navigating blind.”

Rebecca nodded, frowning. “It’s like we’re circling something without being able to touch it.”

They were quiet again, until Rebecca broke the silence with a different kind of question, softer now.

“If it was true... if we were—if I was...” She trailed off, then started again. “How would you feel about that?”

Sarocha blinked. The question was tentative, hesitant—but not fearful. Still, it took her by surprise.

She looked at Rebecca, studied the lines of her face, the subtle tension in her jaw, the uncertainty behind her eyes. And something softened in her chest.

“I think,” Sarocha said slowly, “that it would terrify me.”

Rebecca let out a small, breathy laugh. “Good. Me too.”

“But not because I wouldn’t want it,” Sarocha added quickly, searching Rebecca’s gaze. “Just... because it would be something I’ve never even imagined. Something that’s never existed.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “You mean... a Naga and a human?”

Sarocha shook her head. “No. Something more. A child born from both, but with balance. Not bound by the old rules. Not divided between too much power and too little. Something... new.”

Rebecca was quiet, absorbing that.

“I used to think I was doomed to always be at odds with myself,” Sarocha continued, voice quiet. “That the part of me that is Naga would always be restless, untethered. But with you...” She stopped, exhaled. “With you, I’ve felt whole in a way I didn’t think I could be.”

Rebecca’s expression softened. “You really think that... something born of us wouldn’t be... dangerous?”

“I think,” Sarocha said gently, “that it might be the opposite. A bridge, not a threat.”

Rebecca leaned into her again, folding herself close, as if trying to hide her trembling. “I don’t know how to even think about it. We weren’t trying. We weren’t even... we didn’t think it could happen.”

“I know.”

“And I’m scared that hoping for it—wondering if it’s real—makes me reckless.”

“You’re not reckless,” Sarocha said, wrapping both arms around her now. “You’re brave.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, breathing in the faint scent of Sarocha’s skin. “What if it’s all in my head?”

Sarocha pressed her lips against Rebecca’s forehead. “Then we keep walking forward, and the truth will catch up to us when it’s ready.”

“I don’t know if I’d be a good mother,” Rebecca said into her shoulder, barely a whisper.

Sarocha smiled faintly. “You would be fierce. And kind. And probably very bossy.”

Rebecca laughed into her, a soft, shaky sound. “That sounds about right.”

They stayed there in the quiet of the room, the air cooling with the hour. Outside, the river whispered as it always did, timeless and slow, as if echoing their breath, carrying secrets between worlds.

Eventually, Rebecca pulled back again, eyes searching Sarocha’s.

“If it is real,” she said softly, “promise me we’ll face it together. No matter what.”

Sarocha didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

The promise hung between them, quiet and unbreakable.

---

The low sun cast long golden shadows across the floorboards by the time Ananda returned, pushing open the old teak door of their modest lodgings with a slow creak. The scent of warm rice and lemongrass from the street food stalls had begun to drift in, mixing with the dusky air. Sarocha and Rebecca were already seated on floor cushions, a shared meal of sticky rice, grilled fish, and herbs spread before them on a low table. Rebecca looked up, still pale but steadier than she had been earlier.

“There you are,” Sarocha said, gesturing to the space beside her. “We saved you a plate. Mostly.”

Ananda offered a tired smile as he set down his satchel. “That’s generous of you. I was half-expecting crumbs and guilt.”

“I ate your spring roll,” Rebecca added, unapologetic as she popped another sliver of mango into her mouth. “But I was emotionally compromised, so it’s allowed.”

“You’re always emotionally compromised these days,” Ananda said wryly, but his smile lingered as he settled onto the cushion.

Sarocha leaned forward. “Did you find anything?”

“Bits and pieces,” he replied, accepting the plate she passed him. “I visited the old woman who tends the shrine near the banyan grove. She’s not a monk or priestess, but she’s got more awareness than most. Keeps her ears open. I told her I was a historian looking into folk patterns. She didn’t bat an eye.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “And?”

“Well, she said the villagers have been noticing changes lately—subtle ones. The river’s clearer. The rains have been gentle but consistent. The fish are returning upstream in higher numbers. The crops are greener. A few couples who’ve been struggling to conceive suddenly had good news in the last few weeks.”

He took a bite of rice, letting that sink in.

Sarocha’s brow lifted. “Fertility.”

Ananda nodded, chewing. “Yes. Not just of the land. Of people. It’s like... something nurturing has stirred. Something very old. Most of them think it’s luck, or that the river spirits are pleased with recent offerings. But the timing is...”

He trailed off meaningfully.

Rebecca’s fingers tightened briefly around her spoon. “It started just before we arrived.”

“And just after the dreamers woke,” Sarocha added quietly.

“The shrine keeper also mentioned,” Ananda went on, “that a few people say they’ve seen things in the water. Nothing frightening—just shapes, shadows. Glimmers. They think it’s imagination or spirits dancing under the moonlight. But some of them feel... watched. Not in a bad way. In a protective way.”

Rebecca exchanged a look with Sarocha, who was already frowning in thought.

“That sounds like the Dreamers’ influence,” Sarocha murmured. “Or at least, the proximity of Naga presence beginning to bleed through the veil.”

Ananda set down his chopsticks. “That’s what I was thinking. If the Dreamers are awake but still mostly in the other realm, maybe their return—even partial—is already shifting the balance.”

Rebecca’s brows drew together. “You said the land is healing. People are healing. That’s what Naga are meant to do, right? When they’re not bound by the curse or hunted or trapped.”

Sarocha nodded. “In their natural state, Naga are keepers of rivers, fertility, guardians of prosperity. That’s part of why the curse was so tragic. It didn’t just hurt the Naga—it disrupted the flow of what they were meant to offer to the world.”

“And now,” Ananda said slowly, “if their influence is returning, and it’s beneficial...”

Rebecca leaned forward, her voice low with urgency. “It could change everything. The monks—if they saw the Naga not as a threat but as a boon—”

“They might stop trying to suppress them,” Sarocha finished, equally quiet.

Ananda rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That’s assuming we can gather enough evidence. And that the Dreamers are willing to be seen, to interact.”

“They’re not hostile,” Rebecca said with certainty. “At least... the one I saw wasn’t. She was frightened, maybe, or confused. But not dangerous.”

“Confused is fair,” Sarocha said. “If they’ve been dreaming for centuries and only now waking to a changed world, we’re all navigating new ground.”

They sat with that for a moment. The clatter of a cart outside, children laughing distantly, the hum of evening insects—all normal, all grounding, but beneath it pulsed something older. The kind of quiet that suggested the world itself was listening.

“I think we should go back to the river tomorrow,” Rebecca said finally. “Maybe even back to the cave. See if anything has changed again.”

Ananda nodded. “And I’ll continue speaking to the locals. If the Dreamers are healing the land, there will be more signs. More stories.”

Sarocha glanced toward the window, where the distant silver gleam of the river reflected the falling sun. “If this is the beginning of something... we have to make sure it stays protected. That no one mistakes it for danger again.”

Rebecca reached for Sarocha’s hand beneath the table, fingers curling in a silent promise. “We will.”

They finished the meal quietly after that, each turning inward with thoughts heavy and bright. The weight of possibility had never felt so real. Outside, the shadows deepened, but the warmth of the earth remained, the river’s voice weaving steady through the bones of the land.

And somewhere beneath it all, unseen but beginning to stir again, the Dreamers waited.

---

The world folded in silence when the dream began.

No thunder, no winds—just a hush like the stillness inside a closed shell. Rebecca stood barefoot in a forest, though it wasn't quite a forest. The trees shimmered oddly, their leaves glinting with scale-like iridescence, whispering in a language too old for words. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, silvering her skin, and beneath her feet the earth was soft and warm as though pulsing with breath.

She turned slowly. Somewhere beyond the trees, water called to her—not with sound, but with sensation. Her skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arms rising as though a current moved through her, not around her. She took a step forward, then another, pulled without resistance.

Through the trees, a glow emerged. Not light, exactly—presence. And then she saw her.

The Dreamer.

She stood at the water’s edge of a still, mirror-like pool, half-shrouded in mist and moonlight. Her scales gleamed faint gold at the temples and collarbone, and her long dark hair floated weightlessly around her, as if she were underwater even on land. Her eyes met Rebecca’s—deep, ancient, uncertain. And yet warm.

She wasn’t alone.

Rebecca’s gaze dropped to the woman’s hands—cupped over her belly.

Still not visibly changed, but everything about her posture had shifted. Reverent. Protective. There was a new stillness in her, like someone listening intently to the rhythm of life itself. A slight tremor moved through the Dreamer's frame, a flicker of fear or awe.

Rebecca’s hand fluttered to her own abdomen, mirroring the gesture before she even realized.

The Dreamer stepped closer, not walking but gliding over the water’s edge, the air thickening with magic. Her lips didn’t move, but her voice filled the dream.

'You carry more than yourself now.'

The words echoed not in Rebecca’s ears but through her bones. She stared, shaken. “What do you mean? Are you—do you mean you?”

The Dreamer blinked slowly, then reached out—not to touch, but to gesture toward the cave beyond the pool. It pulsed faintly in the distance, the shadows alive with something dormant, vast.

'We are waking, but not fully. Not without her.'

Rebecca frowned. “Her...?”

The Dreamer’s gaze lingered on Rebecca’s midsection, then lifted. There was no accusation. Only... recognition.

'You are her. Or part of her.'

“I don’t understand.”

The Dreamer tilted her head, sorrow in the softness of her expression. Her skin shimmered faintly, catching the starlight like water in motion.

'The balance must return. Our sleep thins the veil. Our waking calls the river to breathe again. But only together... Only through you.'

Rebecca took a step closer, almost desperate. “What do you want me to do?”

The Dreamer’s voice came softer now, barely audible even in the stillness.

'Enter the water. Where the dreaming lingers. Wake us with your presence. We cannot cross fully—not without an anchor.'

The cave. The tributaries. Rebecca saw it again—the jagged stones slick with moss, the echoing hush of water lapping, the reflection in its depths that had shown more than her own face. That place was not just a passage, but a boundary. A threshold waiting.

“But why me?” she whispered.

The Dreamer’s eyes turned tender, as if the question was one she, too, had once asked. She stepped back slowly, returning to the water’s edge.

'You are what comes next.'

The wind picked up suddenly—warm and fragrant, tasting of river herbs and rain on stone. Around her, the forest began to fade, washed away by light and liquid. The Dreamer’s form flickered, rippling like a reflection on a disturbed surface.

Rebecca felt a sudden pull from behind, like a hand closing around her wrist—but there was no hand, no touch. Only the insistence of waking.

The Dreamer’s final words swelled inside her chest as the dream began to dissolve:

'Come soon. Before we forget how.'

---

Rebecca jolted awake, breath caught in her throat, her skin damp with sweat. The dim light of early dawn filtered through the paper shades, and beside her, Sarocha’s arm was draped protectively over her waist, warm and heavy and grounding.

Her heart pounded like a warning bell.

It wasn’t just a dream—not this time.

She lay still for a moment, hand resting against her belly where a subtle ache seemed to hum—not pain, but awareness. An echo. Something stirred, faint but undeniable, and it wasn’t just emotional residue.

Slowly, as not to wake Sarocha just yet, Rebecca turned onto her side, curling toward her partner’s warmth. But her mind remained firmly with the Dreamer’s words, turning them over like stones in a stream.

'You carry more than yourself now.'

Could it be? No... but—no.

And yet the idea clung to her, soft but persistent, like dew that refused to dry.

She thought of the Dreamer’s eyes—how they had looked at her not as an outsider, not as a stranger, but as kin. A mirror. A bridge.

A call.

Her hand found Sarocha’s, tangled in sleep but instinctively responsive, fingers tightening around hers even in unconsciousness.

Rebecca stared out at the shadows beyond the window, where dawn was beginning to reach across the horizon in thin, golden fingers.

She would go back to the cave. That much was certain now.

But more than that—she would help them remember how to wake.

Chapter Text

The morning light poured through the windows in golden shards, warming the wooden floors of the old guesthouse and catching on the ceramic glaze of mismatched bowls and chipped mugs set across the low breakfast table. The scent of jasmine rice, boiled eggs, and chili paste lingered in the air, mingling with the gentle smoke of strong coffee and the slight humidity drifting in from the open doors.

Rebecca sat quietly at the edge of it all, perched on the cushion by the window. Her spoon sat idle in her congee, the rice bloating slowly as it cooled. She stared into the bowl, unmoving, her fingers pressed lightly to her temple as if it might hold her thoughts in place.

The dream still clung to her skin like mist. Not just a memory, but a texture—like silk woven through her lungs, her blood. Every word the Dreamer had said rippled through her mind, soft and haunting.

'You carry more than yourself now.'

She hadn’t told them. Not yet. Not Sarocha, still bustling around in the kitchenette with an apron tied over her tank top, nor Ananda, who had already cracked open a well-thumbed notebook and was jotting observations between sips of coffee.

Rebecca shifted uncomfortably, adjusting her weight. Her body felt strange—weighted and too light at once, like her bones were humming with something she couldn't name. Her skin had been sensitive all morning, her mouth dry, her appetite erratic. And everything smelled stronger than usual—the rice, the fermented fish paste, even the soap in the bathroom. Her stomach turned slightly, and she swallowed hard.

“—so I think we should head to the cave by midday,” Ananda was saying, glancing toward Sarocha. “No one's been near that side of the tributary for decades, but some elders mentioned strange lights and a sound like singing, underwater. It lines up with the cave acoustics and what Rebecca described before.”

Sarocha nodded, sliding a small plate of grilled banana toward Rebecca. “We’ll bring offerings. Flowers. Water. They’re waking slowly, and they’ll feel us coming before we arrive. We need to go gently.”

Rebecca didn’t respond. Her gaze had fallen to the bowl again.

Sarocha noticed. “Becca?” she asked softly, stepping closer. “You need to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry,” Rebecca mumbled, her voice low. “It smells weird today.”

Sarocha crouched beside her, her touch instinctively brushing Rebecca’s back, fingers curling into the thin fabric of her shirt. “I can get you something else—fruit? Dry toast?”

Rebecca shook her head. “No, I just... it’s fine.”

Ananda glanced up briefly, watching the quiet exchange over the rim of his mug. He didn’t comment, but Rebecca caught the flick of his pen across the page a moment later.

The sounds of the morning continued: cutlery clinking, the rustle of linen, birdsong just beyond the window.

Then it happened.

Sarocha, smiling warmly, reached to adjust a strand of hair behind Rebecca’s ear. Just a small gesture, gentle and familiar. But something about it—too intimate, too exposed, too much—snapped the thin thread of calm inside Rebecca.

“Can you just—not do that right now?” she blurted, pulling away with a suddenness that silenced the room.

Sarocha blinked. “I was just—”

“I know, I know, I just—” Rebecca pressed her palms over her eyes, voice catching. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that was. I didn’t mean to snap.”

There was a pause.

Ananda looked from one woman to the other, brows slightly lifted. His pen hovered again. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked carefully. “You’ve been... quiet this morning.”

Rebecca exhaled shakily. “I didn’t sleep well,” she offered, which wasn’t a lie—but far from the whole truth. “And I think the food is messing with me.”

“Maybe we should pause the trip,” Sarocha said gently, rising to crouch in front of her now. “You don’t look like yourself. I can take you to the village clinic. Just to be sure.”

“No,” Rebecca said quickly. “No, I’m fine. Just off. It’ll pass.”

“Rebecca—”

“I said I’m fine.”

The edge in her voice made both of them go still again. The silence that followed was heavier this time, awkward and full of what wasn’t being said.

Rebecca’s eyes softened when she looked up at Sarocha. She sighed, deflating with guilt. “I’m sorry, love. Really. I didn’t mean to be short with you. I think... I think my body’s just being weird. And my head’s spinning a little from everything lately.”

Sarocha studied her, searching her face for something. Then, with a quiet murmur, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around Rebecca’s shoulders, pulling her close. “Whatever it is,” she whispered against her hair, “I’m here. You don’t need to carry it alone.”

Rebecca folded into the embrace, one hand clutching at the fabric of Sarocha’s shirt. For a moment she let her body press close, craving the warmth, the steadiness.

She felt Sarocha’s heart against her own, steady and strong.

And still... she said nothing about the dream.

Across the table, Ananda scribbled quietly in his journal, his expression unreadable. He didn’t interrupt, but there was a slight furrow in his brow, like a piece of the puzzle had just moved into place.

He wrote one word beside a scribbled date.

'Hormonal?'

Then added a second, underlined.

'Shift.'

The warmth of Sarocha’s embrace lingered on Rebecca’s skin even as she slowly pulled back, folding her legs beneath her and gripping her tea cup with both hands as if to anchor herself. Her eyes flitted between Sarocha’s watchful face and the open notebook still in Ananda’s hands. The morning was quiet again—but it wasn’t peace. It was breath held, tension waiting for release.

“I need to tell you something,” she said at last, and her voice was softer now, but firmer than before.

Sarocha straightened slightly, still kneeling beside her. “Okay,” she said, almost whispering. “Go on.”

Rebecca drew a shaky breath and stared into the swirl of tea leaves floating at the rim of her cup. “I had another dream last night. Like the others… but this one was different.”

Ananda leaned forward in his seat, elbow resting on the table. His face sharpened into the focus of the academic—curious, alert. “Another dream with the Dreamer woman?”

Rebecca nodded slowly. “Yes. She came to me again. But this time, it was more… vivid. It didn’t feel symbolic or metaphorical. It felt real. Like… like I was really there.”

She hesitated. “And she—she was so visible. Not just pregnant. Radiant. Calm, but… there was urgency in her voice. A plea.”

Sarocha reached for her hand, and Rebecca let her take it.

“She told me that they’re not fully awake yet,” Rebecca continued, “that they’re still bound, half in and half out of this world. She said something about needing to be called forth, drawn out. That the veil is too thick for them to push through alone.”

Ananda’s pen was already moving again. “The portal in the cave?”

“I think so,” Rebecca said. “She wants me to go back. Into the water. To… help them wake.”

Sarocha’s jaw tightened slightly, but she said nothing.

“There’s more,” Rebecca added quietly.

Both heads turned toward her.

“She said… that I carry more than myself now.”

The words fell like stones into the room, leaving a silence in their wake.

Ananda froze mid-word, his pen hovering above the paper. “She said that?” he asked carefully. “Exactly like that?”

Rebecca nodded.

Sarocha’s grip on her hand had stiffened, her thumb pausing its slow stroke across Rebecca’s knuckles. Her brows pinched together. “What… what does she mean?”

“I don’t know,” Rebecca whispered. But even as she said it, the tears stung her eyes. “I don’t know. But I feel like… I’m not alone. In here.” She pressed her free hand gently over her lower abdomen. “Like I've said before... I feel… full. Changed.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of her words curled around them like smoke.

Ananda was the first to break the silence. “Rebecca,” he said gently, “if what you’re implying is what I think you’re implying…”

“I’m not implying anything,” she said quickly. “I don’t know. That’s the point.”

“But if there’s even a chance,” Ananda went on cautiously, “that you’re—”

“She’s not,” Sarocha said, too sharply. She stood abruptly, the stool beneath her scraping against the floor. “That’s not how this works.”

Rebecca flinched but didn’t argue.

Ananda looked between them, calm but cautious. “Sarocha… we know Naga aren’t like humans. There’s still so much we don’t understand. Your kind are shapeshifters, inherently magical—”

“I would know,” Sarocha said again, quieter now, but still brittle. “If something… like that… had happened, I would feel it.”

Rebecca finally looked up at her. “But would you? Really? I mean… the bracelet, for one. It’s been fused to me since I met you. What if it masks things from both sides?”

Sarocha hesitated, and Rebecca could see the doubt creeping into her expression.

Ananda added, “And you said yourself, Sarocha, you’ve never known any Naga to conceive in your lifetime. You don’t know what it feels like—what it even looks like—for someone like you to create life. None of us do.”

“I’m not a male,” Sarocha muttered, her voice cracking just slightly. “I’ve never been one.”

“I know that,” Rebecca said quickly, standing to reach for her. “I know that. I’ve never questioned it. But—when we’re together…” Her voice faltered, eyes flicking toward Ananda and back again. She stepped closer and lowered her voice, “You’re inside me, Sarocha. Not just metaphorically. Energetically. It’s not… normal. Not like anything else I’ve felt. It’s like your essence reaches through every part of me. So… what if that’s enough?”

Sarocha’s lips parted, but no words came. She looked shaken—visibly, painfully shaken.

Ananda didn’t speak, respectfully giving space, but his expression had darkened into something unreadable.

Rebecca stepped closer still, placing her hand gently against Sarocha’s cheek. “I’m not saying this is what’s happening. But if there’s even a chance…” Her voice broke slightly. “I need to understand.”

Sarocha closed her eyes under the touch, then opened them again slowly. “And if you are? What then?”

“I don’t know,” Rebecca admitted, voice trembling. “I’m scared, honestly. But I don’t feel… dread. I don’t feel wrong.”

Ananda cleared his throat gently, finally rejoining the conversation. “There’s something else to consider,” he said, carefully neutral. “If your connection to the Dreamer is through shared experience… and you’re both in the early stages of something miraculous… then perhaps that resonance is the key to unbinding the Dreamers. Perhaps it’s not just about the portal in the cave. Perhaps it’s about you.”

Rebecca turned slowly toward him. “You think… I’m supposed to help them wake through some kind of… energetic link?”

“Maybe,” he said. “And maybe they’re awakening because you did. Because you and Sarocha—what you’ve created—is starting to ripple outward.”

Sarocha didn’t move, but her eyes searched Rebecca’s face like she was seeing her all over again for the first time. “If that’s true,” she said softly, “then we’ve already changed something ancient.”

Rebecca gave her a small, tremulous smile. “I think we have.”

Sarocha lowered her forehead to rest against Rebecca’s for a moment. “Then let’s find out what it means. Together.”

Ananda nodded, quietly. “We’ll go back to the cave. This time… prepared.”

---

The noon sun hovered behind the clouds, casting a pale golden hue over the forested hills that framed the edge of Loei. Mist clung stubbornly to the underbrush as the group began their ascent toward the caves nestled by the tributaries of the Mekong. The weight of the journey ahead made their steps slower, more deliberate. Gone was the lighthearted exploration of their first hike here—this time, they were not seeking signs. They were answering a call.

Rebecca walked between the other two, quiet but focused, her eyes fixed on the winding trail ahead. She wore one of Sarocha’s jackets layered over her own, too big on her frame but warm and comforting in the unusual chill. Her bag hung over one shoulder, filled with little more than a towel, dry clothes, a talisman given to her by her uncle, and a small wooden carving of a serpent—a token she didn’t remember packing. It was no doubt Sarocha's addition.

She felt strangely weightless and heavy all at once. Her limbs buzzed with nerves, her stomach fluttered—not from queasiness now, but anticipation. And something else she was still afraid to name.

Sarocha hovered close. Not in the overtly anxious way she had when Rebecca had first started showing signs of exhaustion or irritability, but now with a far subtler, sharper presence. Her eyes scanned the path ahead constantly. Her hand often drifted to Rebecca’s lower back, a near-constant anchor, and she took the outer edge of every narrow passage, placing herself between Rebecca and the steep drops that framed the trail.

“You don’t have to keep guarding me like I’m glass,” Rebecca said softly, not for the first time, though this time there was no irritation in her voice. Only affection.

Sarocha looked down at her and smiled, but didn’t step farther away. “Glass isn’t alive,” she replied. “You are. And you might be more than one now.”

Rebecca flushed. “Right,” she said, pressing her lips together. “That.”

Behind them, Ananda adjusted his pack and cleared his throat, falling into step beside them. “I know we’ve spoken about this loosely,” he began, “but I want to be clear about our intention. You’re not going in to confront anything, or force anything. We’re going to see if the Dreamers will respond to you—to your presence, your resonance. If what the Dreamer told you is true, then maybe you being there is enough to bring them fully into this world.”

“I know,” Rebecca said. “It’s not a ritual. It’s… more like a meeting.”

“A crossing,” Sarocha added quietly. “Two realms pressing against each other, looking for a way to reach through.”

“Exactly,” Ananda nodded. “And if it works, if they respond… that changes everything. The monks, the guardianship structure, the whole framework we’ve used to manage the Naga-human balance. If the Dreamers come back, and they are as benevolent as they seem…”

“They could restore what’s been broken,” Rebecca murmured.

Sarocha glanced at her again. “Or help you understand what’s growing inside you.”

Rebecca gave her a faint smile. “That too.”

They fell into a lull, the sound of the forest overtaking their voices. Birds trilled in the canopy, and somewhere to the left, water murmured over rocks. The cave mouth wasn’t far now—just beyond the next rise.

Rebecca paused to catch her breath, one hand on a tree for balance. Sarocha was instantly beside her, steadying her with one arm at her waist.

“I’m fine,” Rebecca said, but didn’t resist the touch.

“I know,” Sarocha said gently. “I still want to hold you.”

It was hard to argue with that. Rebecca leaned into her for a moment, letting Sarocha’s warmth seep into her. She hadn’t expected to be this needy—she was still surprised by how often she found herself seeking Sarocha’s closeness without thinking. But when she looked into those strange, beautiful eyes, the uncertainty inside her seemed to soften, just a little.

“Do you think they’ll speak to me again?” she asked.

“I think,” Sarocha said, brushing a few strands from her cheek, “that if they felt what I did when we were joined… they’ll know you’re their kin.”

Ananda coughed softly, politely looking away. “We’re close,” he said, gesturing forward with his walking stick. “You’ll want to prepare yourself.”

Rebecca nodded, stepping away from Sarocha but reaching back to take her hand. The trail widened, then bent sharply, revealing the mossy stones and gnarled roots that framed the cave entrance. The tributary shimmered beside it, water catching the filtered light and throwing it against the rocks like scattered jewels.

She remembered the last time she’d stood here—how still the air had been, how heavy with quiet power. That sensation was back now, magnified. The air hummed around her, not with threat, but with anticipation. Like the forest itself was watching.

Rebecca crouched and slipped off her shoes. Sarocha reached into her bag and offered the wooden serpent talisman.

“For luck,” she said, pressing it into Rebecca’s palm.

Rebecca turned it over, running her thumb along the smooth, polished grain. It was simple, but warm, almost pulsing faintly in her grip. She tucked it into the small pouch tied at her waist and looked at the water.

“Do you feel them?” she asked, her voice soft.

Sarocha stepped forward and closed her eyes. “Yes. Not clearly. But something old and vast is stirring beneath the surface. I feel… pressure. Not weight. Like something is waiting.”

Rebecca inhaled slowly. “Then it’s time.”

She took a step forward, then another, until her toes touched the cold edge of the water. The chill sent a jolt up her spine, but she didn’t retreat. She turned slightly, looking back at Sarocha, who stood tense and watchful just behind her.

“You’ll be right here?” Rebecca asked.

“Always,” Sarocha said, her voice low and steady. “Go as far as you need. But come back to me.”

Rebecca gave a small nod, and then waded in—ankle-deep, then calf-deep, then thigh. The current tugged at her, not harshly, but insistent. She felt the talisman pulse against her side, and with each step, the water felt less like a barrier and more like a welcome.

As she reached the deeper pool near the cave’s entrance, she stopped and turned to face the cave’s dark mouth.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “I’m here.”

Behind her, Sarocha watched every movement, fingers flexing unconsciously, her eyes never leaving the woman she had come to love more than her own understanding of the world. And just beside her, Ananda quietly wrote something into his journal:

'The Naga stir. The Dreamers wake. The balance is not breaking—it's reforming.'

And perhaps, he thought, that was the truest magic of all.

The water clung to Rebecca’s skin like silk and starlight. As she stepped deeper, the current cooled but didn’t resist her. It felt like something familiar—welcoming, ancient, almost reverent. The world beyond the banks began to blur: the rustling leaves, Ananda’s murmuring pen, even Sarocha’s steady breathing faded to a distant hum. The surface tension between planes thinned with every heartbeat.

She waded forward, chest-deep, until the cave swallowed the daylight. A shimmer danced across the water around her, threads of light and color where there should have been only shadow. Rebecca’s breath caught as something within the current shifted—like breath being drawn from the land itself.

Then—without warning—she slipped.

The water surged upward, pulling her beneath. The surface closed above her with a ripple and a sigh, and she was gone.

Sarocha’s heart stopped. “Rebecca!”

She lunged forward with the full force of her nature, heedless of Ananda’s alarmed call. In an instant her form shimmered, scales flashing beneath her skin as panic and power collided. Her shift snapped through her like a storm—tail forming, eyes flaring gold, limbs elongating—and she dove, slicing into the water like a blade of fury and devotion.

Ananda scrambled to the edge, dropping his journal. “No, no—” he muttered, breath shaking. But even he could feel it: the air had changed. Charged. Alive. He pressed his palm to the stone and whispered an old prayer, not to protect them from something malevolent—but to witness something sacred.

Below the surface, the cave opened wider than it had any right to—far too vast for the geography above. Rebecca felt none of the pressure of holding her breath. She was breathing water. She wasn’t afraid.

The darkness here wasn’t absence—it was depth. Depth layered with soundless echoes, like songs without words. She floated in a space carved from memory and myth, heartbeats steady, gaze wide. And then—

Light bloomed.

A soft glow emerged from the depths, distant at first, then closer, growing like dawn over the ocean. Shapes moved within it—sinuous, slow, immense. Serpent bodies. Scaled limbs. Eyes glowing not with menace, but with recognition. And then—

The pregnant Dreamer.

Her form shimmered with pale green and gold, her scales iridescent and soft. She swam with the strength of something divine, gliding toward Rebecca like a memory returning. Her mate followed, darker, powerful, eyes gentle but cautious. More Dreamers followed—no more than five in total, each one different in hue, in shape, in size, but all radiating the same sense of reawakening.

They had woken.

The Dreamer extended a hand—webbed, claw-tipped, elegant. Not to grab. To greet.

Rebecca took it.

The moment they touched, a sensation bloomed in her chest—not pain, not heat, but a resonance. Like two tuning forks vibrating in unison. The Dreamer’s golden eyes softened, and she pressed a clawed hand to Rebecca’s abdomen. There was no language, but the meaning rang clear in her bones.

'You carry more than yourself. We are kin now.'

Emotion surged through Rebecca—relief, awe, fear, longing—and it radiated outward in waves. Her form shimmered, scales flickering across her arms, her irises brightening with inhuman color. Gills bloomed briefly beneath her ears before receding. She gasped, but the water carried her sound like song.

'I’m changing,' she thought. 'And I’m not afraid.'

A shadow streaked through the water.

Sarocha burst into the cavern, fully shifted, her long body trailing behind her like a divine serpent from the oldest paintings. Her golden eyes locked onto Rebecca—unharmed, whole, glowing—and something in her chest loosened.

She didn't attack. Didn’t interfere.

She floated beside Rebecca, one clawed and webbed hand reaching out, fingertips brushing over her lover’s cheek. “You’re okay,” she said hoarsely, still half-shifted. “I thought—I couldn’t feel you for a moment.”

Rebecca turned to her, heart full, eyes luminous. “I was never in danger,” she whispered. “They brought me here.”

Sarocha looked at the Dreamers, her expression a shifting tide of reverence, fear, and hope. “They’re… beautiful.”

“They’re awake now,” Rebecca said. “Truly awake.”

Above the cave, the water began to shimmer with pale light, glowing from within. Ananda stood, stunned, watching the pool pulse with that same impossible radiance. The water lapped the edges of the bank, and with it came change: the nearby moss began to flower, small glowing fungi sprouting along the cave’s lip, trees shifting greener. The air smelled of jasmine and stone and something older than language.

He scribbled furiously in his notebook, muttering to himself, “It’s not a rupture of destruction—it’s a rejoining. A restoration.”

Below, the pregnant Dreamer pressed her forehead gently to Rebecca’s.

'We remember now. The path back. The dream has ended. You woke us.'

Sarocha’s arms wound around Rebecca from behind, protective and overwhelmed. Rebecca leaned into her instinctively, and her shifting scales softened, receding once more. But not fully. She was no longer entirely human. And that was okay.

Rebecca turned to the Dreamer. “What now?”

The Dreamer gestured upward. 'We rise. Together.'

And just like that, they ascended—slowly, as a pod of leviathans returning to the surface after centuries submerged. The Dreamers moved with grace and peace, their presence not commanding, but affirming. The water carried them upward like a tide guided by the moon.

When Rebecca broke the surface, Sarocha right behind her, Ananda let out a long, gasping breath. His eyes widened as the glowing figures began to surface in the water behind them.

“By the Bodhi tree…” he whispered.

The Dreamers emerged, not towering beasts, but beings of luminous majesty—scaled, horned, resplendent. They did not leave the water, but they hovered there, half-submerged, glowing like stars reborn.

The pregnant Dreamer locked eyes with Rebecca once more. And though no words passed between them, Rebecca heard her still:

'You are the new path. Balance. Life.'

And then the Dreamers began to sing.

Low, resonant, without words—but rich in meaning. The land responded. The cave walls shivered. The tributary bloomed with light. And the forest, just beyond the edge, bowed in reverence.

Rebecca, shivering and shining, turned into Sarocha’s embrace. The Naga wrapped her arms and tail around her lover and held her like something sacred.

“I’m here,” Sarocha whispered. “With you. Always.”

Rebecca trembled—not from fear, but from understanding.

Everything had changed.

And somehow, she had been the one to begin it.

---

Steam curled from the rim of the teacup in Rebecca’s hand, but she hadn’t taken a sip. The taste of the water still lingered in her mouth—cool and ancient and full of memory. Her damp hair clung to her skin, loose strands sticking to her cheeks as she sat on the edge of the guesthouse bed, a towel wrapped around her shoulders. The evening air was warm now, altered from the earlier chill, and fragrant with river and rain.

Sarocha sat close beside her, her thigh pressed against Rebecca’s. She had changed into dry clothes, but her silence hadn’t changed. She was still reeling, every nerve in her body taut, every breath taken like it might awaken some new and uncontrollable force. Ananda paced near the window, notebook half-open in his hand, scribbling furiously, then pausing, then scribbling again.

No one spoke at first.

The weight of what had happened hung between them like thick incense smoke.

“I was breathing underwater,” Rebecca finally murmured, breaking the silence. Her voice was low, awestruck. “I didn’t even realise it until I felt it. It wasn’t like holding my breath. It was like... I belonged.”

Sarocha exhaled. “You did.”

Rebecca glanced sideways, searching her lover’s face. “You saw them too. The Dreamers.”

Sarocha nodded slowly. “More than saw. I felt them. Their magic, their presence—it was like they were part of the water itself.” Her fingers tightened around the hem of her sleeve. “But it was you they reached for. You they trusted. That Dreamer... she touched you like you were one of them.”

“I think I might be,” Rebecca whispered.

Ananda turned from the window at that, brow furrowed. “Your physiology is still, by all accounts, human. But the way you shift—scales, gills... Those aren't just traces of magical exposure anymore. It’s becoming intrinsic. You’re adapting.”

Rebecca swallowed, her voice barely a breath. “The Dreamer confirmed it. She said I carry more than myself.”

Sarocha’s gaze snapped to her. “She said it again?”

Rebecca nodded. “Clearer this time. She touched me and... I felt it, Sarocha. Something alive inside me. Not like my heartbeat. Something separate. New.”

A long silence.

Then Sarocha stood abruptly, crossing the room with energy too raw to sit still. Her hands ran through her hair, her back tense, her voice strained. “You’re pregnant. With my child. That shouldn’t be possible. It’s not supposed to be possible.”

Rebecca looked up, unsure how to soothe her. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Sarocha turned, her eyes bright, almost luminous. “I’ve never shifted fully in this realm. Not since the curse. Not even close. But today—when I thought I’d lost you—I changed. Instantly. Fully. That shouldn’t be possible either. And yet…”

She trailed off, holding out her hands. Pale now, human again. But for a moment earlier, they had been clawed and iridescent. For a moment, she had been entirely herself.

“The curse is unraveling,” Ananda said, pacing slowly toward the table. “Everything is changing. The Dreamers waking—this rupture—it’s not tearing the world apart. It’s knitting it back together in ways we don’t yet understand.”

“But the monks will fear it,” Rebecca murmured. “They’ll see Sarocha’s full shift as a warning. They’ll hear about the Dreamers surfacing and think it’s a threat.”

“They’ll see me as a threat,” Sarocha said, jaw clenched.

“And me,” Rebecca added. “I’m not human anymore. Not entirely. And I’m... carrying something that’s never existed before.”

Ananda scribbled something, voice low. “This is beyond recorded precedent.”

Rebecca’s tone turned gentle, coaxing. “Ananda. You’ve studied this your whole life. What does this mean? The Dreamers? The child? The magic returning to the land?”

He sat slowly, setting the notebook aside. “There are legends—fragments, really—about a time before the curse. When the Naga walked openly. When their presence enriched the land, made it more fertile, more alive. That kind of balance hasn’t existed in centuries.”

“It felt like that,” Rebecca said. “The water was full of life. The trees responded. Even the air felt... softer.”

“There’s already evidence,” Ananda agreed. “The villagers are noticing subtle changes—small surges in fertility, more abundant harvests, shorter illness recoveries. They don’t understand what’s causing it, but the signs align.”

Sarocha came back to sit beside Rebecca, slower this time, her body folded with a careful grace. She didn’t speak right away. When she finally did, her voice had softened. “If what we’re doing—what you’re doing—is bringing balance... maybe the rupture isn’t something to stop. Maybe it’s something to guide.”

“But who will listen?” Rebecca asked. “The monks don’t want the old ways to return. They want control. Caution. Suppression.”

Sarocha touched Rebecca’s wrist, her fingers tracing the edge of the ever-present bracelet. “Maybe they’ll have to see us. All of us. What we’re becoming.”

Rebecca met her eyes. “That scares me.”

“It should,” Ananda said plainly. “The monks are watching for instability. They want proof that Naga can exist without imbalance. That the old fears aren’t justified.”

“And they’re going to look at me,” Rebecca said, “and see something that shouldn’t exist. Something new.”

Sarocha’s hand moved from her wrist to her belly. “I don’t care what they see. I care that you’re safe. That... our child is safe.”

Rebecca’s eyes welled. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. But when the Dreamer touched me, I didn’t feel afraid. I felt... whole. And for a moment, I wasn’t just me. I was part of something more.”

The room fell quiet.

A chorus of frogs called from outside, and the air stirred with the scent of wet earth and river lilies. It was peaceful—but beneath it pulsed a growing tension. The world had shifted. The rules had changed. And they were caught in the center of it.

Sarocha leaned her forehead against Rebecca’s. “We’ll face them. Together.”

Rebecca closed her eyes. “We have to. There’s no turning back.”

Ananda, watching them, nodded to himself. “Then we'll return home tomorrow and prepare to meet with them again.”

The words dropped like a stone in still water.

They had lit the match. Now they had to walk into the fire.

---

The village was quiet by the time night crept in, the pale gold glow of paper lanterns swaying at doorways like floating fireflies. Distant laughter drifted through the stillness as families shared supper and settled into their evening rhythms. But inside their guesthouse room, the quiet had a different weight—one threaded with awe, confusion, and something unspoken between the three of them.

Rebecca sat on the floor now, knees drawn up, her back to the wooden frame of the bed. The lamplight cast warm amber hues across her face, and her damp locks framed her cheeks like tendrils of smoke. She was warm, full from their meal, but unsettled. The experience at the cave still shimmered just beneath her skin. The Dreamer’s voice, her touch, her gaze—it all pulsed faintly in her bones, an echo of something ancient and sacred.

Sarocha sat behind her, slowly combing gentle fingers through Rebecca’s damp hair. The intimacy was unspoken, but grounding. Her legs bracketed Rebecca’s sides, and her chin rested lightly on Rebecca’s shoulder. She hadn’t said much since their earlier conversation. There was nothing left to say that wouldn’t shift the earth beneath their feet further.

Ananda, curled in the corner armchair, had stopped writing at last. His notebook lay open across one knee, but his attention was focused elsewhere—his gaze flitting between the two women before resting on the glowing oil lamp, as if searching for some wisdom in its flickering flame.

“We don’t have to go to the monks immediately,” Sarocha said suddenly, voice low against Rebecca’s ear. “You need time. Rest. Space to think.”

Rebecca turned slightly to glance at her. “And if we wait too long? What if they act first, out of fear?”

“They already fear us,” Sarocha said simply. “One more day won’t change that.”

Ananda stirred. “Sarocha’s right. Besides, we can’t return straight to the monks—not from here. We’ll need to go home first. Back to the estate. Regroup, prepare.”

Rebecca nodded slowly. The estate. It felt like a different world now—part sanctuary, part waiting room for fate. “It’s strange,” she said softly, “how home feels more uncertain now than the cave did.”

Sarocha’s arms wrapped around her waist from behind. “We’ll go back. We’ll face them. But not before we take a breath.”

The silence returned, but it was softer now—less strained.

The moon had risen by the time they all began to prepare for bed. Ananda excused himself to a second room the guesthouse owner had offered them, claiming the need to organize his notes in solitude. Sarocha locked the door after him, then turned back to Rebecca, who was standing by the open window, one hand on her stomach.

The breeze stirred the curtains, whispering secrets in a language only the water could understand.

Sarocha approached slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re still feeling it?”

Rebecca turned. “Not like in the cave. But... I know it’s there.” She placed a hand over Sarocha’s, gently guiding it to rest on her belly. “It’s so early, but somehow I already feel it. Like I’m not alone in here.”

Sarocha’s eyes flickered with something raw. “I wish I could protect you from everything coming. The monks, the doubt, the changes... But I can’t. Not from all of it.”

Rebecca smiled faintly. “You’re doing more than enough. You’ve always been my anchor.”

A flush of emotion passed over Sarocha’s face, and she lowered her forehead to Rebecca’s, eyes closed. “I shifted. In front of you. In front of Ananda. In front of the Dreamers. That’s not just rare—it’s dangerous. If the monks found out…”

“They will,” Rebecca said gently. “They’re watching the ripples just like we are.”

“But I didn’t lose control,” Sarocha murmured. “I thought I would. I thought the rage would take me if I ever shifted fully again. But it didn’t. All I felt was...” She paused, breath trembling. “Love. And fear. Not hatred. Not hunger. Just... the need to keep you safe.”

Rebecca leaned into her, eyes damp. “Maybe that’s what the monks need to understand. That the old fears aren’t the only path anymore.”

They lay down together, bodies curled close, the window still open to let in the scent of river and wet leaves. The night air wrapped around them like silk.

For a long while, they didn’t speak. Sarocha traced slow circles over Rebecca’s shoulder, her touch rhythmic and soothing. Rebecca pressed her face into the crook of Sarocha’s neck, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing.

Then, a whisper in the dark.

“Do you think the Dreamers will want to stay?”

Sarocha answered slowly. “I think they’ve waited long enough that whatever choice they make now will be intentional. They’ll watch. Listen. Maybe they’ll settle somewhere in the borderlands—close to the water, between realms.”

“And if more return?”

“Then the world will have to learn to change with them.”

Rebecca exhaled, lips brushing Sarocha’s collarbone. “So much is unknown. But I’m not afraid of that anymore.”

Sarocha smiled into Rebecca’s hair. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

Outside, frogs chirped rhythmically, and the trees rustled softly. Within the quiet, the universe felt as though it had stilled for them—for this moment of grace, this night of peace.

Chapter Text

The journey back from Loei was quieter than expected — not out of tension, but reverence. As the train cut across golden plains and the sun dipped behind the spine of the mountains, an almost imperceptible hush accompanied their movements. Rebecca noticed it first: birdsong seemed to follow them. Flowers along the tracks bloomed slightly wider as the train passed. Even the station they disembarked at had the distinct scent of jasmine on the breeze, though no bushes were in sight.

Sarocha noticed too. She’d stood behind Rebecca on the platform, hands protectively resting at the small of her back. Her pupils were serpentine again, just for a flash, and her voice murmured low against Rebecca’s ear, “Can you feel it? The land knows.”

Rebecca nodded slowly, her fingers resting just above her pelvis without realizing it. “It’s like everything’s softer… warmer.”

By the time they reached the hidden path to Sarocha’s estate along the Chao Phraya, twilight had turned the river silver. The house revealed itself not as something they approached, but something that welcomed them — its wards gently unfurling like lotus petals, responding not to spells but to the shape of Rebecca’s presence. Lights flickered on. The koi in the pond stirred. Vines bloomed overnight blossoms as they walked beneath them.

Home.

Ananda stepped aside without a word, almost reverent in how he gave space. He seemed too full of thoughts to speak yet. His leather-bound journal hadn’t left his hands since they left Loei, pages already marked with his tight, precise script.

Rebecca stood just inside the main room, the silence swallowing her in its softness. “It’s weird,” she murmured. “I feel like everything here knows... like it missed us.”

Sarocha came to her side, fingers brushing hers, then twining them together. “Not weird,” she said softly. “You carry life now. It echoes. It heals. It calls the world back to itself.”

Rebecca turned to look at her. “We carry life,” she corrected, voice thickening with emotion. “Don’t try to take this all off your shoulders like you do everything else. This is ours.” She jested, a small smirk curving her lips.

Something in Sarocha’s face softened so thoroughly it was like water spilling over stone. “Ours,” she repeated, reverent. Her hand brushed along Rebecca’s cheek, her thumb brushing beneath her eye. “Then let me say it like this — our presence is a balm now. It’s already working through the weave.”

Rebecca chuckled breathily. “What does that even mean?”

Ananda cleared his throat gently from the doorway. “It means,” he said, “that the very fabric of this realm is starting to remember what it once was — before the curse, before suppression. You’re not just individuals now. You’re catalysts. Restoration, rebalance… whatever term the monks will eventually stamp on this, it’s already begun.”

Rebecca bit her lip, uncertain, her hand coming to rest just over her belly again. “I didn’t think it would be like this,” she said. “I thought I’d feel heavy or... freaked out.”

“And do you?” Sarocha asked carefully.

She met her lover’s gaze and shook her head slowly. “No. I feel... right. Grounded. Like I’ve been carrying this absence for so long I didn’t know it was there until it wasn’t anymore.”

Sarocha’s eyes shimmered, gold catching in the lamplight. She didn’t speak. She just stepped forward and kissed Rebecca’s forehead, then bent — slow and reverent — and kissed just above the curve of her abdomen too.

Ananda, to his credit, turned away and busied himself with tea.

Later, they all settled in the inner courtyard — lanterns casting gentle light on the reflecting pool, the air thick with the scent of blooming night jasmine and lemongrass.

Sarocha sat with one leg tucked under her, a protective arm draped around Rebecca, who leaned into her without hesitation. Their closeness had shifted subtly — not possessive, not clinging, but constantly in contact. As though they were recalibrating each other with touch.

Ananda sipped his tea, watching them. “How does it feel?” he asked. “Being... different.”

Rebecca exhaled. “Like I’ve stopped fighting something I didn’t know was in me.”

“And you?” he asked Sarocha.

The Naga woman was quiet for a long beat. Then: “I shifted fully. In the water. That shouldn’t have been possible.”

Ananda straightened. “The curse—”

“Was still in place, I thought,” she said. “But something cracked. Something gave. Not in a destructive way… more like...” She trailed off, searching.

“An egg hatching,” Rebecca offered quietly.

Sarocha smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

Ananda nodded slowly. “It will matter to the monks. A lot.”

Rebecca leaned forward. “What if that was the point of the test all along? Not to resist change — but to see if we could survive it without losing ourselves.”

Sarocha’s grip around her tightened. “You’re not losing yourself,” she said fiercely.

Rebecca reached up, fingers brushing Sarocha’s jaw. “Neither are you.”

For a moment, nothing existed but the stillness between them — breath, heartbeat, the electric thrum of shared magic.

Then Ananda stirred again, flipping open his journal. “I’ve been tracking small environmental effects since Loei. Already here, we’re seeing early indicators — faster sprouting from the garden, koi that hadn’t spawned in years showing courtship behaviors, even the candle flames around the altar burning brighter without wind.”

Sarocha raised a brow. “You think it’s... us?”

“I think,” he said, “you are becoming part of what anchors the veil. The Dreamers returning has started the shift. You two are amplifying it.”

Rebecca’s throat tightened. “And if we’re amplifying... the monks will feel it.”

“They already have,” Ananda said simply. “That much magic doesn’t go unnoticed. I’d wager they’re already preparing for your return.”

A long silence stretched.

Finally, Rebecca whispered, “Do you think they’ll accept this? Us?”

Ananda glanced between them. “Some will. Others won’t. That’s the nature of balance too — opposing forces must coexist.”

Sarocha leaned in and kissed Rebecca’s temple. “Let them come. We are not the threat.”

Rebecca closed her eyes. “No. We’re the beginning.”

---

The sun was long gone by the time the house settled into stillness. The distant hum of crickets filled the air, blending with the soft rustle of wind through the palms lining the edge of the estate. The house had been quiet for a while, but Rebecca had found no rest in sleep. She lay on her side beneath the silk sheet, her back to the open window, eyes half-lidded but mind alert. The room was dim, lit only by the soft golden glow of a single lantern on the far table.

Sarocha entered with the slow grace of someone who had known silence too long to ever disturb it. She paused in the doorway for a moment, simply watching.

“You’re not asleep,” she said softly.

Rebecca turned her head slightly, meeting her gaze. “Didn’t feel like sleeping.”

Sarocha crossed the room, her wrap of pale cotton sliding off one shoulder. Her hair, loose now, shimmered like black river silk down her back. She moved slowly, deliberately, and when she sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers reached instinctively for Rebecca’s.

“You’ve been quiet all evening,” Sarocha murmured. “Too quiet.”

Rebecca let out a breath that was nearly a laugh. “I’m just… overwhelmed, I think.”

There was a pause.

“I keep thinking about her. The Dreamer. The way she looked at me, like she already knew everything I was about to feel before I felt it. Like she knew what I was carrying.”

Sarocha's fingers tightened, just slightly. “She did. And she wasn’t afraid.”

Rebecca’s voice was quieter now. “Neither was I. Not in the cave. I was… calm. But here in the real world—” She pressed her free hand to her stomach gently, “—it’s different. It's more real. I keep wondering how this is even possible. You and me. This child.”

Sarocha leaned down and brushed her lips against Rebecca’s temple. “I don’t need it to make sense,” she said. “I just know that it is.”

Rebecca turned to her, brows slightly furrowed. “But… I mean, you’re not—” she hesitated, cheeks flushing. “You're not even—biologically…”

“I’m not male,” Sarocha finished for her, softly. “No. Not in the human sense.”

“Right,” Rebecca whispered, looking away. “So how could this even…?”

Sarocha gave a small, fond smile. “Magic,” she said, simply.

Rebecca laughed despite herself, the sound tinged with disbelief. “That's such a cop-out.”

“It’s also true,” Sarocha replied. “Our bond… what we share… it’s not bound by the same rules. We’re not just two bodies. When I’m with you, I shift—not just in form, but in energy. I reach into you. Not by force. By invitation.” Her voice grew softer, almost reverent. “And something in you opened. Answered. You called to something old. Deeper than blood.”

Rebecca looked at her then, fully, her eyes wide and shining in the low light. “And that’s why this is happening?”

Sarocha brushed a thumb over Rebecca’s cheek. “I think so. I think we created something that was never supposed to be possible. Or… maybe it always was. Just forgotten.”

They sat in silence for a moment, hands still entwined. Outside, a bird called once, then went quiet again.

“Do you ever wonder what they’ll be like?” Rebecca asked suddenly.

“The baby?” Sarocha tilted her head. “Every moment.”

Rebecca’s smile was quiet, blooming. “Do you think they’ll be more like you, or me?”

“I hope they’ll be like themselves,” Sarocha replied. “But… maybe your stubbornness. And your laugh. And maybe… just a touch of my teeth.”

Rebecca grinned. “Gods help us.”

“And what about you?” Sarocha asked. “Do you wonder what kind of parent you’ll be?”

“I never thought I’d be one at all,” Rebecca admitted. “But now? I want to be good. I want to give them a world worth growing into. I want to give them… us.”

Sarocha leaned in, resting her forehead to Rebecca’s. “Then we will.”

Their noses brushed, their breath shared. Rebecca’s hand moved instinctively to her belly again, and Sarocha’s followed, palm warm and grounding over hers.

There was a new kind of gravity between them now, a center of warmth that pulsed not with fear, but with fragile wonder. And still, under it all, something else stirred—something ancient and instinctive. A hunger, yes, but not of the body alone. It was a hunger for unity. For surrender. For truth between skin and soul.

Rebecca leaned forward, slowly, catching Sarocha’s lips with her own. The kiss was slow, searching, not rushed. The kind that speaks of deep water beneath the surface. Sarocha answered with reverence, her hand drifting to Rebecca’s back, pulling her closer.

The heat was there—undeniable, rising—but it remained cradled in tenderness, in the intimacy of shared breath and slow movements. They kissed like people who had been torn apart in a dream and finally found each other again.

When they finally pulled apart, Rebecca tucked herself into Sarocha’s arms, face buried against her shoulder.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen, do we?” she whispered.

“No,” Sarocha admitted. “But we’re not alone anymore. That changes everything.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, feeling the soft, rhythmic thrum of Sarocha’s pulse beneath her ear. And beneath her own hand, the barest flutter of something else—something not her, not entirely.

But something hers, nonetheless.

Sarocha lay back against the headboard, Rebecca tucked against her like something sacred. One arm curved protectively around her back, the other still resting over the soft swell of Rebecca’s belly. There wasn’t much to feel there yet, not really, but both of them knew it was real. A new presence. A new heartbeat, somewhere deeper down.

Rebecca shifted slightly, her hand drifting up Sarocha’s ribs, fingertips trailing along warm skin. “You’re so warm,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, voice already dipped in something sultry without meaning to be.

Sarocha let out a soft hum in response, brushing her lips through Rebecca’s hair. “You’re warm too.”

Rebecca tilted her face up, meeting Sarocha’s gaze. “Not what I meant.”

There was a pause.

Something passed between them. A beat of stillness, then a low flicker of tension curling underneath. Sarocha’s pupils dilated slightly. Her breath caught.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Rebecca whispered.

Sarocha swallowed. “You’ve been thinking a lot of things lately.”

Rebecca grinned. “Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not,” Sarocha said softly, but her voice was tight at the edges. “I’m just... not sure we should.”

Rebecca pushed herself up, shifting to straddle one of Sarocha’s thighs, slow and deliberate. Her palms slid up bare shoulders, framing Sarocha’s face. “Is that because you don’t want to?”

Sarocha exhaled shakily, her hands hovering for a moment before settling—gently—at Rebecca’s hips. “You know that’s not why.”

“Then why?” Rebecca tilted her head, nuzzling just beneath Sarocha’s jaw, brushing a soft kiss there.

Sarocha’s jaw flexed. Her fingers tensed but didn’t grip. “Because you’re pregnant. Because I don’t know what’s safe. I don’t know what I could… do.”

Rebecca pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “You think you could hurt me?”

“I think I wouldn’t forgive myself if I did,” Sarocha murmured, throat tight. “Even by accident.”

Her honesty landed like a soft thud in the chest—sincere, endearing, maddening.

Rebecca’s expression softened. “That’s sweet. But frustrating as hell.”

A flicker of humor passed through Sarocha’s features, and then guilt. “I just… I don’t know how any of this works, Becca. You’re still changing. The baby’s changing. What if I shift again? What if I can’t hold it back? What if—”

“You always hold it back,” Rebecca said. “Every single time, unless you want to show me.”

“But this is different,” Sarocha said, voice low. “The bond feels stronger. I feel… more like myself again. More Naga than I’ve been in years. Like something old is waking up inside me.”

Rebecca’s heart thudded at that. Not in fear—but in recognition.

“I know,” she whispered. “I feel it too.”

Her hands moved, tracing down Sarocha’s collarbone, across her chest, trailing reverently over the taut lines of her stomach. She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss just above Sarocha’s heart. “We’re not broken anymore. That’s not something to be afraid of.”

Sarocha let out a low sound—part exhale, part groan. “Rebecca…”

Rebecca shushed her with another kiss. “I’m not porcelain. And neither is this baby. You think magic made this happen and that it’s fragile?” She kissed her again. “I think it’s stronger than either of us. And I think it can feel the bond we feel.”

Sarocha’s hands finally moved, slow but sure, sliding up Rebecca’s back to hold her there, against her. “You’re serious?”

Rebecca pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Her smile was soft, but unmistakably hungry. “Oh, I’m dead serious. You’ve been holding back ever since we got to Loei. And now all I can think about is you. Your hands. Your mouth. That heat of yours.” She leaned in, breath warm against Sarocha’s lips. “I’ve been aching for you.”

Sarocha shivered beneath her, visibly battling with herself. “You’re making it very difficult to stay in control.”

“Good,” Rebecca said, and kissed her.

This time it was slow and searching, but not uncertain. Her mouth coaxed Sarocha’s open, teasing at the edges of resistance. The kind of kiss that said, 'I know you want this, and I’m not letting you hide.'

Sarocha finally gave in, pulling Rebecca tight against her as her own body surged with heat. But even now, there was a trembling restraint in the way she held her—trembling not from fear, but reverence.

Rebecca broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Don’t be afraid of breaking me. You never have. You never will.”

Sarocha’s eyes flickered—there was something molten behind them now, something primal—but tempered by that adoring look she always gave Rebecca, like she was moonlight spun into human form.

“You,” she breathed, “are going to be the death of me.”

Rebecca grinned, flushed and bright and alive. “No, Sarocha. I’m going to be the life of you.”

And that was when the last thread of resistance began to fray.

Sarocha rolled her gently onto her back, careful but deliberate, a quiet storm in her movements. Her hands slid beneath the hem of Rebecca’s shirt, reverent in every touch.

Rebecca arched into her, breath catching at the feeling of skin meeting skin, of heat pressing into the hollows of her.

It was the beginning of something. Of surrender. Of promise.

But neither of them rushed. They lingered.

Let it build.

Like lightning behind the clouds, ready to break.

Rebecca lay back, her breath hitching softly as Sarocha’s hands explored her with a touch equal parts devotion and hunger. There was no rush. No frantic need. Only heat building by degrees, igniting across her skin like slow-moving flame, laced with the intimacy of knowing.

Sarocha’s fingers slid beneath the edge of her shirt again, this time not pausing. She helped Rebecca sit up just enough to pull the fabric over her head, and then she simply looked.

The way Sarocha gazed at her made Rebecca shiver—not because she was cold, but because of the awe in her lover’s eyes. She felt seen, worshipped, cherished. Not just as a body, but as something sacred. As a vessel. As hers.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Sarocha murmured, one hand drifting to cup the curve of Rebecca’s waist. “You always were, but now… there’s something more.”

Rebecca flushed, her hands sliding up Sarocha’s thighs, pulling her closer. “It’s the glow,” she teased, voice breathy. “Comes with the pregnancy.”

Sarocha bent down and kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then lower—down her throat, over her collarbone. “No,” she said, voice low and reverent. “It’s you. Everything that’s always been you. Just… blooming.”

Rebecca sighed beneath her, fingers threading into Sarocha’s hair as she arched slightly into the touch. “God, you talk like that and I swear I might actually explode.”

Sarocha smiled against her skin, then kissed lower, slow and aching and deliberate. “Let’s find out.”

Her hands moved with increasing boldness, smoothing over the curve of Rebecca’s hips, tracing the faint stretch of skin that had only just begun to change. She hesitated for half a heartbeat at Rebecca’s stomach, then pressed a tender kiss just below her navel.

Rebecca’s breath caught again, this time different. The gesture—it melted her. Her hand cradled the back of Sarocha’s head, holding her there as emotion surged, thick and raw in her chest. “That was unfair,” she whispered, voice trembling.

“Too much?” Sarocha asked quietly.

“No. Too good.”

Sarocha chuckled softly, then resumed her slow exploration, kissing lower, then letting her tongue follow the paths her hands had charted. Rebecca writhed under her, the teasing making her all the more desperate, her thighs tensing with each unhurried motion.

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t be gentle with me forever.”

Sarocha looked up at her, eyes dark with want. “But I like gentle.”

“I like you,” Rebecca countered, voice fraying at the edges. “But I need you. All of you.”

Sarocha inhaled sharply at that, and something in her seemed to slip—just a little. The caution didn’t vanish, but it shifted. Made space for want.

But before she could take over, Rebecca sat up and gently, firmly pushed her back.

“Wait,” she whispered, breath shaky but eyes burning. “My turn.”

Sarocha stilled, her body pulsing with restraint. “Rebecca—”

“I’m fine,” she interrupted, crawling into Sarocha’s lap. “I need this. I need you. But I need to feel in control of it right now.”

Her hands were already on Sarocha’s shoulders, warm and sure, and Sarocha’s breath caught as Rebecca’s hips settled just so.

Rebecca’s eyes darkened, gleaming like polished amber. “Let me take care of it. Let me take you.”

The edge of command in her voice was softened by longing, made heady by need. Sarocha’s pulse pounded in her throat. She could feel the shift beginning—not in her body yet, but in her energy. That mystical bridge between them was stirring to life, coiled beneath her skin, aching to respond to Rebecca’s pull.

“You’re sure?” Sarocha rasped, her hands already finding Rebecca’s waist, desperate and reverent.

Rebecca leaned in and kissed her—deep, slow, claiming. Her hands threaded into Sarocha’s hair and tugged gently as she whispered against her mouth, “I swear, if you ask again, I’ll bite you.”

That made Sarocha laugh—shaky, breathless—but the sound died quickly as Rebecca shifted her hips again, grinding down with quiet intent. The contact sent a jolt of sensation through them both. A hum of magic sparked between them, hotter than before, richer. This wasn’t just their bond — it was deepened by whatever had changed since Loei. Since the Dreamers. Since the pregnancy.

Sarocha groaned, and the mystical tether inside her pulsed to life, answering the call of Rebecca’s desire. The connection between them unfurled—an invisible, intimate magic that bridged their bodies, rising like smoke, like a sacred force summoned through touch and want and trust.

Rebecca gasped as she felt it—stronger than ever. The mystical shape of Sarocha’s desire taking form within her, not flesh and blood, but something more. Heat curled low in her belly, meeting that presence, wrapping around it like silk.

“Oh,” she breathed, rolling her hips again, and the wave of pleasure made her thighs shake. “God, it’s stronger.”

Sarocha's eyes were half-lidded, the muscles in her arms twitching as she fought to stay still. “Something’s different. It’s like… like you're calling it. Pulling me deeper.”

Rebecca's lips curled into a slow, hungry smile. “Then don’t fight it.”

She braced herself on Sarocha’s shoulders and began to move, her rhythm measured, purposeful. Each grind sent sparks up her spine, the magic between them meeting her where she needed it most. Sarocha’s hands tightened at her waist, anchoring her, grounding her, but not controlling. She let Rebecca take the lead.

And gods, did Rebecca lead.

The pleasure built in slow, dizzying waves—each pass a little deeper, a little harder. Rebecca's breath turned to soft whimpers, her brow knit in concentration and desire. Her body shone with sweat, flushed and radiant, her belly barely rounded yet but already sacred.

Sarocha couldn’t take her eyes off her.

Every movement, every arch and tremble, was a testament to strength and life and want. Her Rebecca—growing a child neither of them had thought possible, bound to her through magic and fate, and now riding her in a union that felt carved into the fabric of the world.

The mystical bond between them throbbed with intensity, an erotic pressure that defied language. It wasn’t just sex—it was communion. A divine act made of need and love and raw devotion.

“You feel so good,” Rebecca whispered, her voice thick and wrecked. “I can feel you everywhere.”

Sarocha’s jaw clenched. “You are everywhere. You’re—” Her voice broke on a groan as Rebecca’s hips circled, dragging her over the edge of sanity. “Rebecca, I—ngh, I won’t last like this.”

“Yes, you will,” Rebecca insisted, her tone firm, desperate. “Because I’m not done. I need this.”

Her thighs trembled with the force of sensation, her spine arching, hair falling wild around her shoulders. The pressure inside her built again, not like before—more. Richer. Every time she moved, she sank deeper into the heat, deeper into the bond. And the magic didn’t just respond—it worshipped her.

Sarocha could feel it too. That primal echo through the tether, pulsing with each movement, laced with Rebecca’s heartbeat. It was sacred. Powerful. Like a blessing being written into the air around them.

“You’re glowing,” she choked out, her head falling back against the pillows. “I swear you’re glowing, Rebecca—look at you.”

Rebecca’s fingers curled into Sarocha’s shoulders, her lips parted, breath ragged. “Then don’t take your eyes off me.”

She drove down again, and the jolt of pleasure lit her nerves like fire. The sound she made was half-moan, half-cry, desperate and dizzying.

“Please,” she gasped, hips stuttering. “Please, don’t hold back. I need—need you to feel me.”

Sarocha surged upward just enough to meet her, not taking control, just matching her intensity. Their bodies met again, and again, with a perfect, steady rhythm, until the room was filled with nothing but the sound of skin, breath, and the whisper of divine power.

Their climax approached like a gathering storm—slow, rolling, unstoppable.

Rebecca clutched at her, voice falling into soft, choked pleas. “I’m— I can’t—Sarocha—”

“I’ve got you,” Sarocha whispered, sitting up enough to wrap her arms around her, their foreheads pressed together, bodies locked in rhythm. “I’ll always have you.”

And then Rebecca shattered.

But this time it wasn’t just her body that came undone.

It was the bond between them surging open like a dam breaking, flooding the space with golden light, with heat, with breathless, mystical ecstasy that shimmered across their skin like fireflies. A soft pulse rippled outward, brushing the wards of the house, stirring the garden outside, dancing through the leaves.

An echo of praise and worship.

And they hadn’t even finished.

Not quite.

Rebecca barely had time to catch her breath.

She was still trembling, still riding the aftershocks, still cradled in Sarocha’s arms when she felt the shift in the air — not cooling, not settling — but stirring again. Charged.

The tension hadn’t broken. It had just coiled deeper.

And Sarocha was watching her with a look that sent a shiver straight through her core: reverent, protective... and possessive.

“Still sure you’re okay?” Sarocha asked, but her voice was lower now. Breathless. Thicker. It carried weight — not worry, but hunger barely held in check.

Rebecca met her gaze and saw the change: her pupils blown wide and slitted, a golden ring blazing at the edges of black. “What do you think?” she whispered, leaning forward to press her lips to Sarocha’s jaw.

Sarocha growled softly — not human. Not quite.

She flipped them before Rebecca even finished that kiss, and Rebecca let out a soft, delighted gasp as her back hit the mattress again, her legs instinctively wrapping around Sarocha’s hips.

The heat hadn’t faded. It had evolved.

Sarocha hovered over her, hair a wild halo around her face, her skin kissed by moonlight and magic. Something shimmered across her collarbone — faint iridescent scales, appearing and vanishing like heat lightning beneath the skin. Rebecca’s hands moved over her shoulders, fascinated, and as her fingertips traced them, Sarocha shuddered.

“Beautiful,” Rebecca murmured.

But Sarocha didn’t answer. She was breathing hard, jaw clenched tight like she was holding something back. Her eyes dropped to Rebecca’s neck, and her nostrils flared.

“You’re glowing again,” she said roughly. “Your blood… your scent…” She trailed off, as though speaking was getting harder.

Rebecca felt a tremor of awareness pass through her — not fear. No. Excitement. Arousal. That same primal call humming in her now. Something deeper than thought. Older.

She reached up, one hand tangled in Sarocha’s hair, and whispered, “Then take what’s yours.”

That was all it took.

Sarocha’s body surged against hers, hands sliding under Rebecca’s thighs, lifting and pinning her effortlessly. She settled between her legs with a forceful precision that made Rebecca moan, made her head fall back, baring her throat without even thinking.

She didn’t have to think. Her body knew.

And so did Sarocha.

The moment her lips met Rebecca’s neck, the shift rippled outward. Her control snapped like silk in the wind. The scales bloomed across her shoulders, her arms, her back — iridescent blues and golds and greens — glowing softly in the dark. Her fangs slid long behind her lips, and she growled again, deep and resonant, as the mystical force tethering them surged with renewed power.

She bit.

Not to harm. Never that. But to mark. To anchor.

Rebecca cried out, but the sound was ecstasy, not pain. Her hips bucked, arms wrapping around Sarocha’s scaled form, clutching at her as the bond deepened. She felt the magical bridge pierce her again — but this time there was no build. No careful entry. Sarocha pushed deep and full from the first breath, and it was like being invaded by heaven.

“Oh—fuck,” Rebecca gasped, trembling as Sarocha began to move.

Slow at first. Measured. But not gentle.

There was no more room for gentleness. What filled the room now was fire, was need, was the undeniable truth of 'mate'.

Sarocha growled against her throat, tongue laving the bite before dragging her lips lower, kissing over her collarbone, her breast. Rebecca arched into her, nails scratching at scales, and when she looked down, she saw herself glowing again — but this time, the glow was mingled with shifting skin, the flash of something not quite human where her hip met Sarocha’s.

“I feel—” she gasped. “I feel like I’m changing—”

“You are,” Sarocha whispered, voice cracked with awe. “You’re becoming.”

And it felt like becoming. Not something lost — but found.

The second round built like an inferno, every motion more intense than the last. Rebecca moved with her now, instinct guiding every thrust, every angle. Her own fingernails darkened, sharpened slightly. The skin at her jaw shimmered with ghosted scale, barely visible. Her eyes burned golden when she looked up at Sarocha, wild and desperate and radiant.

“More,” she gasped. “Don’t stop—don’t hold back—”

And Sarocha didn’t.

The Naga in her had awoken fully now. Not monstrous. Not violent. But consuming. Every movement was an offering. Every thrust a vow. She kissed Rebecca like she was drinking sunlight from her skin, murmured words in an ancient dialect that Rebecca didn’t understand but felt like power etched into her bones.

Their pleasure became something deeper than bodies—something holy.

And when the crest came, it came together.

Not as individuals, not even as lovers, but as mates bound by something larger than either of them.

Rebecca’s body arched violently, her hands gripping Sarocha’s back as she cried out, not just in climax but in claim. Her magic flared around them, pulled tight and brilliant like a net of stars. Sarocha followed her instantly, her own release crashing over her like a tidal wave of sensation and devotion and need.

She bit again—lower, this time, at the curve where Rebecca’s shoulder met her neck—and Rebecca shuddered, gasping, writhing, accepting every inch of her.

The waves rolled through them, unstoppable. Overlapping.

Sacred.

And when it finally began to ebb, when their bodies slowed and fell together in a slick, trembling knot of limbs and scale and sweat, neither of them spoke at first. They just breathed.

Rebecca was glowing even more.

Sarocha was still trembling, still half-shifted, skin pulsing between human and Naga, her tongue flicking out once instinctively as she hovered over Rebecca.

“…We’re getting really good at this,” Rebecca whispered finally, her voice shot and trembling with both laughter and disbelief.

Sarocha let out a wrecked, reverent noise — something between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re dangerous like this.”

Rebecca smiled. “Good.”

Sarocha brushed a kiss to her lips, then to her stomach. “So is our child.”

And for the first time, it didn’t sound like a mystery.

It sounded like a promise.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely begun to crest the eastern sky, casting its first gold strokes across the Chao Phraya, when Sarocha stirred.

She wasn’t dreaming.

Not anymore.

Her senses came alive before her eyes even opened—scents and sounds and temperature shifts singing through her body like an ancient song. The warmth of skin against her. The steady, shifting thrum of Rebecca’s heart beside her. The sweet, sharp scent of her arousal laced with morning and magic and the promise of something waiting just beneath the surface.

Sarocha’s breath left her in a long, slow exhale, and when she opened her eyes, she didn’t see the ceiling. She saw her.

Rebecca lay on her side, facing the open balcony, one leg tangled in the sheet, hair messy and glimmering in the early light, her spine a soft curve that led down to the tempting rise of her hips. She was breathing evenly—but there was a tension in her muscles, a low-level shimmer that hadn’t eased since last night.

She was awake.

And wanting.

Sarocha moved before she thought. Her body answered first, blood heating, breath deepening. She rose silently from the bed, the shift in her skin already beginning—scales flickering at her thighs, across her forearms. Her slit pupils narrowed, focused. Her magic crackled just beneath the surface, wound tightly around the thread that bound her to the woman now stretching like a cat in morning sunlight.

Rebecca turned her head as Sarocha approached her side, her lips curving into a slow smile. “Good morning.”

Sarocha said nothing. She simply bent down, kissed her, and pulled the sheet from her body.

Rebecca gasped as the air touched her bare skin—and gasped louder when Sarocha grasped her hips and lifted her from the bed, not roughly, but with clear intent.

“Balcony,” Sarocha rasped against her ear. Her voice was deep. Commanding.

Rebecca’s breath caught. Her pulse quickened. “Here?”

“Yes.” Her fangs grazed her throat. “Now.”

Something shivered through her at that. Obedience wasn’t the right word. It was deeper. It was knowing. It was wanting.

She rose with her, walking backward as Sarocha guided her, until her hips met the stone railing of the balcony. Morning light kissed her skin. The river rolled just below—still shadowed by mist, still waiting to be woken.

Sarocha turned her, bent her over the rail, and pressed a palm to the center of her back. Rebecca arched willingly, chest against cool stone, the humid morning wrapping around her like a second skin.

“Gods,” Sarocha breathed, taking in the sight of her, already glistening with want, scent thick with need. “You’re insatiable.”

“I blame you,” Rebecca panted, glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes glowed faintly golden again. “You did this.”

Sarocha leaned in and kissed the curve of her spine. “I did. And I’ll take responsibility.”

She shifted again, nails sharpening and skin shimmering scales—and Rebecca moaned as those hands slid down her hips, holding her open, holding her still.

Then the bridge formed again.

Not as gradual as before. Not this time. The magic moved fast and hard, driving into her like fire and pleasure braided together. Rebecca shook, her hands gripping the edge of the stone balcony as her body welcomed the surge of power and sensation.

Sarocha moved behind her, chest against her back, the rhythm hard and fluid from the very first thrust.

The river answered.

It was subtle at first—ripples breaking across the surface, mist pulling away in curling threads. Birds rose in sudden flight. Lotus blossoms bloomed early.

Rebecca was crying out now, not loud, not screaming—but raw. Her body met Sarocha’s with abandon, her back arching, her thighs trembling. She was glowing again—vivid gold, flickering scale tracing down her arms, her hips, her thighs.

“Mine,” Sarocha growled against her ear.

“Yes—yes—always—”

The bond snapped tight again, heat coiling low in both their bellies. The tension wasn’t gentle. It was urgent. Primal. Sarocha’s magic wrapped around Rebecca’s womb like a crown of flame and water, pulsing with power, with love, with claim.

The river surged.

Fish jumped. Wind rose.

A low hum shivered through the water, like the river knew.

Sarocha’s hand slid to Rebecca’s lower belly, palm pressing gently, reverently as she moved within her. “This is fate,” she whispered.

Rebecca sobbed, hips bucking. “She’s glowing—I can feel—”

And that was it.

The orgasm ripped through her, white-hot, like liquid lightning arcing down every nerve. She shattered against the railing, a cry on her lips, her body arching impossibly. Sarocha didn’t stop. She followed her through it, another few hard, perfect thrusts before she came with a growl of her name, biting down hard into the curve of Rebecca’s shoulder—marking her again, claiming her over and over.

Their magic exploded out like a shockwave.

The plants on the balcony bloomed.

The stone under their feet warmed.

The river sang.

When it was over, when both their legs were trembling and their chests heaving, Sarocha held her close against the rail, pressing soft kisses to the bites, to the sweat-slick skin of her back.

Rebecca laughed weakly. “If this is morning sex with a Naga… I’m never going back.”

Sarocha nuzzled into her neck, fangs brushing but not biting again. “You’re mine, khun rak. There’s no going back.”

Rebecca turned her head, smiling breathlessly. “Good.”

Behind them, the river shimmered in the light, and the world, it seemed, was changing with them.

---

The kitchen was filled with the smell of jasmine rice and crispy garlic, of something sizzling on the stove, and something warm and sweet steeping in a teapot. Outside, birds trilled bright songs through the open veranda doors, and the breeze off the river carried with it a lazy, humid peace that settled like a blanket over the house.

Rebecca padded barefoot into the room, wearing one of Sarocha’s oversized linen shirts that hung loosely over her thighs. Her hair was still damp from the shower, skin still glowing from the indulgent heat of the morning. She stretched like a cat, and reached for the kettle.

Sarocha, already at the stove, turned just enough to watch her.

It wasn’t subtle.

Her eyes raked down Rebecca’s legs with hunger that hadn’t quite dimmed, but underneath it was something else—something possessive. Instinctive. Her pupils flicked into slits for the briefest second, then normalized again.

Rebecca caught it, and smirked.

“Don’t look at me like that unless you’re ready to go another round right here on the kitchen counter,” she murmured, pouring tea.

Sarocha gave a low chuckle, stepping behind her to press a kiss to the back of her neck. “Don’t tempt me. We’d never eat.”

“That’s your fault for being so…” She searched for the word, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that curled slow and warm. “Daddy.”

Sarocha’s laugh hit her spine like a vibration. “You’re incorrigable.”

“You like it.”

Sarocha only kissed her again, this time on the shoulder, fingers gently grazing the side of her belly with reverence.

“Stop,” Rebecca said, voice catching. “We’re going to burn the eggs.”

They weren’t alone for much longer.

Ananda walked in through the garden entrance, pulling off his sandals and carrying a canvas satchel slung across his chest. His shirt was half unbuttoned, his hair a bit wild, cheeks pink from the heat.

“I swear, something weird is happening out there,” he announced without preamble. “The banana trees have grown a whole foot since yesterday. I walked past the old orchid grove and I could hear the flowers blooming.”

He paused. Then gave the two women a long look, taking in Rebecca’s flushed cheeks and Sarocha’s thoroughly pleased aura.

“…You two have a good morning?”

Rebecca, blushing, took an exaggerated sip of her tea.

Sarocha, ever composed, slid some rice into a bowl. “Breakfast?”

Ananda snorted and dropped into a chair. “Don’t act innocent. The river practically sang when I passed it. Whatever you did this morning? It’s having a major effect.”

Rebecca raised a brow. “The fertility aura?”

He nodded, pulling a mango from the basket and slicing it idly. “Yeah. It’s like Loei, but mobile. The land responds to you now. Trees, animals, water. I saw a nest of egrets with four eggs in it—four! That’s a sign, by the way. An auspicious one.”

“Are you saying we’re a walking miracle?” Rebecca teased.

“Yes,” Ananda said without hesitation, then looked at Sarocha. “Especially with your full shift breaking through the curse. That shouldn’t be possible. But whatever bond you two formed with the Dreamers... it’s rewriting the rules.”

Rebecca settled beside Sarocha at the table, grabbing a bowl. “I’m trying not to freak out about it.”

“You’re glowing,” Ananda said, grinning. “Literally. You know that, right?”

Sarocha stiffened, very slightly, when he looked too long at Rebecca. She said nothing, but her spine—flickering in half-shifted shimmer just beneath her skin—twitched with alertness.

Rebecca felt it.

Her hand slid beneath the table to touch Sarocha’s thigh gently. “You okay?”

Sarocha blinked, then cleared her throat. “Fine. Just… instinct.”

Ananda raised his hands, bemused. “I know that look. No offense meant. Your mate is stunning, yes, but I’m not interested in getting Naga-snapped before breakfast.”

Sarocha gave him a narrow-eyed glance, though there was no true threat behind it. Still, Rebecca caught the way her hand flexed against the edge of the table. She couldn’t seem to help it—her senses on high alert, as though now the territory had shifted, and Sarocha was claiming every inch of it.

She really was daddy now. And it was… kind of hot.

“I’m serious,” Ananda said, not unkindly. “That kind of territorial aura? Nesting instinct, I’d wager. You’re both radiating it.”

Rebecca blinked. “Wait—me?”

“Oh, definitely. You rearranged the cushions in the living room four times yesterday and made me reorganize the pantry by height. You also growled when I reached for the yogurt.”

Rebecca stared. “I did not.”

“You did,” Sarocha said, amused. “It was very soft. But I heard it.”

Rebecca leaned back in her chair, jaw slack with laughter. “Oh my god. I’m becoming a nesting Naga mom.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ananda grinned. “But it’s magic. Real, beautiful, ancient magic. You’re part of something powerful now.”

Rebecca smiled as she glanced between them—Ananda with his sun-dappled curiosity, and Sarocha at her side, steady and radiating the kind of fierce protection that made her want to melt.

And eat more eggs.

She reached for another spoonful just as Sarocha leaned in and absentmindedly brushed a hand across her stomach again.

Ananda saw it and tilted his head. “You’ve been doing that a lot.”

Sarocha looked down. “Habit, I guess. Maybe instinct.”

Rebecca placed her hand over Sarocha’s. “It’s okay. I like it.”

There was a beat of quiet, warm with unspoken understanding.

Then Sarocha said softly, “I don’t want anything to touch you that shouldn’t. I don’t care how small the threat. You’re mine. You’re carrying what’s ours. And I feel… like I’d burn the world down to protect that.”

Rebecca’s breath caught.

Even Ananda went still for a moment.

“I get it,” he said, voice gentler now. “That’s what makes it real, doesn’t it? Not just the magic or the miracles. But the way you’d give everything for each other.”

Rebecca looked up at Sarocha and felt it—that ever-growing fire, the ache, the gravity. They had created something impossible, yes, but also something true.

And the whole world felt like it was beginning to orbit around that truth.

The last of the jasmine rice was scraped into bowls, the mangoes peeled and sliced to golden slivers, and the three of them lingered around the low table long after they’d finished eating.

The air had grown warm and sticky, cicadas humming lazily in the trees outside, but the house was shaded, cool with river-damp breezes and the rhythmic creaking of bamboo walls settling under the weight of another full morning.

Sarocha leaned back against the wall, long legs stretched out, one arm around Rebecca’s waist as she curled into her side. Rebecca looked blissed-out and flushed, eyes soft and distant in that half-dreamy state she always seemed to drift into after food, affection, and magic. Her fingertips traced idle shapes over Sarocha’s thigh.

Ananda, sprawled out across a floor cushion opposite them, watched the scene with a fond sort of caution—as though he were observing two forest tigers napping in a sunbeam, aware that one sudden move might break the fragile peace or summon a new round of mating frenzy.

He cleared his throat. “So... monks.”

Sarocha didn’t move.

Neither did Rebecca.

“Eventually,” Rebecca said after a moment. “We should probably talk about it.”

“We’ll have to go back to them,” Sarocha murmured, voice low and thoughtful. “But not to answer for ourselves. Not anymore.”

Rebecca glanced up at her. “Then why?”

“Because I need to know if they’ll leave us alone. If they’ll accept that the bond has outgrown their control." Sarocha clenched her jaw.

Rebecca exhaled slowly, turning her cheek into the curve of Sarocha’s shoulder. “Do you think they’ll be hostile? After everything?”

“I think they’ll be afraid,” Sarocha said.

She reached for a slice of mango, passed it to Rebecca without looking. Rebecca took it absently, letting Sarocha feed her.

Ananda raised an eyebrow.

“That’s also new,” he said.

Rebecca chewed, then licked juice off her thumb. “What, the feeding?”

“No. The part where you’re literally glowing and Sarocha looks like she’s ready to carry you away to her cave to protect you from the world.”

“I’m right here,” Sarocha said dryly.

“Exactly,” Ananda said. “You weren’t like this before.”

Rebecca leaned more heavily into Sarocha’s side, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “I like it. She’s gone full alpha.”

“I’m not—” Sarocha began, then stopped herself, lips parting in a helpless little laugh. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

“A little?” Ananda echoed. “You nearly snapped at me earlier when I said her name.”

“I did not,” Sarocha said flatly.

“You did,” Rebecca and Ananda said in unison.

There was a brief beat, and then all three of them laughed. It was the kind of laughter that cracked open tension and let something warm settle in its place.

Rebecca leaned her head back, gazing up at the ceiling as she spoke. “If we’re going back to the monks, I think we should do it on our terms. Not as supplicants. As something else.”

“Something divine?” Ananda offered.

“Not divine,” Sarocha said. “Just... inevitable.”

Rebecca’s brow lifted at that. “That’s almost scarier.”

“But true,” Sarocha said. “We didn’t ask for this. We didn’t seek it out. But it’s become something sacred. The magic won’t go back into the box. And the monks need to see that.”

Rebecca turned that over for a moment, then added, “They’ll test us. Try to provoke something. Maybe even try to separate us again.”

Sarocha’s jaw flexed at that, her arm tightening briefly around Rebecca. The thought alone seemed to agitate her instincts. Rebecca felt it ripple beneath her skin—warmth, scales just under the surface, like something not entirely human flinching at the very idea of losing its mate.

Ananda caught the shift, his gaze darting to the flicker of iridescence along Sarocha’s forearm.

“Still happening often?”

Sarocha nodded once. “More and more. I can’t control it as easily. Especially when I’m near her.”

Rebecca smiled against her shoulder. “That’s because you love me.”

“Don’t make it sound so dangerous.”

“But it is. Dangerous and sweet. You’re basically my personal mythical guard dog.”

“Snake,” Sarocha corrected.

“Fine. Guard snake.”

Ananda rubbed the back of his neck. “Joking aside, you’re both radiating magic like a lighthouse. If the monks are still clinging to the old ways, they may see it as a threat.”

“They’re welcome to try,” Sarocha said quietly, too calmly. There was something in her tone—like steel wrapped in silk.

Rebecca tilted her face up. “Hey.”

Sarocha looked down.

Rebecca cupped her cheek. “No wrath. Not unless they give us real cause. We show them what we are. What we’ve become. What we’re creating. That should be enough.”

Sarocha blinked, and the tension eased out of her frame. She kissed Rebecca’s palm. “You’re right. As usual.”

“Damn right I am.”

Ananda snorted. “Okay, so: present yourselves not as threats, but as the new balance. The healing side of this magic. The way it’s reshaping the land, not destroying it.”

Rebecca brightened. “We bring them mangoes. Offer peace.”

“And a glimpse of the future,” Sarocha said. “One they’re no longer at the center of.”

There was a long silence after that—full of thought, of soft understanding. And beneath it all, a quiet sense of inevitability.

The tide had already turned. The curse was breaking. The old ways were dissolving into something new and alive, and whether the monks welcomed it or not, it was happening.

Rebecca felt the weight of it settle in her belly like gravity. And maybe a little in her womb.

She placed a hand over her stomach again and smiled.

“Let’s make it beautiful,” she said softly. “Let’s make them see it.”

Sarocha’s eyes flicked to her, molten and reverent. “We already are.”

Ananda cleared his throat again. “I hate to break the mood, but if you two keep looking at each other like that, I’m going to excuse myself again.”

Rebecca grinned wickedly. “Yeah, you might want to.”

Sarocha didn’t deny it.

And the dimming morning light, soft behind the clouds and through the woven walls, caught the golden shimmer in their skin like it already knew.

The rain began as a hush—soft, misting against the wide windows of the estate like whispered secrets. The air thickened with heat, heavy and fragrant from the overgrown garden beyond the veranda. Inside, the last of breakfast lay forgotten, plates half-cleared, cups cooling.

Ananda stood, stretching with a groan, as though sensing something in the air. “Storm’s rolling in,” he remarked, sliding his bag over one shoulder. “Good time for a swim, I suppose.” Sarcasm laced his tone, but he readied himself either way.

Sarocha gave a short nod, her arm lightly curled around Rebecca’s waist. Her gaze flicked to the windows—watchful, unblinking for a second too long. A moment later, she turned back and offered him a polite smile, but something about her body language had shifted. A flicker of subtle tension across her shoulders. A protective, possessive stillness.

Ananda noticed. Of course he did. But he was tactful enough to smile knowingly and excuse himself without comment.

When the door clicked shut behind him and the space fell still again, Rebecca shifted in Sarocha’s arms. “You felt that too, didn’t you?”

Sarocha’s jaw ticked. “He’s no threat. I know that. But my body… disagrees.”

Rebecca reached up and brushed a thumb along her cheek, grounding her. “It’s okay. I think mine’s doing the same.”

They both glanced down. At the subtle outward curve of her lower belly. At the space between them that wasn’t just emotional anymore, but tangible. Physical. Shifting.

Something inside them hummed—a pull, undeniable and magnetic. It was the same energy that had first driven them together in that fevered storm of instinct and soul-recognition. But now it had grown sharper. Constant. Their bond, once extraordinary, now felt… primal.

Rebecca leaned back, her breath uneven. “What’s happening to us?”

Sarocha didn’t answer. Not with words.

One moment, they were staring at each other. The next, the world had narrowed to a rush of movement. Rebecca found herself pressed over the edge of the low tea table, her hands gripping the polished surface as Sarocha moved behind her—urgent, reverent, but not gentle. Not this time. Her movements were precise, intense, driven by instinct rather than thought.

Their breaths came fast, harsh. Rebecca's heart raced—not in fear, never in fear—but in sheer overwhelming response to the force of her mate’s presence. Her fingers curled, knees digging into the thick rug beneath them. Fabric rustled, breath caught. The magic that always flickered between them surged and sparked, a live wire arcing from one to the other, too fast and too bright to see.

The moment hit with a staggering force that made Rebecca cry out, her head dropping, her entire body shaking as if something sacred had just passed through her.

When the rush eased, when the thrusting frenzy and slew of growls finally subsided, when silence returned and only the sound of rain filled the room, neither moved at first. Sarocha rested her forehead between Rebecca’s shoulder blades, chest heaving. Her arms curled protectively around her, not letting go.

And yet—the tension hadn’t left.

It simmered, still unsatisfied, like a tide that would always return. Rebecca slowly lifted herself up, twisting in her lover’s arms, both of them still half-undressed and flushed with wonder and confusion.

“What’s wrong with us?” she whispered, half-laughing, half-dazed.

Sarocha shook her head. “Nothing is wrong. But something is… different.”

Rebecca leaned back against the edge of the table, her hair clinging to her temples. “This isn’t just hormones, is it?”

“No,” Sarocha replied, voice husky, deep. “It’s us. Our bond. The pregnancy. The magic. It’s all mixing together and creating something… wild. Ancient.”

Rebecca shivered, but not from cold. “We’re mating like it’s a biological imperative.”

Sarocha's eyes gleamed gold for a second, her slitted pupils still visible. “It is. In my kind, even once a mate is carrying our offspring, the bond becomes nearly unbreakable. Every instinct drives us to be near. To protect. To… reaffirm.”

Rebecca blinked, caught between awe and something dangerously close to arousal. “And the Dreamers said my nature is changing, too. That I’m becoming something… not quite human.”

“Which means you feel it too.” Sarocha leaned closer again, brushing her lips to Rebecca’s temple. “That pull. That hunger.”

Rebecca nodded, her throat dry. “It doesn’t go away. It’s like a tide always pulling me toward you.”

They stood there in the dim light, damp air curling around them like incense smoke, their magic rising and twisting between them—too strong to deny, too sacred to fear.

Rebecca leaned her forehead against Sarocha’s. “So what do we do?”

“We figure it out. Together. But first—” Sarocha smirked, eyes flickering toward Rebecca’s still-exposed skin, warm and flushed, “—maybe we should start by making it out of the living room.”

Rebecca laughed, breathless. “God, yes. Before Ananda walks in and the carpet becomes a whole new kind of sacred ground.”

Sarocha growled low in her throat and gathered her into her arms again, strength coiled beneath her skin like velvet lightning.

But this time, as they moved to stand, there was no panic. No rush. Just inevitability. The storm had passed outside, but inside—between them—it was only beginning.

---

The couch was their next refuge — or it was supposed to be.

Rebecca had barely pulled her shirt back down when she collapsed sideways onto the cushions, dragging a pillow over her lap in a weak attempt at modesty or decency or maybe just containment. Her skin buzzed, flushed and hypersensitive, and she could feel Sarocha’s gaze — that deep, focused hunger — following the movement of her hands.

Sarocha was pacing, barely restraining herself. A half-buttoned shirt hung open over her torso, her hair a mess, her jaw tight with effort.

“This is absurd,” she muttered in Thai, then again in English. “This is not normal.”

“You think?” Rebecca half-laughed, half-moaned into the cushion, then sat up. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. “We can’t even walk past each other without one of us getting tackled.”

“I didn’t tackle you.”

“You lifted me,” she shot back. “Like a crate of bananas.”

Sarocha made a strangled sound and raked a hand through her hair. Her golden eyes still glinted beneath the haphazard curtain of inky hair, scales flickering at her temples before fading. “It’s not just desire. It’s something older. My instincts are out of control.”

Rebecca sat back against the couch and tried to regulate her breathing. “Mine too,” she admitted. “I keep thinking it’ll pass, but instead I look at you and I feel—” She broke off, frustrated, eyes wide. “—like I’m going to combust.”

Sarocha sank onto the opposite side of the couch, arms on her knees. “You're starting to shift — you carry life — it creates a kind of… resonance. A feedback loop. Magic feeding magic. Hunger feeding hunger.”

Rebecca pressed her thighs together instinctively and groaned into her hands. “Okay but… how do you stop it?”

“You don’t,” Sarocha said darkly. “You wait. You manage it. You—train yourself. Restraint becomes everything. Or you end up… nesting and mating until your house burns down.”

Rebecca gave her a look. “So... smoldering piles of blankets and broken furniture?”

“Sometimes flooded riverbanks.”

They both paused.

Then Rebecca snorted. “No wonder Ananda took off. He probably saw the humidity rising and thought he was about to walk in on a sex exorcism.”

Sarocha gave a strained chuckle and rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s like my magic is responding to yours now. And vice versa. Like a tuning fork being struck again and again.”

Rebecca nodded slowly, her eyes distant as she tried to analyze it past the ache still thrumming in her skin. “Do you think this is… part of breaking the curse?”

“Or what comes after.” Sarocha shifted uncomfortably. “You feel different now. Not just physically. Your aura. It’s like… I can’t stop sensing you.”

“I feel it too,” Rebecca admitted. “Even when you’re not touching me. It’s like a constant gravity. I’m supposed to be figuring out how to speak to the monks and instead I’m… imagining you pinning me to a bookshelf.”

Sarocha made a choked noise and reached down to adjust her waistband. “I can’t talk strategy if you say things like that.”

“Sorry.” She wasn’t.

Another heavy silence fell. Then Rebecca leaned forward with wide eyes. “Wait—do you think it’s the pregnancy? The baby? Could she be causing this?”

Sarocha blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Like maybe she's amplifying our magic? Or linking us more directly?” She waved her hands in the air. “She's at least half Naga. Possibly has Dreamer abilities. What if she's not passive? What if she's already reaching for us?”

Sarocha looked stunned for a beat. Then something soft, reverent passed over her face. “You think our child is drawing us together?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Rebecca tilted her head. “If you were a tiny half-divine soul living in someone’s womb and knew your parents were insanely hot for each other?”

That earned her a real laugh. Low, rough, and glorious. “You’re impossible.”

“You started it,” Rebecca said, grinning now. “All you had to do was not look like the Naga version of sex incarnate while eating toast.”

Sarocha growled softly, but it wasn’t angry. She leaned forward slightly, the air between them crackling. “And you,” she said, voice dropping, “have been parading around this house smelling like you want to be devoured.”

Rebecca swallowed, her smile flickering into something darker, more dangerous. “Maybe I do.”

Another pause. The storm outside rumbled softly in the distance. It echoed through the walls.

“Okay,” Rebecca said, standing up abruptly, still flushed, hair wild, voice barely steady. “We’re not going to get anything done like this.”

“We need distance,” Sarocha agreed, remaining very still.

“Just for an hour. Separate rooms.”

Sarocha nodded once, firm. “Yes.”

Rebecca turned on her heel and made it as far as the hallway.

She got three steps before Sarocha caught her from behind, hands on her hips, mouth pressed to the back of her neck.

Rebecca shuddered. “That wasn’t an hour.”

“I lied,” Sarocha breathed.

Rebecca just sighed, melting against her. “I know.”

And the tide took them again.

---

It was a miracle they made it to the couch at all.

Sarocha had barely managed to wrestle Rebecca’s shirt halfway down her arms before the world narrowed to heat and breathless need again. The low table was behind them now, half-tilted on its side from the last frenzied round, and the living room bore the glorious ruin of their latest undoing—pillows scattered, hair tangled, clothes askew. The early afternoon sun had reappeared and slanted in through the sheer curtains, casting golden ripples over the couple locked together, glistening with sweat, still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure they couldn’t seem to escape.

Rebecca sat draped across Sarocha’s lap, shirt gaping open, legs still wrapped loosely around her waist. Her head lolled forward against Sarocha’s shoulder, a strand of hair clinging to her flushed cheek, eyes glassy with bliss. Sarocha held her with one arm across her lower back and the other hand splayed over her bare thigh, thumb stroking in slow, grounding circles as if trying to remind herself they were, in fact, done.

Except they weren’t. Not really.

“I don’t understand,” Rebecca murmured, voice hoarse. “Why does it feel like... like I can’t get enough of you?”

Sarocha breathed heavily against her temple. “It’s not just you.”

“I’m losing count,” Rebecca added, though she smiled a little crookedly. “Are we broken? Is this just going to be our life now? Furniture casualties and nearly burning breakfast every morning?”

Sarocha’s chuckle was low and unsteady. “Possibly.”

Their hands met at Rebecca’s stomach, instinctively resting there, reverent. Warmth radiated from where they touched, more than heat—magic. Something living and ancient and tangled up in them both.

“It definitely has to be more than just the pregnancy hormones,” Rebecca said slowly. “There’s something else. A... biological instinct, maybe? Naga biology? Or magic?”

Sarocha went still for a beat. “The mating bond.”

Rebecca turned her head slightly to glance at her. “You said it’s like... an instinct? A drive?”

“Yes. When the bond is real—like this—it can become overwhelming. Especially with a child involved.” Sarocha’s voice was low, and there was awe in it, as if the enormity of it all was only just beginning to land. “It’s not just physical. It’s spiritual. Elemental. The Naga part of me wants to protect you. Mark you. Claim you again and again so nothing forgets who you belong to.”

Rebecca snorted softly. “That’s romantic.”

Sarocha’s grip on her tightened slightly, but not possessively. Just... needfully.

“I’m serious,” she murmured. “You’re carrying our child. My body... my instincts... they’re demanding to reinforce the bond. To keep other threats away.”

“Which includes, apparently, furniture and common sense,” Rebecca teased, and then softened. “So that’s what this is. We’re not broken.”

“No,” Sarocha said, brushing her nose against Rebecca’s damp temple. “We’re just... too whole, maybe. Too much for one place to hold.”

As if on cue, the humidity thickened again—heat rising visibly from the floor like an invisible tide—and Rebecca blinked, then groaned.

“We’re doing it again.”

Sarocha hissed in frustration, resting her forehead against Rebecca’s. “We have to stop before the walls start sweating.”

Too late.

That was when the door creaked open.

They both froze.

Footsteps on the polished floor. A quiet shuffle of sandals. And then—

“Oh, come on,” Ananda’s voice said, almost mournfully. “I was gone for two hours. Two. Hours.”

Rebecca’s head snapped up. “Shit!”

She scrambled off Sarocha’s lap, or tried to—her legs were weak, and she wobbled, grabbing the couch back for support. Sarocha caught her gently, growling low in her throat—more out of instinct than annoyance.

Ananda, ever composed, didn’t look directly at them. He stood politely turned halfway toward the kitchen, as if suddenly fascinated by the bowl of fruit on the counter.

“You’re glowing again,” he added dryly. “Literally.”

Rebecca glanced down. Sure enough, her skin shimmered faintly, like sunlight on water. Beside her, Sarocha’s eyes were still faintly slitted, her pulse hammering visibly beneath her jaw.

“We’re... having a bit of a biological situation,” Rebecca said, attempting modesty and utterly failing. Her voice was wrecked.

“I gathered,” Ananda said, not unkindly. “Though you might want to do something about the magic pulsing through the house like an alarm bell.”

Sarocha stood slowly, arms wrapping protectively around Rebecca from behind, the shift subtle—but unmistakable. Possessive. Guarded.

Ananda raised his hands gently. “I’m not a threat.”

“I know,” Sarocha said. But her voice was different now—deeper. Weighted.

Rebecca leaned back into her, reassuring. “It’s okay. She’s not going to eat you.”

“That’s encouraging,” Ananda muttered.

He moved into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, giving them a little space. The tension lessened slightly as he sat, but he watched them now with a different expression—thoughtful, a little wary.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a moment. “About the changes happening here. The... fertility aura, for lack of a better term. It’s not just centered on the two of you. It’s spreading. The birds are louder. The flowers are blooming out of season. The fish in the river are moving upstream again.”

Rebecca blinked. “You noticed all that?”

“Yes. And the monks will have, too.”

Silence fell. That was a sobering reminder.

Ananda leaned forward. “You’re not just affecting each other anymore. You’re affecting the land. The people. The balance.”

“We didn’t mean to,” Rebecca said.

“I don’t think it’s about intent,” Ananda replied. “It’s nature. Magic. Old power waking up. And it’s loud.”

Sarocha exhaled through her nose, arms still wrapped tight around Rebecca. “We need to speak with them.”

“We need a plan,” Ananda agreed. “And maybe... a way to turn down the volume.”

Rebecca winced. “You mean no more—?”

“I didn’t say that,” Ananda said quickly. “Just... maybe not on the table next time?”

Rebecca groaned. “We’re never living this down.”

Sarocha nuzzled her neck and whispered, voice a little too smug, “You’re glowing, my love.”

Rebecca’s breath caught.

Ananda stood abruptly. “I’m going to go feed the fish.”

He left the room.

And somehow, the temperature started to rise again.

Chapter Text

The room pulsed with warmth and quiet agitation. Somewhere beyond the open windows, frogs croaked in the dusk and water lapped lazily at the stone banks of the pool. But inside, tension crackled like a storm trapped behind skin.

Rebecca sat hunched over a scroll, her fingers absently smoothing its edge, though she hadn’t read a single line in minutes. Her eyes burned. Her jaw was tight. Her entire body hummed with need, her skin too hot, her heart too fast.

Sarocha sat across from her, unnervingly still — except for her eyes. Those eyes burned through Rebecca, as if watching her was the only thing keeping her anchored. Ananda paced slowly along the wall of the room, trailing his fingers across the spines of old books.

“Nothing in the royal archives addresses how to suppress the mating instinct,” he said finally. “Because… it was never meant to be suppressed.”

Sarocha leaned forward, voice low and dry. “Because most Naga don't resist it. When the bond awakens, they surrender. It's how the bloodlines were preserved. How power was maintained. Suppression wasn't just discouraged — it was considered dangerous.”

Rebecca exhaled sharply through her nose, biting back a frustrated groan. “Well, that’s wonderful. We’ve got a full-blown mating frenzy kicking in, we’re supposed to meet with a bunch of cautious monks who hate anything magical getting out of hand, and we can barely keep our hands off each other long enough to hold a conversation. Forgive me if I’m not inspired by ancient mating customs.”

Her tone was harsher than intended, but neither of them flinched.

Sarocha’s lips twitched. Not a smile — not quite. But close. “It’s not your fault,” she said, softening slightly. “Your body is responding to mine. And mine to yours. This… it’s instinct. Biological. Magical. Whatever you want to call it. But it’s also real.”

“It’s more than real,” Rebecca muttered. “It’s ruining my ability to think.”

Ananda glanced over at them, his expression calm but watchful. “I did read that talismans were often used for various reasons. Perhaps there were, at times, temporary suppressants used. Simple things. Charms or tokens. Not strong — not meant to sever the bond or deny it. Just enough to dull the pull for a few hours. To let mated pairs function.”

Rebecca looked up sharply. “That’s more like it. What kind of charms?”

“Usually pendants,” Ananda replied. “In this case I'd imagine identical, enchanted, and worn by each partner. They could work by tethering the physical and energetic longing between two people into a closed loop — like a siphon that recycles its own pressure. The sensation doesn’t vanish, but it stops spiraling.”

Sarocha was nodding. “I’ve heard of this. From general Naga teachings. It was common practice during times of unrest, when Naga needed to focus. Or when separation was unavoidable. I assumed most of it was ceremonial.”

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s worth trying?”

“I think,” Sarocha said carefully, “that if we don’t try something, the monks are going to sense the storm in us the moment we walk in. We’re already leaking power.”

Rebecca didn’t argue. She felt it. The way her aura surged whenever Sarocha was close. The way her pulse raced just catching her scent. Her body wanted to fuse with Sarocha’s — mind, magic, flesh — every minute of every hour. It had become visceral, almost animal. They had made love more times than she could count in the last two days, and it still wasn’t enough. It never felt like enough.

Ananda pulled a thin, pale book from the shelf and flipped it open. “This mentions ironwood pendants used in various ceremonial rites. There are different kinds, each with its own unique core ingredient and enchantment. I'd have to take some time to study this more thoroughly, see if there's anything that we can use as a pause button."

“So it’s doable?” Rebecca asked, hopeful. “We make the damn things, bind them, wear them, get through the monks, and then… well. I guess we go back to tearing each other’s clothes off afterward.”

Sarocha gave her a look so intensely amused and hungry that Rebecca had to drop her eyes back to the scroll or risk leaping over the table.

“I’ll need to draw a binding pattern,” Sarocha said. “Simple, but it must reflect both of us. Guardian and Naga. That will be the key to the resonance.”

Rebecca frowned slightly. “You don’t think that might… I don’t know. Complicate things?”

Sarocha tilted her head. “How?”

“Well,” Rebecca said slowly, “I’ve been flashing scales more regularly. Breathing underwater. Experiencing transcendental dreams. Telepathic communication with a pregnant Dreamer. Feeling drawn to you in every fibre of my being. And now I’m pregnant with a baby that seems to radiate more power by the day. That doesn’t feel like your standard Guardian-Naga mating bond. Something’s off.”

Ananda hesitated.

Sarocha’s gaze lingered on Rebecca. “You’re not wrong. But there’s no precedent for… you. There never has been. You were meant to be a Guardian — human, yes, but sacred, connected. That’s not the same as what’s becoming of you now. Something is waking up. Slowly.”

Rebecca looked at her. “Dreamer?”

Sarocha didn’t answer immediately.

“That’s not possible,” Ananda said, not unkindly. “The Dreamers were born of Naga — rare, liminal, bound to Loei. You weren’t born there. You didn’t sleep in the liminal. You’re not—”

“I freed them,” Rebecca interrupted. “That place — Loei — it answered to me. Not just the dreamers. The whole space. The fog, the stillness, the hunger. I didn’t control it, but it recognized me.”

Sarocha watched her with a deep, unreadable expression. “And you touched the pregnant Dreamer. You heard her.”

“She heard me too,” Rebecca said. “Or the baby. I don’t know. It’s all tangled.”

A silence fell. Not uneasy — more like reverence.

Ananda closed the book softly. “Let’s make the pendants. We can’t untangle you and the baby and the Dreamers and what any of this means in a single night. But we can give you enough control to keep your minds clear when it counts.”

Rebecca sat back, forcing herself to breathe. The idea of even a temporary reprieve sounded like a miracle. But deep down, under the tension, under the heat of need, she could feel something deeper still shifting inside her. A current she couldn’t name. She didn’t know where it was taking her.

But the tide was rising.

---

The rest of the evening fell into a rhythm of quiet study and unbearable surrender.

Ananda, ever the monk-in-scholar’s robes, remained behind in the candlelit library, poring over old volumes whose pages crackled with age and dusted light magic. He worked methodically, fingers stained faintly with ink, eyes tracking the subtle differences in ceremonial pendant rites across the ancient Naga dynasties. His face remained calm, but his energy was tight — stretched like silk across too many questions.

Rebecca and Sarocha made it exactly twelve minutes into their shared silence before retreating from the room like fugitives — wordless, trembling, not even pretending it was for sleep.

They didn’t speak much after the door closed. Not in words. Not with breath.

The desire between them had become more than mere ache. It was thunder under their skin, lightning at every nerve-ending. They tried, once, to lie still — facing each other under the sheets, breathing in sync, eyes wide and soaked with yearning. But the pulse of their magic had other plans. Their mouths met with reverence and desperation, bodies colliding in a dance so deep it echoed into the air itself.

The atmosphere in their chambers responded in kind. Mist slithered along the floorboards. The carved wood of the ceiling sweated with heat. The humidity swelled until the curtains clung to the walls like wet skin. Somewhere in the night, vines crept along the windowsill — flowering, blooming, bursting, as though compelled by the sheer force of love made feral.

Their bodies changed under each other’s hands. Rebecca’s skin shimmered faintly with iridescent scales along her hips, her spine. Sarocha’s eyes glowed gold, her fangs just barely extended, hair cascading in coils like wet ink across Rebecca’s thighs. They devoured each other — again and again — and still it wasn’t enough.

By the time morning cracked its first light through the windows, the room was a humid cradle of spent breath and low moans muffled behind the rhythm of falling water.

They’d taken to the shower, if only to cool their skin and give the room a chance to recover. It didn’t help.

Now, Sarocha braced one hand against the tiled wall, her other buried in Rebecca’s wet hair, her breath a sharp gasp in her throat as Rebecca dragged her teeth along the base of her neck. Their bodies rocked in tandem, slick with heat and water and need.

Climax rolled over them in ripples — deep, slow, earth-moving. Not an explosion, but a seismic wave: vast and shaking and ancient.

For a moment after, they stood with their foreheads pressed together, panting in the silence, as steam curled around them like smoke.

“This isn’t sustainable,” Rebecca whispered hoarsely.

“No,” Sarocha agreed. “It isn’t.”

And still, neither moved.

It took everything they had to dry off, to dress, to pretend they were human enough to face a table and a conversation. When they walked out onto the veranda for breakfast, both of them looked luminous and half-feral — hair damp, skin flushed, eyes dilated and glowing faintly. Their auras shimmered just beneath the surface, leaking into the air like perfume.

Ananda didn’t comment.

He was seated at the low table already, surrounded by a neat sprawl of open books and parchment notes. He looked, at a glance, as he always did — composed, quiet, wise. But even he winced slightly as the pair of them entered, the force of their mingled magic pressing against his wards like humidity before a monsoon.

“You’ve both… warmed the house,” he said lightly, passing them each a cup of bitter green tea. “The koi in the pond have been circling since dawn.”

Rebecca gave a thin, exhausted smile and sank to her knees with a muffled groan. Sarocha followed a moment later, her expression unreadable but not unfriendly.

“We need a solution today,” Rebecca said. “Or we’re not making it to the monks without—” She cut herself off with a shake of her head. “We just need something.”

Ananda nodded and tapped one of the scrolls. “I may have found it.”

That brought both women’s eyes sharply to him.

“There’s a rite,” he said. “Old, but simple enough. It involves the crafting of twin ironwood pendants, strung with bonded silk and set with a seed of nepah root — a stabilizing herb from the eastern isles. Known for dampening Naga pheromone reactions, at least temporarily. The enchantment required is light — more sympathetic resonance than coercion.”

Rebecca perked up, leaning closer. “That sounds… almost doable.”

“It is doable,” Ananda said. “The materials are here. The ritual is personal, though. Each pendant must be carved by the wearer, and the magic must be spoken in unison.”

“Will it stop the madness?” Sarocha asked, skeptical but listening.

“No,” Ananda said. “But it will temper it. Enough to function. Enough to speak to the monks without melting into each other in a heap of limbs and scales.”

Rebecca exhaled slowly, a flicker of relief showing on her face. “How long will it last?”

“A few hours,” Ananda said. “It’s meant to be temporary. These were often used during ceremonies or negotiations — never as long-term solutions.”

“Good,” Sarocha said. “We don’t want long-term. Just breathing room.”

Rebecca smirked weakly. “Exactly. Just a little space between orgasms.”

Sarocha looked down at her tea, not hiding the curve of her mouth. “Unfortunately,” she added, voice turning thoughtful, “I haven’t yet resolved the binding pattern. It must reflect both of us — and more than that, the… unique blend we’ve become. Guardian and Naga. And something else I can’t yet name.”

“You’ve been busy,” Ananda said dryly.

“Preoccupied,” she corrected, glancing sidelong at Rebecca, who suddenly found her tea cup fascinating.

But something in the atmosphere had shifted — the worst of the desperation had eased. Not because the tension was gone, but because the hope of control now flickered on the horizon. Rebecca could breathe again without instantly wanting to climb into Sarocha’s lap. Sarocha’s fingers, resting on her thigh, no longer burned like brands. And Ananda, for all his polite composure, looked like a man who’d just removed a ticking bomb from under the table.

They had time. Not much. But enough.

“I’ll begin carving the pendants today,” Rebecca said.

“I’ll gather the nepah root and silk,” Ananda added.

“And I,” Sarocha murmured, her voice quiet but iron-willed, “will find the pattern. Even if I have to sketch it in steam on your skin.”

Rebecca’s pulse jumped.

Ananda sighed into his tea. “Please not at the breakfast table.”

---

The day unfolded in fragments — a haze of effort and stolen ecstasy.

They tried, all of them, to keep to their tasks.

Ananda worked with tireless focus, foraging in the humid gardens behind the sanctuary for the bitter nepah root that would form the core of their pendants. It grew low to the earth, twisted like knuckles, with a pungent, earthy scent that stuck to his skin and clothes. He collected silk threads next — old ceremonial offerings stored in the temple’s sealed trunk, their edges blessed long ago and still humming faintly with forgotten magic.

He spoke to no one as he worked. He didn’t need to. The heat in the air told him everything.

Rebecca carved.

The ironwood was dense and oily, dark as blood under the blade. It resisted her at first, as though the wood itself was reluctant to be tamed, but she forced herself into stillness. Each curl of shavings was a battle — not against the wood, but against the restless fire inside her.

Her hands shook more than once.

Twice she had to step away from the worktable, panting, palms pressed to her thighs. The house breathed with her. Moisture clung to every surface. Her scales shimmered through her skin like luminous lightning, and her breath caught at the memory of Sarocha’s tongue on her ribs that morning, in the shadowed hallway between tasks.

They'd sworn they wouldn’t. But then Sarocha had reached for her.

And Rebecca had melted.

Sarocha tried to hunt patterns.

She sat cross-legged before scrolls and etched diagrams, trying to map the convergence points of their merged energy — Guardian, Naga, something more. Her fingers moved with grace, but her mind was fogged, distracted, echoing with the memory of Rebecca’s voice rasping her name against a wall barely an hour earlier.

They’d been searching the storage room for ceremonial oil.

They never found it.

Every moment they were alone became a battlefield of restraint they lost. The kitchen. The bathroom. The alcove behind the shrine. Wherever it was just them, their bodies remembered too quickly. The ache was constant. The need, wild.

Still, somehow — impossibly — they managed. The pendants were carved by late afternoon, dark and polished and shaped to rest just beneath their throats. The nepah root had been dried and pressed, then ground into dust and sealed within the hollowed heart of each piece. The silk threads had been braided and bound with quiet intention. The only thing left was the binding rite itself.

That, they would do tomorrow.

For now, they sat around the low table in the central chamber, trying to remember how to behave like people.

The sky had darkened to a hazy plum color outside, the air heavy with the coming rain. Candles flickered along the floor in shallow copper dishes. Dinner steamed gently in shared bowls between them — jasmine rice, stir-fried greens, lemongrass broth — though none of them seemed particularly hungry.

Rebecca sat with her legs tucked under her, her eyes slightly glazed with exhaustion. She looked flushed, restless, too aware of Sarocha’s body only inches away.

Sarocha, for her part, was cool on the surface — coiled, composed — but her pupils were still faintly slitted, and her fingers tapped against her thigh in a rhythm too precise to be casual.

Ananda cleared his throat softly. “The rite is simple enough. At dawn, before we travel. That will give the pendants maximum potency through the day. We can renew them later if needed — but they should hold through the meeting.”

Rebecca nodded. “And the monks?”

There was a long silence.

Then Sarocha said, “They will know.”

Ananda looked down at his tea. “The bracelet masked the pregnancy before, yes. But it can’t hide the surge in her aura anymore. The child is... more than a presence now. It sings.”

Rebecca pressed a hand to her stomach. There was barely any curve yet — just a slight softening — but she could feel it. Not just life, but movement. Magic. Old and golden and sleeping still, but beginning to stir. Sometimes, in her dreams, it whispered. And lately, it had begun whispering while she was awake.

“They’ll see it in the way the air bends around me,” she said quietly.

“They may already suspect,” Ananda said. “The moment we return to the sanctum, their wards will brush against your skin like fingers.”

“And if they decide the child is a threat?” Rebecca asked, glancing at Sarocha.

Silence again. Then Sarocha’s voice — soft as silk, sharp as ice. “Then they die.”

“No,” Ananda said firmly. “There cannot be blood. You know that.”

“Then they’d better make the right choice,” Sarocha said, gaze unmoving.

Rebecca reached over and touched her hand. “No violence. That’s not what this is.”

“I won’t let them touch you,” Sarocha said. “Or our child.”

“You won’t have to.” Rebecca squeezed her hand. “Let me try first. Let us try.”

Ananda nodded. “The monks are not without reason. If we approach with calm, if we show them that this magic isn’t destructive — that the surge is natural, even beautiful — they may listen.”

“They believe in balance above all else,” Rebecca murmured. “If we can show them this child isn’t the end of anything... but the mending of something broken…”

She didn’t finish the thought. It was too grand. Too speculative. She didn’t even understand it herself — only that something inside her knew. The baby wasn’t a threat. It was a bridge.

A song beginning again.

“We should rest,” Ananda said gently, standing. “We’ll need focus for the rite. Even with the pendants... you’ll still be on edge.”

Rebecca and Sarocha exchanged a long glance.

On edge was putting it mildly.

“Right,” Rebecca said. “Sleep.”

She didn’t move.

Neither did Sarocha.

Ananda gave a meaningful sigh and turned away. “Try not to destroy the foundation.”

When he disappeared down the hallway, Rebecca let her head fall into her hands and groaned. “I swear, I’m trying.”

Sarocha shifted beside her. The firelight made her skin glow like bronze. “You’re doing better than I am.”

They didn’t touch. Not yet. But the air between them swelled like the hush before a storm.

Tomorrow would be difficult.

But tonight...

Tonight, they would try to sleep.

And probably fail again.

---

The dream came softly, like a mist through a half-open door.

No warning. No shape at first. Just sound.

Breath. Rhythmic, tidal, not hers.

And bells — not ringing, but humming. Deep, suspended tones that hung like stars in a sky too close. The space around her pulsed to their rhythm, warm and liquid, and when she inhaled, the air tasted like jasmine and rain-soaked stone.

Then light.

It leaked in silvery threads through unseen cracks above her, though there was no ceiling. Only a vast canopy of water overhead, as if she stood at the bottom of a sacred pond and the sky had forgotten gravity.

She was barefoot. Beneath her feet, polished stone — etched in old, elegant swirls that shimmered faintly when she stepped.

She walked forward. She didn’t choose to.

Around her, shadows moved — not people, not creatures, but memories wearing shapes. A woman with silver eyes bent to kiss a sleeping serpent. A man weeping into his hands as a child of light slipped from his grasp. A veil unraveling across a thousand faces, then reforming anew in hers.

None of them looked at her, but all of them saw.

She kept moving.

Somewhere in the distance, a cradle began to sing. Not rock, not sway, just sing — a soft, toneless lullaby made of breath and heartbeat and wind. The sound pulled her through a doorway that hadn't been there before, where the air thickened and shimmered with heat.

There, in the center of a chamber with no walls, stood a mirror made of water. Perfectly still. Perfectly vertical. Reflecting nothing.

Rebecca approached.

When she touched its surface, it rippled — and then her reflection emerged.

Only, it wasn’t quite her.

The woman in the mirror had her face, her eyes — but the pupils were vertical slits glowing amber, and scales dusted her cheekbones like moonlit ink. Her hair floated around her as if she lived underwater. A crown of living vines curled through it, flowers blooming and dying in constant motion.

Her reflection smiled.

And then the water shattered.

Rebecca gasped and stumbled back, soaked, disoriented — but now the chamber was gone, and she was standing beneath a tree made of serpents, its branches woven from translucent coils that hissed and whispered.

Something moved beneath the roots.

She dropped to her knees, hands braced against the earth, which was breathing under her palms.

The ground bulged.

Split.

And from within, a tiny hand reached up.

Not frightening. Not monstrous. Just small. Fragile. With gold light in the webbing of its fingers, like fireflies suspended in honey.

Rebecca reached for it.

Their fingers touched.

And the moment they did, she saw—

A temple of fire at the center of the sea.

A veil torn, mended, torn again.

A woman with her face walking between two worlds — barefoot, unburned.

A name on the wind: 'Nitya'.

And then silence.

---

Rebecca jerked awake with a gasp, sweat slicking her skin. The room was dim, the candles long since burned down to their stubs. Rain tapped softly at the shutters. Somewhere nearby, a frog chirped once, then fell silent.

Beside her, the bed was empty.

“Sarocha?” she whispered.

Before the word had fully left her mouth, the bedroom door eased open and Sarocha stepped in, a soft blue wrap slung around her shoulders. Her hair was unbound, damp at the ends.

“You were breathing fast,” she said quietly. “I felt it through the walls.”

Rebecca blinked. “You felt…?”

Sarocha sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from Rebecca’s damp forehead. “When your heart pounds like that, the air thickens. The plants lean. The rain tries to stop.”

Rebecca swallowed. “It was a dream. I think.”

Sarocha tilted her head. “Another vision?”

“I don’t know.” She pushed herself upright, the sheet falling away from her sweat-damp chest. “It was— It started soft. Peaceful. But there were so many things. Too many to explain. And none of it made any sense.”

Sarocha waited.

Rebecca searched for words. “There was a mirror. But it wasn’t a mirror. I saw myself in it, but... not me. She had—” Her voice wavered. “Scales. Her eyes were— I don’t know. It felt like she was more. Like... me, but not finished yet.”

Sarocha didn’t speak, but her eyes gleamed, alert and unreadable.

“There was a tree,” Rebecca continued. “Made of serpents. And something underneath it. A baby. Reaching up.” She placed a trembling hand over her abdomen. “When I touched her... everything broke open. I heard her name. I think.”

Sarocha’s voice was soft. “What name?”

Rebecca hesitated. “Nitya.”

The name hung between them like a suspended note.

Sarocha’s expression didn’t change, but her breath did. Just a little. A sharp inhale. Then silence.

“I’ve never heard that name before,” Rebecca said. “Have you?”

A beat. Then Sarocha shook her head slowly. “It’s old. Very old. But it means something close to... eternal. Constant. That which returns.”

Rebecca’s throat tightened. “I think it was her. The baby. She showed me things. But I didn’t understand them.”

“She will show more,” Sarocha said, almost to herself. “If she is dreaming through you... then you are changing.”

Rebecca looked down at her hands. They trembled faintly. The skin over her knuckles glistened for a moment, then settled.

“I feel like I’m coming apart,” she whispered.

“No,” Sarocha said, firm now. “You’re coming together.”

She reached out, took Rebecca’s hand in both of hers, and kissed the inside of her wrist — right over the Guardian bracelet.

“It is not the bracelet that shields you now,” she murmured. “It’s the child. She is hiding what she is, because it is not yet time. But she is waking. And you are waking with her.”

Rebecca closed her eyes. “What if I can’t carry it? What if I break before she’s born?”

Sarocha’s voice was gentle, but hard as obsidian beneath. “Then I will hold you together. Always.”

Outside, the rain stopped. The night stilled.

And somewhere in the garden, jasmine bloomed wildly and all at once.

Silence lingered between them in the dark, stretched tight and trembling like a drawn bowstring.

Sarocha’s hand still cradled Rebecca’s wrist, her thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle against the thrum of her pulse. The mark of the Guardian bracelet shimmered faintly beneath her touch, then dimmed again, half-absorbed by the heat rolling off Rebecca’s skin.

Neither spoke.

Because something had changed.

Something inside the stillness had begun to shift — subtle, but undeniable. Like the scent of a storm before the first drop falls. Like the moment just before a cresting wave gives way to the crash.

Rebecca’s breath hitched.

She felt it first in the pit of her stomach — a low, curling ache, thick and molten. It pulled downward and spread wide, tingling in her fingers, tightening her thighs. Her mouth parted, but no words came. Only air. Only need.

Sarocha’s pupils dilated to black. Her nostrils flared, her entire body sharpening in the soft gloom like something wild catching a scent on the wind.

“I can’t—” Rebecca whispered, already leaning forward.

“I know,” Sarocha rasped.

Their lips collided.

There was no hesitation.

No softness.

Only hunger — frantic, sacred, unrelenting.

They devoured each other, mouths pressed tight, teeth grazing, breath tangling like roots beneath the earth. Sarocha’s hands dragged the sheet away from Rebecca’s body in a single fluid motion, baring her completely to the humid air and her own rising heat.

Somewhere in the depths of Rebecca’s core, something responded — a pulse, slow and ancient, like a bell struck beneath water. Her skin glowed faintly in the dark, a sheen of light playing over her shoulders like moonlight on scales.

And in her womb, quiet as a sigh, something stirred.

Not a movement. Not a kick.

Just... presence.

A silent, hungry resonance, like a tide responding to the moon.

Sarocha’s hands roamed with increasing urgency, fingertips flashing gold as they skimmed over the sharp jut of Rebecca’s hip, the soft skin below her ribs, the full swell of her breasts. Wherever she touched, the air itself seemed to melt. The entire room pressed inward, charged with magnetic weight, moisture gathering like sweat against the windows, the plants outside leaning toward them, leaves trembling with want.

Rebecca arched beneath the heat, her breath breaking into a moan as Sarocha slid down and claimed her with mouth and tongue and purpose.

A pulse of energy surged through them both — electric, euphoric, like being cracked open and poured full of light.

And still it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

They flipped, tangled, shifted, climbed — Sarocha’s back to the headboard now, Rebecca straddling her, her hands braced on the carved wood above the bed. Their bodies fit like constellations mapped by divine design, every thrust and roll of hips sparking deeper currents in a rhythm older than language.

They weren’t making love. They weren’t even mating.

They were feeding.

A wordless instinct overtook them both, something not rooted in lust but in an aching need neither of them could name. A compulsion from the marrow, from the soul — as if the act itself held consequence, as if to stop would leave something incomplete. Unfulfilled.

And beneath all of it, watching, receiving, drinking from the wellspring of their joined ecstasy — the baby.

Not consciously. Not deliberately.

But the child nestled within Rebecca’s womb came alive with a pulse that echoed their own, each crescendo pouring into the void like honey over fire, fueling something unseen. Some embryonic divinity that grew not just from flesh, but from love, from magic, from power braided through longing.

Hours bled away in fragmented breaths and broken sobs, in sweat and light and heat.

When at last they collapsed, shaking and gasping, Rebecca’s limbs trembled so violently she couldn’t lift her arms. Sarocha pulled her into a cradle of limbs and tangled sheets, both of them drenched, pulsing, radiant.

The candle stubs had burned out completely.

The moon outside the window had vanished behind thick clouds, and yet the room was filled with a soft bioluminescent glow — from the edges of their bodies, from the walls themselves, where moisture glistened like dew in morning light.

Rebecca’s lips pressed against Sarocha’s collarbone. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Sarocha stroked the back of her neck, forehead resting against Rebecca’s. Her body still thrummed with energy, like a struck chord that refused to fade.

“Later,” she whispered, voice raw. “We do the rite. Before we lose our minds.”

Rebecca’s weak laugh came out as a tremble. “Too late.”

And still — they couldn’t quite pull apart.

They drifted between shallow sleep and restless desire, bodies too tightly wound to find stillness for long. Every touch sparked fire. Every breath turned into wanting. Their love had always been intense, yes — but this was no longer about choice.

It was inevitable.

A tide they could no longer resist. A call they had no language for.

And beneath Rebecca’s skin, the baby pulsed gently.

Fed.

Dreaming.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

Morning mist clung to the treetops like breath held too long.

The house was quiet, unnaturally so — as though even the jungle had stilled in anticipation of what the day would bring. Sunlight sifted through the trees in delicate ribbons, but the air beneath the canopy was dense, intimate, saturated with a tension that had settled into every inch of space between Rebecca and Sarocha.

They had barely slept again.

And though no skin touched now, they were both acutely aware of each other’s proximity — of the invisible thread binding them so tightly that even a moment apart felt like a disruption in the weave of their shared breath. Their bodies hummed with that same restless, near-violent need, though they kept still. For now.

Sarocha had already set the space: a quiet circle near the garden edge, where ferns bent subtly toward them and dewdrops caught the light with almost reverent shimmer. The ritual wouldn’t be elaborate — it couldn’t be. They didn’t have time, and it didn’t require grandeur. Just intent. Just blood and breath and bond.

Ananda emerged from the house carrying a small wooden box carved from old ironwood, its surface inscribed with binding glyphs and resonance threads. He looked worn but sharp, mind alight with recent focus. Despite the shadows under his eyes, there was a calm in him — a steadiness the others leaned toward unconsciously.

He opened the box.

Inside lay two pendants, carved in crescent shapes with faint veins of inlaid silk and a glowing, iridescent stone set out of powdered root at the core of each. They weren’t beautiful in a conventional sense, but they felt alive — like something ancient and newly reborn.

"Everything’s ready," he said. “I’ve bound them with your resonance threads you both infused last night.”

Rebecca took a slow breath. Her skin tingled with anticipation, as if the energy within the pendants was already reaching toward her — a hum that vibrated just beneath her sternum.

Sarocha nodded once, solemn. “We do this quickly. Speak your name to the pendant. Then blood. Then breath. Let it take root.”

Rebecca crouched in the grass beside her. She reached for the pendant with hesitant reverence and held it to her lips.

“Rebecca.”

The stone warmed. A quiet flicker of light pulsed once at its core.

She bit the pad of her thumb and let three drops fall on the surface. The ironwood drank it quickly. Then she exhaled, long and slow, across the pendant, her breath catching with the faintest tremor as the magic coiled and clicked into place.

The moment the bond sealed, her body reacted — not violently, but like something previously coiled too tight had been eased a degree. Her heart, always pressed against the inside of her ribcage these past days, now loosened just slightly. Her thoughts cleared. Desire still licked at the edges of her awareness, but no longer flooded her. She could breathe again.

Beside her, Sarocha repeated the rite with a whispered “Sarocha.” Her fingers moved with the poise of memory, but her expression twisted slightly when the bond sealed. A shudder rolled through her — not from pain, but restraint. The crackle of desire still burned in her aura, visible in the way her throat flexed, the way her shoulders rolled in resistance to instinct.

Still, her breath steadied.

Rebecca leaned into her side, not touching, but close enough to feel the ache still present beneath the surface.

“It’s better,” she whispered.

Sarocha nodded, jaw tight. “Just enough.”

They sat like that for a moment, pendants glowing faintly between them, a cocoon of strange stillness settling over the garden. The jungle seemed to inhale and hold its breath.

But then… something shifted.

Rebecca’s hand fell to her belly without thinking.

The tiny being shifted — not painfully, but sharply, once, then again, like a ripple of tension moving from the inside out. Her breath caught, and suddenly she felt a strange flutter in her stomach, not physical but energetic — like something pulling against the magic of the pendant. Not rejection. Not fear. Just… discomfort. A murmur of discontent.

Rebecca blinked, swaying a little where she sat. The sensation passed, but a cold sheen of sweat had formed at her brow.

Sarocha’s hand found hers. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Rebecca murmured, pressing her palm flat to the slight swell beneath her navel. “She… doesn’t like it. It’s not pain. It’s just—wrong. To her.”

“She’s tied to you,” Ananda said softly from where he stood nearby. “To the aura you create. This dampens that connection.”

Rebecca met his gaze. “Then this is like… cutting her off from the sun.”

“Just a cloud,” he said gently. “Not a cage.”

They stood in silence for a few more moments. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead — and the tension in the air shifted again, just barely. Less storm, more stillness.

It would have to be enough.

---

By the time they travelled as far as possible by vehicle, the sky had begun to warm. They walked the rest of the way in silence — Ananda leading, Rebecca and Sarocha behind him, flanking one another like shadow and flame. Their pendants nestled against their skin, still warm, still humming softly with the fresh spellwork.

They had chosen light, neutral colors — flowing fabrics that clung where they needed to and breathed where they didn’t. Rebecca wore her Guardian bracelet, now laced with an additional weave Ananda had added for temporary shielding. It wouldn’t fully hide the child’s aura anymore, but it might buffer it.

Not that the monks wouldn’t know.

The path to the temple grounds wound upward through dense brush and sacred stone markers, the air increasingly reverent as they approached. The land felt old here — watchful. Vines grew in symmetrical patterns across weathered archways, and birds did not sing above them.

At the final rise before the temple arches, they stopped.

“You’re sure we’re ready?” Rebecca asked, low.

Sarocha met her gaze with steady fire. “They want balance. We are balance. Let them see it.”

Ananda smiled faintly. “And if not, let them feel it.”

They stepped forward, pendants softly pulsing against their hearts, into a world that had waited far too long for them to arrive.

The air beyond the temple gates did not stir.

The world inside the temple grounds felt locked in some ancient stillness — not peaceful, but suspended, as if time itself were watching. There were no bells, no chants, no visible signs of monks in the courtyards. Only the soft hush of wind threading through stone and the distant sound of bamboo creaking in the breeze.

Rebecca stepped through the carved threshold, her pendant pressing cool against her chest. It was working — just enough. Her thoughts were her own again, her desire no longer seizing her like a fevered tide. But Sarocha beside her still moved like a creature half-leashed — restrained, taut, pulse burning beneath flawless skin.

And the child stirred again, deep in her womb.

Not pain. Not panic. But awareness. They were being watched.

Ananda led them up the main path, his expression unreadable. He had said nothing since the final bend, and Rebecca understood why now. There was a pressure here — not merely spiritual, but magical, woven into the stones themselves. Old, potent. Not hostile, not yet. But measuring them. Testing their weight against the balance of the world.

The temple loomed ahead — a weathered structure grown from the rock itself, with wide archways and quiet statues carved from ivory stone. Monks began to emerge in pairs, barefoot and silent, their robes dark against the pale morning light. They didn’t speak. But they watched.

And then, finally, Pra Sumet appeared.

The head monk moved like time incarnate — not slow, not fast, but inevitable. He walked with a staff of dark tamarind wood, etched in dream-script, its head wrapped in white silk. His robes were layered, saffron and sun-bleached, but the thread of silver woven through them marked his rank and power unmistakably.

His eyes were deep, ageless things. Rebecca met them and felt as though her name had been read from a page she hadn’t written.

“Guardian,” he said, voice like stone under water. “You return.”

Rebecca inclined her head. “I come as more than that now.”

His gaze flicked to Sarocha. Something passed over his face then — recognition, yes, but also wariness. The air shifted. Even the birds quieted.

“And you,” he said softly. “The exile.”

Sarocha didn’t flinch. “You took what was mine and called it balance.”

Pra Sumet said nothing at first. But his gaze was sharp.

Then, finally, he looked to Ananda. “You understand the danger of what you’ve done.”

“I understand more than I did,” Ananda said carefully. “And I still brought them here.”

A long pause. The monks in the courtyard did not move. The wind passed through once, then left them again.

“And the child?” Pra Sumet said at last.

Silence fell.

Rebecca’s hand moved instinctively to her stomach. She did not speak. The question wasn’t really a question.

He already knew.

His expression did not change. But the air thickened — a shift Rebecca felt rather than saw. The gathered monks inhaled as one, just slightly. A ripple of unease passed across the sacred ground.

“She is no ordinary life,” he said.

“No,” Rebecca agreed. “She is not.”

“She has not yet drawn breath. And already, the threads of the land bend toward her.”

“She doesn’t seek power,” Rebecca said calmly. “She is power.”

That made the head monk’s expression crack, just slightly — not fear, but awe. Or perhaps grief. Rebecca could not tell.

“You don’t understand what is returning,” he said.

“No,” Sarocha cut in, voice low and cold, “you don’t. You wanted stasis. You thought it was peace. But this land was never meant to sleep forever.”

“And if what wakes it burns us all?” Pra Sumet asked, gaze sharp.

“Then it was already dead,” Sarocha snapped.

Tension bloomed like heat across the courtyard. The monks shifted subtly. Energy coiled in the space like a held breath. Rebecca could feel Sarocha’s magic prickling at the edges of her restraint, held at bay only by the pendant’s steady pull. But barely.

Pra Sumet’s hand moved to his belt.

He pulled free something small, wrapped in silk.

Rebecca tensed.

He unwrapped it with careful fingers — and revealed a single scale, pale green and burnished gold, old and powerful. It gleamed like a buried memory.

Sarocha’s reaction was immediate. She staggered, breath caught like something torn loose. Her body shuddered — not from pain, but a reverberation, like some unseen chain had just yanked taut.

“No,” Rebecca breathed, stepping forward. “What is that—”

But she already knew.

They had kept it. A piece of her.

A failsafe.

Sarocha sank to one knee, shaking, her body half-shifting as energy warred between rage and restraint. Her aura surged — gold and serpentine, blazing across the stone tiles like liquid fire before snapping back against her flesh.

Pra Sumet’s voice was calm. “She is bound by her blood. She is not free.”

Rebecca didn’t think. She only felt.

Her own aura surged, but not like before — not fire, not light. Something deeper. Older. The very air around her bent inward as her pendant flared with opposing force — but not from itself.

From her.

“Let her go,” she said quietly.

Pra Sumet did not move.

Rebecca raised her hand — and the pendant at her throat flickered once, then died. Not shattered. Muted, like the child within her had reached out and simply turned the key.

The next moment, the scale in Pra Sumet’s palm dissolved. No explosion. No light.

It simply melted to dust, fell through his fingers, and vanished into the earth.

The head monk stared.

Rebecca lowered her hand. Her voice was steady. “My child doesn’t appreciate your oppression.”

Pra Sumet said nothing.

But the monks behind him did flinch.

Sarocha inhaled sharply, freed. Her skin shimmered with shifting patterns — as if her body was remembering how to be whole again. She stood slowly, eyes burning, breath ragged.

Pra Sumet turned away from them at last, his gaze sweeping over the gathered monks.

“We are past prophecy now,” he murmured.

Then to Rebecca, quietly:

“She is not just power. She is return. And the veils that held this world together will thin because of her.”

Rebecca met his gaze, heart pounding. “Then it’s time to choose what comes next.”

A silence followed that no bird dared break. The courtyard seemed to narrow around them, the morning light thinning into a dense, electric hush.

Pra Sumet’s gaze lingered on the earth where the scale had dissolved — not in defeat, but in something closer to reflection. His features betrayed no anger. Only a deeper stillness, like tectonic weight shifting inside a mountain.

He finally turned back to face them. “You’ve severed the last restraint we placed on the exile,” he said. “Do you understand what that means?”

“I understand that she’s not yours to bind,” Rebecca answered.

“She was bound for a reason,” another monk spoke up from the inner circle. Younger, lean, his voice taut with control. “The pact kept the land from rupture. Without her anchored, we feared the balance—”

“—the balance was already broken,” Sarocha cut in sharply. Her voice still held the echo of her power, but it was tempered now, steadier. “You didn’t bind me to preserve peace. You did it to prolong silence. You feared what would wake if I moved freely.”

The monk stepped forward, but Pra Sumet raised his hand, silencing him.

“She is not wrong,” the elder said. “We feared you, yes. But not for your violence. For your legacy.”

He looked to Rebecca then — truly looked, as if only now beginning to see her.

“You carry more than the exile’s child. More than your Guardian blood. There is something ancient inside you, stirring. It’s marked the way you walk the veil.”

Rebecca felt a chill thread down her spine. “I don’t understand it yet.”

“You will,” he said. “The child and the mother are not separate destinies. One pulls the veil. The other anchors what comes through.”

Ananda stepped forward finally, breaking the psychic deadlock. “There has to be a way forward that doesn’t rely on fear.”

Pra Sumet nodded once. “There is. But it requires clarity.”

“Clarity?” Sarocha echoed, her tone bristling. “You had centuries and chose ignorance.”

“Because to choose knowledge,” Pra Sumet said softly, “meant accepting that the old world is ending. And not all of us were ready.”

Another monk stepped forward now — older, but not frail. His eyes held a different fire: not fear, but defiance. “And what if this child is not a rebirth but a catalyst for collapse? What if her awakening tears open the veils we spent our lives preserving? You speak of destiny, but you bring change without consent.”

The words hit hard.

Rebecca's jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“No one ever does,” Pra Sumet murmured. “But it comes for us all the same.”

The monk turned to him, frustrated. “And you’ll allow it? You’ll just watch the cycle rupture and do nothing?”

“I will witness,” Pra Sumet said. “And respond. But I will not strike preemptively against something that has not chosen violence.”

Sarocha laughed under her breath. “You didn’t extend me that grace.”

“No,” the old monk agreed. “And I regret that.”

A flicker of something passed over Sarocha’s face then — surprise, perhaps. Or disbelief. But she didn’t answer.

Ananda took the opening. “If the child’s awakening is inevitable, then the question is not if, but how we proceed. The land is already shifting. The veils are already thinning. You said yourself — the old protections aren’t holding.”

Pra Sumet inclined his head. “And that’s why I brought you here. Not to stop it. But to help guide it.”

There was a ripple of reaction among the monks behind him — not all approving.

“I will not force compliance,” he added to them. “But those who would remain in service to balance must adapt. We are no longer guardians of stillness. We are midwives to change.”

The other monks stilled. One turned away slightly, conflicted. Another stepped back, his gaze unreadable. The younger monk who had spoken earlier looked furious — but did not challenge the head monk again.

Pra Sumet turned back to the trio.

“Do you intend to remain here?” he asked.

Rebecca hesitated. Then: “For now. But not forever.”

Sarocha nodded beside her. “We’ll reclaim what’s left of our kind. Find others. Help them cross safely, if they still can.”

“The child will be a beacon,” Pra Sumet warned. “She will draw magic — not just of this world, but others.”

“She already does,” Rebecca said quietly. Her hand rested over her belly. “But she doesn’t want to destroy. She wants to be held.”

That quiet truth landed heavier than any threat.

Pra Sumet studied her for a long time. “Then let us offer this. We will not interfere — not unless the child’s power begins to destabilize the region further. You’ll be watched, but not caged.”

Sarocha bristled, but Rebecca gently touched her wrist. “We’re used to being watched.”

“I’m sure,” the old monk said softly. “But now, we must learn to watch back — without fear.”

Ananda looked between them all. “So… we leave in peace?”

Pra Sumet gave a faint nod. “For now. But peace is not stasis. Remember that. Especially when the dreams begin to bleed.”

A cold shiver passed down Rebecca’s back at those words. “What do you mean?”

But the monk only looked at her — not evasive, just impossibly old.

“You’ll see,” he said. “When the moon speaks. And the water answers.”

Then he turned, his staff striking once against the stone — and the gathered monks parted as he walked through them, slow and certain.

No more was said.

But something had shifted in the air — not finality, but the fragile birth of understanding.

As the trio turned back down the temple path, the wind stirred again, brushing cool over Rebecca’s skin.

And deep within her womb, the child pulsed with gentle heat — not fear, but restlessness. Her aura rippled outward in delicate tendrils of unseen gold, brushing across stone, tree, air.

The world was beginning to feel her.

And it would never be the same.

---

The jungle had gone quiet by the time they reached the sanctuary. Afternoon light filtered through the broad canopy above in fractured gold, glinting off wet leaves, softening the edges of tension clinging to their bodies like dust after a storm.

The house greeted them in silence — no intrusion, no watching eyes, only the familiar pulse of protective wards humming at the threshold. Ananda stepped through first, shoulders sagging, his bag thumping gently against the floor as he exhaled.

“I don’t know if that was diplomacy,” he muttered, “or divine brinksmanship.”

Rebecca let out a low, breathy laugh as she followed, barefoot and light-stepping. “Probably both.”

Sarocha said nothing, but her eyes were sharp and alert, scanning the perimeter until the door closed behind her. Only then did she allow herself to drop the façade — a slow roll of the shoulders, a loosened jaw. She moved toward the kitchen without speaking, her movements strangely gentle for someone who had nearly attacked a monk that morning.

The kettle whined to life. Rebecca leaned against the back of the couch, arms crossed over her chest, still half-listening to the jungle beyond the house. “They were afraid. All of them.”

“They still are,” Ananda said. “But they’re watching now instead of restraining.”

“That’s an improvement?” Rebecca asked.

“In monk terms?” he replied. “A full miracle.”

Sarocha returned with a tray of tea — a custom from an older part of her nature, ritual without religion — and placed it between them with quiet care. Her eyes met Rebecca’s for a heartbeat, and in that flicker, the soft hum of their matching pendants trembled faintly between them. Not yet gone. But fraying. As if their shared restraint was growing thin, like gauze over flame.

“Did you feel it?” Rebecca asked softly.

Sarocha lowered herself onto the cushions beside her. “When the elder monk looked at you? Yes.”

“No — not just then. I mean… the baby. She didn’t like the pendants. I felt it again just now. Like pressure. Not pain. But… resistance.”

Ananda’s brow furrowed as he sat across from them. “Resistance to the magic?”

Rebecca nodded slowly. “It’s subtle. Like she’s pressing outward every time the enchantment tightens. It’s like… she doesn’t want to be muted.”

“Or maybe she doesn’t want you muted,” Ananda offered. “She’s tied to your aura, right? If the pendants suppress your energy, maybe she feels like she’s being restrained, too.”

“Not restrained,” Rebecca murmured. “Smothered. Just a little.”

Sarocha’s hand slid across the cushions to brush against hers. “Then we won’t keep them on much longer.”

Rebecca’s breath caught. The contact — simple, innocent — still burned. The compulsion wasn’t gone. Only buffered. Muted like a roaring fire behind glass. But the glass was cracking.

Sarocha looked down at their entwined fingers. “They’re fading. I can feel you through it again.”

“So can I,” Rebecca whispered. “Like a tide under silk.”

They were quiet a moment.

Then Ananda cleared his throat — softly, carefully, not out of discomfort, but to gently interrupt the spiral of heat curling between them.

“So.” He sipped his tea. “Where do we go from here?”

Rebecca blinked. “You mean besides inevitable magical parenthood?”

“Yes,” he said dryly. “Besides that.”

Sarocha leaned back, frowning faintly. “The monks won’t stop us, but that doesn’t mean others won’t try.”

“Their agreement was conditional,” Ananda said. “If your child’s presence starts to destabilize magical flow—”

“She already is,” Sarocha cut in. “Not destructively, but… enough. You’ve seen it. Animals behaving strangely. Trees blooming out of cycle. Rain that falls without clouds.”

Ananda nodded. “It’s magic looking for a home.”

“Or an anchor,” Rebecca added. “And she’s both.”

They lapsed into thought again.

Outside, the sun was sliding lower through the trees. Light dappled through the slats, golden and heavy, casting moving shapes across the wooden floor. A breeze filtered in, stirring the incense smoke curling from the corner altar.

Sarocha’s hand tightened slightly in Rebecca’s. “You should rest. The monk’s wards might’ve numbed the truth, but your aura’s still stretched thin. You’re running hot.”

“I know,” Rebecca said. Her skin still tingled faintly, like her veins were full of starlight and static.

“I’ll check the boundary wards,” Ananda offered, standing. “Make sure nothing’s slipped through while we were away.”

Rebecca nodded, grateful. As he stepped out, Sarocha shifted beside her, closer now. Her thigh pressed against Rebecca’s. Not urgently — but with a weight that spoke of restraint nearing its edge.

Their pendants pulsed again — both in warning and in failure.

“I don’t want to take them off yet,” Rebecca murmured.

“Then we won’t,” Sarocha said. “But they won’t hold much longer.”

“No,” Rebecca whispered. “They won’t.”

The pendants weren’t failing like broken machines. They were withdrawing. Their borrowed clarity was unravelling, peeling away with every breath, every inch of closeness between them.

Still, for now, they held on — breathing in each other’s presence with reverent care, balancing on the knife-edge of restraint.

And somewhere deep inside her womb, Rebecca felt a flicker — not discomfort now, but approval. As if the child could sense their tension, and found it acceptable. Not suppressed. Just… tempered.

She exhaled slowly, her head leaning against Sarocha’s shoulder. “Let’s wait for the sun to set.”

“And after?” Sarocha asked, her voice velvet.

Rebecca closed her eyes. “We’ll see what the dark asks of us.”

Outside, the wind shifted — not ominous, just aware. The jungle breathed around them, older than the monks, older than even memory. And the air, for a moment, tasted of jasmine, warm stone, and thunder.

The veil would not stay quiet for long.

But for now, they were home.

---

Night unfurled like a silk shroud over the forest sanctuary, the last glow of dusk filtering amber through thick banana leaves and orchid-draped trellises. Inside the high-raftered bedroom, lanterns glowed low and golden. Rain whispered on the roof tiles, steady and light — a rhythmic hush like a breath held in the lungs of the world.

Rebecca had just stepped out of the bathing room, hair damp and curling around her shoulders, clad in a soft linen wrap. Sarocha lay already curled on the bed, half-covered in a sheet, her amber-flecked eyes watching her lover with quiet intensity.

“I didn’t expect him to relent,” Rebecca murmured as she slid onto the mattress, folding herself instinctively into Sarocha’s waiting arms. “Pra Sumet. Not really. I thought it would come to something worse.”

Sarocha exhaled through her nose, stroking her hand slowly down Rebecca’s back. “He relented because he saw what you carry. Not just the baby. You.”

Rebecca blinked. “You think he knew what I’m becoming?”

Sarocha paused — the kind of pause that always carried weight when she used it. “I don’t think he understood it. But he sensed something that even he couldn’t dominate. That frightened him more than the idea of a goddess being born.”

They were quiet for a while, just listening to the forest murmuring outside and the way their breathing seemed to match, unconsciously synced.

“It’s strange,” Rebecca said finally, voice soft. “The moment I felt his power push toward us, I… I didn’t feel fear. I felt this—clarity. Like there was this presence behind my ribs, pushing back. Something… vast. Gentle, but ancient.”

Sarocha’s fingers had stilled on her back.

“Do you think it was her?” Rebecca whispered. “The baby?”

Sarocha nodded slowly. “I do. And I think it was you too. Something is waking in you, Rebecca. I’ve felt it from the beginning — before the mating bond. There’s a current in you like deep water. I don’t think you’ve even begun to touch it.”

Rebecca’s brows furrowed. “But I’m just… I’m not a Naga. I don’t even come from this world of magic. I wasn’t supposed to—”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Sarocha interrupted gently, “but you are. And this child, our child, is reshaping the pattern. You’re not being pulled into the world, you’re reshaping it from the inside.”

A flutter passed through Rebecca’s belly. Not just the baby shifting — something deeper. A pulse of warmth that wasn’t physical. Almost a hum, as though something inside her were responding to being spoken of aloud. Not with words — but with resonance.

Her hand settled over the tiny swell of her stomach, and she closed her eyes.

“She doesn’t like the pendants,” Rebecca whispered suddenly.

Sarocha sat up slightly. “How do you know?”

“She’s… I think she’s been quiet all evening because of them. I wasn't quite sure exactly what it was until now — but something about the suppressive spell. It’s like… it dulls her light. Not harms it exactly, but dims it. Like holding a lantern under a heavy cloth.”

They both stared at the small wooden pendant still nestled against Rebecca’s chest. Its soft gleam was beginning to flicker.

Sarocha sat up fully now, brushing a strand of hair back from Rebecca’s cheek. “They were only ever temporary. Just to get us through the day.”

As if in agreement, a low shimmer of heat sparked between them — so faint at first it could’ve been mistaken for the room’s ambient warmth. But they both felt it, instantly, viscerally.

Rebecca inhaled sharply, and Sarocha’s pupils dilated in response.

The pendants’ glow dimmed completely. Both root stones, one around Rebecca’s neck and the one lying near Sarocha’s discarded robe, dulled to inert gray — their magic spent.

And with that, the wall between them dissolved.

A rush of heat unspooled through Rebecca’s core, slow and rising like a tide. Not just desire — but compulsion. Recognition. Craving. Her whole body began to buzz with it, her skin tingling as if the air itself had thickened, charged with scent, with longing, with the unmistakable pull toward her mate.

Sarocha’s hands clenched slightly against the sheets, her body already reacting, muscles tensing with restraint even as her eyes darkened to burning gold, slitted.

They stared at each other in the quiet, both breathing harder now.

“She’s pulling us,” Rebecca said in a strained whisper. “She needs the connection.”

Sarocha’s expression twitched — not confusion, not resistance, but fierce agreement. “I know.”

But still they didn’t move toward each other yet. The heat in the room pressed down with slow certainty, saturating everything — the way the breeze halted at the windowsill, how the lanterns’ flames bent subtly toward the bed, how the scent of flowers outside intensified, cloying and rich.

“She’s feeding on us,” Rebecca murmured. “She’s guiding us. Shaping us. It’s not just instinct, Sarocha. It’s direction. Purpose.”

Sarocha swallowed. “It’s her will.”

A beat passed between them — wordless and thick with electricity.

Then Sarocha leaned in, forehead pressed to Rebecca’s, eyes fluttering shut. “You still feel like you,” she whispered, voice rough. “But more. More of you. Like something ancient is pulling you through yourself.”

Rebecca didn’t answer — she was barely holding herself still, muscles trembling with the returning intensity of their bond. She could feel the press of Sarocha’s aura against hers again, no longer cushioned or dampened by spellwork. It pulsed against her like a heartbeat, like breath, like destiny itself.

They didn’t touch yet — but the moment had turned, unmistakably. The need between them was no longer a background hum. It was crescendoing, undeniable, clawing gently at the inside of their control.

Sarocha’s voice was low, tight, reverent.

“We won’t last much longer.”

Rebecca’s eyes fluttered shut.

“I don’t want to,” she whispered.

Outside, the rain intensified, as though drawn to the pressure building in the room. The wind coiled through the eaves like a serpent, and the lantern flames flared once — tall and white — before settling again.

The bond had returned. And the child at the center of it stirred once more, quietly, contentedly, as her parents began to unravel again beneath her silent call.

Chapter Text

The world was soundless, suspended in a silver hush.

Rebecca floated — or perhaps stood — in a place that had no weight. Mist curled around her feet like breath from the earth, dense and luminous. The sky above wasn’t sky at all but a vast dome of stars pulsing too close, too bright. She could see through them. Not past them — through them. They weren’t stars. They were eyes. Memories. Doorways.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, a heartbeat — not hers — called out like a bell.

She turned slowly, unsure if her feet moved or the world shifted to match her desire. Shapes coalesced from the mist: towering trees that shimmered with threads of gold between their branches, as though the very air carried memory spun like spider silk.

Then: movement.

A woman stepped forward from between two trees.

Graceful. Barefoot. Dressed in layered robes that glowed faintly, as if woven from dawnlight itself. Her long hair rippled behind her like smoke in water, and her gaze—when it met Rebecca’s—was timeless.

Rebecca blinked. Recognition sparked.

“You,” she breathed.

It was the pregnant Dreamer. The one from Loei. The one who had slept beneath centuries of stillness until Rebecca’s voice — or was it the baby’s? — had stirred her from the veil.

But here, in this place, the woman no longer looked weighed by slumber. She moved with purpose. Her aura shimmered faintly, layered and harmonic. Rebecca felt the familiar tug between them — not kinship, exactly, but echo. Resonance.

The woman smiled gently.

“You’ve come further,” she said. Her voice wasn’t sound — it resonated like a vibration in Rebecca’s bones.

“Where am I?” Rebecca asked, though her voice felt distant. “Is this… a dream?”

The Dreamer stepped closer, tilting her head as if listening to something just beyond Rebecca’s reach. “Not quite. Not anymore. You’re moving between the layers now.”

Rebecca furrowed her brow. “Through the veil?”

A nod. “You walk the threads the way your foremothers once did. But you’re not only Dreamer.”

She reached out — not to touch, but to show. Between her fingers appeared a braided loop of silver and deep blue thread, glimmering in the dimness.

“Guardian,” the woman whispered, indicating the silver strand. “Dreamer.” The blue shimmered faintly. “Separate, their gifts are beautiful. But braided—” she gently twisted the strands together, and the color turned iridescent, momentarily translucent “—they hold equilibrium. A mirror and an anchor.”

Rebecca stared at the braid, her heart hammering.

“Why me?”

The Dreamer offered a gentle look. “Because the old patterns broke. And your child weaves a new one. But even she cannot anchor what must pass through without you.”

At the mention of her child, the mist stirred.

The trees bent slightly outward, as though bowing — and then the world shifted.

No longer mist.

A temple emerged around her — though unlike any she’d seen before. The architecture was fluid, rising into impossible arches that shimmered like dreams frozen mid-breath. Glyphs pulsed faintly on the walls, moving and settling as if alive.

And at the center, on a pedestal wrapped in vines and flickering light — her.

Nitya.

Or something like her.

Rebecca couldn’t say whether it was an infant or a woman — she seemed to be both, shifting subtly with every blink. She bore the same warmth Rebecca felt when she touched her belly, but magnified — ancient, infinite. Her skin shimmered with gold, her gaze deep as oceans caught beneath moons.

She didn’t speak.

But she looked at Rebecca — and something surged inside her. Not memory, not emotion — knowing. A wordless communion.

'You are not the vessel,' the gaze said.

'You are the threshold.'

Something cracked open inside Rebecca’s chest.

The veil trembled — as though the dreamspace itself bowed to the presence before her. Rebecca felt her knees give, but she did not fall. The air held her. Or perhaps the child did. Perhaps her daughter — unborn, divine — had created this space for her mother to remember.

“Will I know?” Rebecca asked, her voice shaking. “What to do, who I’m meant to be?”

The Dreamer appeared beside her again, calm and constant. “You won’t need to know. You will become. That is the old way.”

The pedestal began to fade. The temple dissolved into motes of gold.

Before the light left completely, the woman laid her fingers gently against Rebecca’s sternum.

“You are not the first of your kind,” she said softly. “But you may be the first to survive what is to emerge."

And with that, the world fractured—

A sound like chimes shattered underwater rippled through her being, and she fell—

---

Rebecca woke with a gasp, bolting upright in bed.

The room was still dark, faint pre-dawn light silvering the windows. Her skin was damp with sweat, her heart racing in her chest. She clutched at the sheets, breath heaving.

Sarocha stirred beside her instantly, rising from her own tangled half of the bed, concern lacing her face.

“What is it?” she asked lowly, already reaching to touch Rebecca’s arm.

Rebecca’s eyes flicked to her, wide and dazed.

“I… I was somewhere else,” she whispered. “It wasn’t a dream.”

Sarocha stilled.

“Who did you see?” she asked gently.

Rebecca tried to find the words. “The Dreamer from Loei. She spoke to me. Showed me things I didn’t understand. But also… her. The child. Nitya. I think I saw her true form. Or one of them.”

Sarocha’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.

Rebecca looked down at her hands, turning them slowly as if something had changed. “They said I’m not just carrying her. I’m the threshold she’s walking through. That I’m changing too, becoming something that hasn’t been allowed to exist in generations.”

Sarocha moved closer, wrapping an arm around her, anchoring her with touch. “You’ve felt it for a while. Now you’re seeing it. Whatever is waking in you, it’s not wrong. It’s yours. And I’ll help you hold it, whatever it becomes.”

Rebecca leaned into her warmth, heart still beating too fast, but steadier now.

The dream — no, the veil — still echoed in her bones.

The words would take root slowly. But she could feel it already: something was rising in her, and it would not be silenced.

Not now.

Not ever.

—

The kitchen was golden with early morning light, the sun just beginning to brush across the hills outside their sanctuary. The heavy scent of jasmine and warm rice hung in the air. A kettle hissed softly, the only competing sound to the hum of forest insects outside.

Rebecca sat at the low table, wrapped in one of Sarocha’s oversized silk shirts, legs curled beneath her. Her hair was still damp from a quick bath. Across from her, Ananda stirred a bowl of congee with slow focus, glasses sliding low on his nose. Sarocha moved silently between them, setting down small dishes of pickled mango, shredded dried fish, and soft-boiled eggs, her movements fluid but... restless.

Ananda’s gaze flicked between them.

“You two are absolutely feral right now, aren’t you?”

Sarocha paused mid-motion. Rebecca flushed, glancing at her empty plate—then her eyes flicked up, defiant.

“We’re managing,” she said, voice a little too clipped.

Ananda raised an eyebrow but smirked into his tea. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

Truthfully, managing was generous. Since waking, the pull between them had returned with full force, simmering just beneath the surface. Rebecca could feel it in the way Sarocha’s hand lingered a second too long on the back of her neck, or the way their knees brushed and neither of them moved. It was less urgent than the days before the pendants, but only barely. Every breath shared felt like a prelude.

She’d dressed only because she had to sit down for breakfast and not end up on the kitchen floor.

Sarocha finally sat beside her, thigh pressed against hers under the table. Not an accident. Never an accident.

“I had a dream,” Rebecca said after a moment, watching the steam curl above her tea. “Not just a dream. A vision. I think I was veilwalking.”

That got Ananda’s attention. He set his spoon down, expression sharpening. “Go on.”

Rebecca recounted it slowly — the mist, the Dreamer from Loei, the temple with its impossible curves. Nitya’s shifting presence. The words that echoed in her chest even now: 'You are not the vessel. You are the threshold.'

Ananda listened in still silence, his expression unreadable, until Rebecca fell quiet.

Then: “That confirms it,” he said softly. “You’re more than a conduit. You’re the other half of a restoration cycle. The monks were worried about destabilization, but you… you’re the stabilizing force. Or becoming it.”

Sarocha made a low, thoughtful sound in her throat. Her hand slid to Rebecca’s, fingers entwining tightly.

“But how do we understand what she’s becoming?” she asked. “Even the monks only saw fragments. If this is a reawakening of an ancient line—”

“Then I need to go back,” Ananda interrupted gently.

Both Rebecca and Sarocha looked up.

“Back where?” Sarocha asked, though the answer was already forming.

“Bangkok. To the dig site. Your property near the Chao Phraya.” Ananda sat back, rubbing his temple. “It’s not just about archaeology anymore. That site is where I found the bracelet. And the guardian records. The buried altar that referenced both a sleeping curse and a royal line with Dreamer-Naga ties. The more I think about it, the more I believe that land is a direct fragment of your old world.”

Rebecca frowned. “You think it’s connected to me?”

“I think it is you,” Ananda said. “Or rather, what you’re returning to. That site might still hold answers—glyphs, relics, names. If you're transforming into something that hasn't walked this world in centuries, we need history. Documentation. And the last place that whispered your name was buried in the soil of that riverbank.”

Sarocha looked torn. “And you’d be alone?”

Ananda grinned. “I survived monks, magical pregnancy auras, a nearly-devouring Naga queen, and fielding midnight cravings from your mate here.” He gave Rebecca a wink. “I’ll be fine. Besides, we’ll stay in contact. Daily, if needed.”

Rebecca leaned slightly into Sarocha, the gravity of Ananda’s decision settling over her. “You’re sure?”

“I think you two need time. Privacy. To... settle into what’s coming next.” His tone was lighter, but the understanding between them ran deep. “You’re nesting. Bonded. That child’s magic is waking with yours. You need to be here, not worrying about me cramping your rituals.”

Sarocha smirked. “You never cramp. You talk too much, but that’s useful.”

Ananda rolled his eyes. “Flattery from a Naga? Must be my lucky day.”

But there was truth in it — relief even. Rebecca could feel the unspoken gratitude from Sarocha. Having someone else shoulder the scholarly burden meant they could focus inward, not outward. And that was necessary now.

More than ever.

Especially as Sarocha’s fingers traced slowly up the inside of her wrist beneath the table, drawing lazy circles against her pulse point. Rebecca swallowed, breath catching, and Ananda looked pointedly elsewhere, reaching for more tea with a muttered, “Gods, you two are impossible.”

“Ignore him,” Sarocha murmured low against Rebecca’s ear, barely audible, voice like dusk catching flame.

Rebecca’s cheeks flushed again — heat building, not just from touch, but the constant, magnetic ache of need that pulsed like a drum beneath her skin. The pendants had faded overnight. Their bond was back to full strength, thrumming loud and clear in every breath, every look.

They could barely keep their hands off each other.

Still, Rebecca managed to focus, just long enough to meet Ananda’s eyes again.

“You’ll tell us what you find?”

“Every step of the way,” Ananda promised. “And if anything changes with the monks—”

“We’ll know,” Sarocha finished for him, glancing out the window as if sensing something distant already. “They won’t surprise us.”

The table fell into a soft quiet then, comfortable and weighted. The sun crept higher over the tree line. Outside, a bird called once, twice, before falling silent. Time slowed.

Ananda rose with a stretch. “Alright, I’ll pack after breakfast. I’ll leave this afternoon. The drive isn’t short, but I’ll manage.”

Rebecca stood too, circling the table to embrace him. They held each other a moment — not goodbye, but a shift. A changing of place and purpose.

When they parted, Ananda smiled softly, brushing a few stray strands from Rebecca’s brow.

“You’re walking into something huge,” he said. “But you’re not alone. Not now. You have each other.”

Rebecca’s eyes drifted back to Sarocha — waiting, warm, fiercely protective — and she nodded.

“I know.”

And under the heat of that gaze, the hunger returned in full.

As Ananda disappeared down the hallway, the sanctuary exhaled around them.

They were alone again.

And the pull between them, finally unrestrained, hummed like wildfire through their blood.

—

The sanctuary settled into stillness once Ananda’s car disappeared down the winding road, the sound of gravel tires and engine fading into the trees like a departing breath.

The air inside felt heavier somehow. More sacred.

Rebecca stood at the edge of the veranda in silence, arms folded around herself, the breeze tugging at her loose shirt. The sunlight filtered through the tall trees in fractured gold, catching her hair, her lashes, the faint shimmer at the edge of her skin that hadn’t quite gone away since that dream.

Sarocha stood behind her, watching.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence was comfortable, but vibrating—like two bowstrings drawn and waiting for release.

“He’s right,” Rebecca said at last, eyes on the treetops. “We needed space. And he needs to go back. The answers aren’t here, not all of them.”

“No,” Sarocha agreed quietly, stepping closer. “But you are.”

Her hand found Rebecca’s hip, anchoring. The weight of that simple touch was overwhelming—because it wasn’t just desire anymore. It was memory, and knowing, and that primal need that threaded through their bond like fire along dry reeds.

Rebecca leaned back into her with a quiet sigh, the wind catching her scent, carrying it between them like incense. Sarocha inhaled—deep, reverent, undone.

“I can feel it,” she murmured. “You’re changing.”

Rebecca didn’t respond right away. Her fingers flexed, then curled inward.

“I feel like... there’s something beneath my skin,” she admitted. “Like I’m cracking open, but not breaking. Like... there’s another shape inside me that’s always been there.”

Sarocha turned her gently and Rebecca faced her, eyes soft, cheeks sunlit. And Sarocha’s breath caught in her throat.

Not golden. Not serpentine.

Rebecca’s eyes had begun to shift again.

At first, they’d been streaked amber, reflective like polished topaz—like hers. But now, they gleamed faintly with a color that wasn’t born of this world. A glacial hue, somewhere between deep ocean green and moonstone, with veins of opalescent lavender threading outward from the pupil like cracks in marble. They pulsed faintly with breath.

Not like a normal Naga. Something other. Dream-touched.

And then she saw it: under the neckline of Rebecca’s shirt, where it clung to her collarbone, a faint shimmer beneath the skin. Iridescent scales—soft, barely visible—but each one etched delicately with ancient Siamese runes that flickered and vanished as they caught the light.

Sarocha touched them reverently, fingers trembling. “You’re not just a Guardian anymore.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, swaying into the touch.

“I don’t know what I am.”

“You’re becoming.”

The word landed between them like a kiss of thunder.

A warm silence fell again, interrupted only by the chorus of cicadas and the hush of leaves. Sarocha slid her arms around Rebecca from behind, drawing her close again, lips pressed to the curve of her shoulder.

Her voice dropped, a low rasp:

“Come inside.”

Rebecca followed without a word.

Inside, the house was cool and dim. Woven lanterns glowed softly along the walls, casting patterns across polished wood and silk. They crossed the floor barefoot, the familiar creak beneath their steps grounding them even as the tension tightened between every breath.

They paused before the hearth. Neither lit a fire.

The heat between them was enough.

Rebecca turned slowly in Sarocha’s arms. Her skin prickled with energy—not just physical need, but something older, deeper. Her hands shook slightly as they found Sarocha’s hips.

“It’s different now,” she whispered. “It’s not just wanting you. I feel like I need you to touch me, just to hold myself together.”

Sarocha’s hand slid up her back, finding the knot of muscle at her nape and pressing there, firm and grounding.

“I will,” she said. “As long as you need.”

Their foreheads met. Breath mingled.

The pull was maddening. Rebecca could feel every inch of her skin tuned to Sarocha’s presence, every nerve ending hungry and aching. But they weren’t rushing. This was deeper than frenzy now. This was reverence.

Slowly, reverently, Sarocha brushed the fabric from Rebecca’s shoulder, baring the skin. The scales shimmered there too—barely-there, reflecting not only light but meaning. Each glint like a word unspoken.

Rebecca’s breath hitched.

“I see them,” Sarocha murmured. “The runes. They're from the Old Tongue... the dialect spoken before even the Naga ascended. They’re... prayers. Blessings.”

She pressed her lips to the markings, slow and warm. “You’re sacred.”

Rebecca trembled. “That’s what the dream said.”

Sarocha pulled back, golden eyes blazing. Her fangs lengthened slightly—reflexive, but not aggressive. Her desire surged with something more possessive, more protective.

“I have to mark you again,” she said, voice thick. “You're evolving. And I need to make sure every part of you knows you’re still mine.”

Rebecca didn’t hesitate. She tilted her head to the side, baring her neck.

“Do it.”

Sarocha’s breath was hot on her skin before her fangs grazed it—just enough to tease. Just enough to make Rebecca gasp.

The bite was gentle, but decisive.

It sent a pulse through Rebecca’s whole body, as if a circuit had closed. Not just arousal—but recognition. Her body responded, yes, but so did something older. Something divine.

She moaned softly, clutching Sarocha’s arms, the world spinning under her feet. The bond flared in a rush of color and sound: hissing rivers, crashing bells, the echo of temple halls buried beneath the earth.

When Sarocha pulled back, licking the wound closed with slow satisfaction, she found Rebecca’s face glowing—not with lust alone, but wonder.

“Gods,” Rebecca whispered. “I can feel you in every part of me.”

“And I in you,” Sarocha breathed, pressing her forehead to hers again.

Their bodies leaned together, weightless and impossibly heavy. A kiss followed—slow, drugging. A question and an answer. But even as hands wandered and breath turned ragged, neither of them rushed.

They were devouring each other in pieces, savoring the unspoken.

Their heat was rising fast, too fast. Rebecca’s back met the wall, Sarocha’s leg sliding between hers. The air shimmered around them like heat haze.

But still—they waited.

They needed to. For what, neither could say. But something sacred was growing, and they would not desecrate it with haste.

Not yet.

Rebecca gasped as another wave of sensation rippled through her, her eyes flaring again, brighter now. She looked down—and caught sight of her own arm. The scales had spread, not just shimmered. And the runes... were glowing softly now. Like the slow awakening of a dawn buried in stone.

Sarocha saw it too, and she froze—not with fear, but awe.

“You’re calling something,” she whispered.

Rebecca's lips parted. Her voice was dazed but certain.

“Or something’s answering.”

They didn’t stop. They couldn’t. But they slowed again, suspended on the edge of something unfathomable. Not just transformation. Not just desire.

A threshold.

And they were standing in its flame.

Rebecca barely registered her body being turned around—only the sensation of Sarocha's grip tightening on her hips, grounding her in a moment that was already slipping out of the realm of ordinary time. Her breath caught as the kiss broke, only for Sarocha’s hand to slide up the back of her thigh and under the hem of the satin shirt—her shirt—now draped like temple silk over the offering that was Rebecca’s body.

“Sarocha,” Rebecca whispered, her voice ragged with ache, spine bowing slightly as her forehead pressed to the wooden wall. “I need—”

“I know,” came the answer, low and raw behind her, close against her ear. “I feel it.”

Rebecca’s fingers flexed against the wall, her knees already weak from the burn rising inside her. She could feel the echo of the bond throbbing through her, drawing them tighter than flesh ever could. Her body hummed, every nerve singing Sarocha’s name. The satin hem lifted, bunching at her waist with a reverent slowness, revealing her bare skin to the air, to her lover’s gaze, to destiny itself.

Behind her, Sarocha exhaled shakily, reverence painted across every syllable as she breathed, “You’re perfect.”

Then more rustling of clothes as Sarocha slipped free of the fabric. There was no more hesitation.

Rebecca arched as Sarocha’s body pressed flush against hers from behind, the heat of bare skin undeniable, her magic curling through the air like smoke. The shift in energy was sudden and heady—Rebecca felt it before she could think, a pulse of power that kissed along her spine and pooled between her thighs. Sarocha’s hand slid low, warm and firm, and where her palm met Rebecca’s skin, her magic flowed deeper.

Then she entered her—not physically, not exactly, but with a phantom force that was impossibly real, magic forming a shape that pulsed and pressed and filled. A low cry tore from Rebecca’s throat, her forehead thunking softly against the wall as her fingers curled against the grain.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was union.

Sarocha’s essence sank into her in a tide, laced with heat and possession, ancient and knowing and hungry for the place it belonged. The phantom erection she conjured was not separate from her—it was her: her power, her will, her love made tangible, made undeniable.

Rebecca gasped again, her body yielding instinctively, hips rocking back to meet the rhythm already finding its cadence. Her heartbeat thundered, synced with Sarocha’s, the magic between them catching flame.

“You’re inside me,” she breathed, half in awe, half in desperation.

“I always was,” Sarocha growled, teeth grazing the curve of Rebecca’s neck. Her hips moved against Rebecca’s in slow, claiming thrusts, and with each press of that phantom shape, more magic flowed into her, finding every edge of her body and soul and filling her.

Rebecca keened, one hand sliding down the wall to brace herself while the other reached blindly behind her, finding Sarocha’s thigh, squeezing.

Then something shifted.

As they moved together, the magic between them sparked like lightning over still water, illuminating something deeper. Rebecca’s skin shimmered wildly now, the Siamese runes glowing faintly along her ribs and hips, moving as if alive, like sacred text stirred by breath. Her eyes fluttered shut—and behind her lids, she saw stars.

Not metaphor.

Stars.

The weight of the universe pressed lightly against her soul, and within that pressure, she knew something—felt something other awakening in her. It wasn’t just the child, though Nitya pulsed faintly in answer, like a celestial heart skipping in time with hers.

No. This was her own divinity stirring.

The Dreamer. The Guardian. The union of what once was never meant to be joined. Or perhaps, never meant to be separated.

And she was ready.

She cried out again as Sarocha picked up the pace, the angle deepening, hips snapping more urgently now. The phantom force inside her twitched and flexed with every thrust, stroking places within her soul that had never been touched—not even during their earlier consummations.

Every movement sent ripples through her consciousness, a fusion of the physical and the sacred. Her toes curled against the floor, breath coming in sobs now, her inner walls clenching around the phantom force like she never wanted to let it go.

"Rebecca,” Sarocha groaned against her ear, the sound not just a name but a claim, syllables soaked in devotion and possession. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

Rebecca whimpered. “I know. I know, I—”

The pressure swelled, luminous and sharp. Their bond surged as if something ancient was wrapping around them, watching, blessing. Magic gathered like a storm between their bodies, and Rebecca felt it crackle at the edge of her skin, raw and sacred.

But even through the haze, something inside her warned: this would explode if they stayed against the wall. The magic, the intensity, the power of the joining was building too fast, too wild.

“Couch,” she gasped, “I—Sarocha—please—”

Sarocha pulled back instantly, hands catching her as she nearly collapsed. The phantom pulse withdrew with a teasing slowness that made Rebecca moan with aching need.

“I’ve got you,” Sarocha murmured, catching her up and carrying her the few steps across the open floor.

She didn’t even hesitate. Rebecca was weightless in her arms, sacred, beloved, divine. She lay her down on the wide couch with a kind of reverence usually reserved for relics and offerings.

Rebecca looked up at her, wild-eyed and glowing, the shirt riding high on her hips, her thighs parted, her chest rising fast. Her hair spread like a halo across the cushions, her gaze burning with need and something more than need—recognition.

Sarocha knelt between her legs and paused only long enough to let her fingers slide reverently along the shimmering lines of runes at Rebecca’s hipbone. “You’re becoming something holy.”

Rebecca’s hand caught hers, held it tight. “I’m already yours.”

Their mouths crashed together, all heat and teeth and magic, and as the phantom erection returned—pressing back inside, deeper now that Rebecca was laid bare and open—it felt like the stars were aligning again, one by one.

The couch creaked beneath them.

Rebecca arched, crying out with every stroke. Magic bloomed around them, flooding the air, kissing the walls, rattling the lanterns above.

And still—it grew.

The first real thrust of magic-wrought union shook more than just the couch—it reverberated. A hum spread outward like a wave through the sanctuary, too soft to hear but felt in every breath, in the rustle of leaves outside, in the sudden scent of jasmine bursting into bloom from unopened buds along the porch. Even the river groaned in its bed, its flow quickening.

Rebecca arched under Sarocha, her whole body bowing like a drawn bowstring, trembling at the point of release. The phantom pressure inside her was no longer an echo or approximation—it was real, formed by magic dense as matter, rooted in Sarocha’s essence and twining with her own. Every push sent tendrils of heat spiraling through her soul, as if the very magic that had created the world now flooded into her womb.

“Sarocha—Sarocha—” Rebecca sobbed, her voice warping under the weight of rapture. “I can’t— I—”

“Yes, you can.” Sarocha’s voice was deeper now, ancient and electric, like the first voice of the first creature that ever dared to love. Her hands gripped Rebecca’s thighs, keeping her open, braced, vulnerable, claimed. “You were made for this. Look at you. Look at how you shine.”

And she did shine.

Rebecca’s skin glittered with a silver-gold shimmer, the Siamese runes etched along her ribs now glowing steadily, etched deep beneath the surface like markings on sacred stone. Her eyes, once sapphire, now shimmered with molten opal, threaded with iridescent light like galaxies caught in their orbits. A low hum poured from her throat, no longer purely human, not even entirely conscious—an offering.

And Sarocha devoured it.

Their mouths met again, hot and claiming, Rebecca’s hands sliding up Sarocha’s back, fingers scraping through her damp hair. The air around them had thickened, sweet with humidity, rich with the scent of fruit trees suddenly ripening, with blossoms cracking open on every vine and branch within a hundred yards. The earth knew. The world knew.

She was being seeded with something divine, and the world was aching to witness it.

The tempo quickened. Each thrust of Sarocha’s phantom desire brought Rebecca closer to the edge of something vast and wild. Her moans were broken and open-throated, desperation and surrender in every cry. She wrapped her legs around Sarocha’s waist and let go—let her magic open, let herself be taken.

The wave broke.

The moment they climaxed together, time fractured.

Rebecca cried out so sharply the walls trembled, her body locking tight, her back arching off the couch as the first seismic pulse of her orgasm ripped through her. The runes on her skin flared blindingly, pouring incandescent energy into the air. Her belly glowed with a soft golden aura, responding from within, cradled in the heart of sacred ecstasy.

Sarocha shouted her name like a prayer and a spell and a battle cry all in one, fangs flashing as her face twisted in rapture. Her hands gripped Rebecca’s hips as her essence poured into her lover, phantom length pulsing again and again as she filled her.

Magic surged outward in concentric waves. Outside, the sanctuary erupted with life—flowers bloomed open in an instant, vines curling and unfurling like fingers, ripe mangoes dropping from branches like offerings. The air steamed with humidity, thick with the scent of wild orchids and rich earth. Frogs began to sing. Bees buzzed in frantic excitement. The river outside surged higher with a sound like thunder.

Every part of nature celebrated them.

Sarocha’s head dropped to Rebecca’s shoulder, and for a moment neither of them moved, locked together in the golden haze, still trembling. Rebecca’s thighs quivered around Sarocha’s hips, her chest rising in broken gasps, the aftershocks still jolting through her in sharp, glorious waves.

“I can’t—” Rebecca finally whispered, laughing weakly through tears. “I can’t feel where you end and I begin.”

Sarocha smiled against her damp neck, licking a slow stripe along the skin before she pressed a reverent kiss there. “Good. That’s how it should be.”

Their magic didn’t pull back—it entwined. The air still glowed faintly around them, the room saturated with power and pollen and heat. Outside, the sun was just cresting the trees, catching in the dew that had spontaneously formed across every surface.

“I felt her,” Rebecca whispered suddenly.

“I know.” Sarocha shifted, gently withdrawing her magic from inside Rebecca with a slow ripple that made them both groan. The air snapped slightly as the phantom shape faded, but their bond remained thick and thrumming. She ran her palm down Rebecca’s thigh, grounding her again. “She responds to you. To us.”

Rebecca’s hand came up to her belly, still faintly aglow, her fingers brushing the warmth there like touching something sacred. “She’s… not just a baby.”

“No,” Sarocha whispered. “She’s an answer.”

They lay together like that, sweat-slicked and glittering, in the middle of an oasis made from their love. The world hummed around them, drunk on fertility, cloaked in magic.

And far beneath that, nestled in the womb of a mortal woman made divine, a child stirred.

Watching. Waiting.

Smiling.

Chapter Text

Time had seemed to drift past in rapid slowness — days, weeks, suspended in paradox. The rains had begun to flirt with the sanctuary again as the season slipped by. The monsoon clouds would gather just before dusk, stirring the jungle’s dense perfume into the air like incense before a ritual. The world around them had grown lush beyond reason. Fruit trees on the edges of the compound bore inordinate harvests; lotus blooms opened at midnight in the still pond; wild orchids bloomed where no seed had been planted. Even the river beside the sanctuary had grown more insistent, its current pulsing as if drawn by an unseen rhythm.

The energy between the pair had shifted slightly since the onslaught of their nesting instincts. Their passion hadn't abated, not truly—if anything, it had evolved into a constant simmer that flared with alarming ease. But layered now beneath it was something else: reverence, vigilance, and the quiet gravity of expectation.

Sarocha stood on the covered veranda, one hand braced on a wooden pillar, the other curled protectively around the low curve of Rebecca’s belly. The air shimmered with golden humidity, thick with the perfume of damp soil and ripening guava. Rebecca leaned into her partner’s touch, sipping tea, her eyes distant, unfocused.

"You weren’t really awake, were you," Sarocha murmured. "This morning. You were somewhere else."

Rebecca blinked slowly, her fingers tightening around the ceramic cup. "Not entirely," she admitted. “I was standing by the banyan tree. I thought I was dreaming. But then the light shifted. I could see both places at once. This world... and somewhere softer, like a memory wrapped in mist.”

Sarocha’s thumb stroked her side absently. “You were veilwalking. Awake.”

Rebecca nodded, lips pressing together. “Just for a moment. It snapped back too fast for me to follow. But I think she was there again. The Dreamer from Loei. I heard her voice like it was coming through water.”

A soft thrum stirred in Sarocha’s throat — protective, but not fearful. “She is watching over you, I think. Or... watching through you.” She paused, hesitant. “You haven’t told me yet what you see when you go.”

Rebecca’s gaze dropped to her belly. “I see the baby, sometimes. Not as she is now, but as she... will be. Or has been. I don’t know. She doesn’t speak in words. Just... light. Symbols. Sometimes I wake up and I still see them glowing behind my eyelids.”

Sarocha stiffened slightly, her hand twitching on Rebecca’s stomach. “What kind of symbols?”

Rebecca reached with her free hand, unbuttoning the loose linen blouse she wore. Just beneath her collarbone, and spreading faintly downward like a necklace of starlight, shimmers of scale had begun to surface again — faint, opalescent. Only this time, the runes within them pulsed slightly, shifting when Sarocha looked too long, as though aware of being watched.

“Not the same ones as before,” Rebecca said softly. “They keep changing. I’ve tried to draw them, but they blur. Only when I’m asleep do they hold still.”

Sarocha’s expression shifted into something between reverence and dread. “I don’t like that we don’t know what this means.”

“I know,” Rebecca said gently, placing her tea down and resting her forehead to Sarocha’s. “But I don’t feel afraid. I feel like I’m... waking up. Slowly. Like I’ve lived most of my life in a room with the curtains drawn. And now someone’s pulling them back.”

Their quiet was broken only by the rustle of wind through the hanging vines and the occasional call of a myna bird from the garden wall. After a while, Sarocha moved them both toward the edge of the veranda, where a small set of steps led down into the overgrown path toward the riverbank.

“We should go back to the cave soon,” she said at last. “Not just to visit. You’re changing, and that place...” Her voice dropped. “It’s humming again. I've been feeling it intensify lately. The pearls in the walls are glowing faintly. Something is shifting.”

Rebecca nodded slowly. “I think I’m possibly meant to cross through somehow. When I’m ready.”

They stood in silence for a long while, both staring toward the thickest part of the jungle, where the path disappeared into green shadow.

Eventually, Sarocha’s phone buzzed once from inside. She moved quickly, the spell of the moment broken only by necessity. When she returned, her eyes were sharper, alert.

“Ananda,” she said. “He’s found something. Wants us to see it.”

Rebecca perked slightly, tilting her head. “He say what?”

“No. Just that it’s linked to the Guardian bloodline and possibly the Dreamers. He sent a photograph.”

Sarocha showed her the screen. It was dim and cracked in places — a worn slab of stone half-unearthed at the dig site near the Chao Phraya. But across the stone’s face was a pattern Rebecca didn’t recognize, yet instinctively knew: an ouroboros woven with runic text that made her heart race. Embedded in the serpent’s coils were symbols almost identical to those that had shimmered in her scales that morning.

“A prophecy?” she whispered.

“Maybe,” Sarocha said, though her tone was grim. “Ananda thinks so. He says the old text refers to ‘the bearer of the split soul’... and something called Phaya Nakarat Tawan, the Serpent-Borne Dawn.”

Rebecca’s skin broke into goosebumps. “He means Nitya.”

“Or you,” Sarocha said. “Or both.”

A breeze stirred through the trees, carrying with it the sharp scent of ozone and water. The river below them stirred again, slapping more eagerly at the embankment.

“I’ll message him back,” Sarocha added after a beat. “Tell him we’ll speak tomorrow. I don’t want anything disturbing you tonight.”

“You mean besides the veilwalking?”

“I mean besides the unknown symbols glowing beneath your skin, my mate possibly carrying a god in her womb, and the jungle reacting to your heartbeat,” Sarocha said, dry. “Yes. Exactly that.”

Rebecca laughed, and it came out softer than she expected — a relief, warm and golden.

The jungle continued to breathe around them. The pearl-holding cave waited beneath the earth. The veil, thinner by the hour, watched them from both sides.

---

The last light of day slanted long through the trees, casting warm honeyed shafts across the sanctuary’s living room. Outside, the jungle sang its evening chorus — cicadas buzzing low, birds calling in slow farewell, and the river churning against the stone embankment like a restless animal.

Inside, it was quiet.

Rebecca sat on the edge of the daybed near the open windows, her legs drawn up, a soft blanket bunched under her thighs. One of Sarocha’s oversized linen shirts hung off her shoulder, rumpled and scented with sandalwood and sun. The breeze curled through the room, carrying in damp air and the faintest hint of something… electric. Charged.

She didn’t need to ask if Sarocha felt it too. Her partner was moving through the space like a guardian spirit made flesh — barefoot, shirtless, her lower half wrapped in a loosely tied sarong that barely restrained the muscle beneath. Her long hair was half-pinned, half-fallen, and she was braiding something with steady hands: a length of dark cord, threaded with small protective charms — bone, pearl, something metallic that caught the fading light.

“For the door,” Sarocha murmured, not looking up.

Rebecca hummed. “Because jungle spirits know how to open modern locks?”

“No.” Sarocha’s mouth twitched. “Because sometimes… we invite things in without knowing. Best to be polite and keep certain thresholds marked.”

Rebecca watched her for a long moment. The way she worked with intent, each motion grounded, confident. It struck her again — as it had so many times — how ancient Sarocha was, not in years, but in weight. In knowing. She was solid in a way the world rarely allowed anymore.

And yet here she was. Making charm braids. For their home. For her.

Their home.

Rebecca’s gaze dropped to her belly, now slightly more pronounced. It was still easy to conceal, but there were moments — like now — when she swore it glowed. Not literally, not yet. But there was a pull there. A heat. A hum.

“She moved earlier,” Rebecca said softly.

Sarocha looked up at once, her braid falling still.

Rebecca smiled faintly. “Just a flutter. Like she was stretching.”

Sarocha crossed to her in three long strides, kneeling before her without hesitation. Her hands, warm and reverent, cupped Rebecca’s thighs and slid inward to rest on her hips. Then, gently, she pressed her ear to Rebecca’s belly.

The silence held for a breath. Two.

Then Sarocha whispered something in Thai — not for Rebecca, not even for the baby. Just a quiet utterance of devotion.

Rebecca’s chest ached with it.

“I’m still not used to this,” she said after a beat, brushing Sarocha’s temple. “How easily you kneel.”

“It’s not kneeling,” Sarocha said, lifting her head. Her eyes were molten with warmth — and something deeper, heavier. “It’s returning.”

“To what?”

“To where I lost you.”

Rebecca swallowed. The words struck too directly, too earnestly, somewhere behind her sternum. “But you didn’t lose me. I found my way back.”

“Not yet,” Sarocha murmured, dragging her fingers along Rebecca’s bare thigh. “Not fully. But soon.”

There was something about the way she said it — almost too still. Rebecca could feel the tension in her, coiled beneath the surface. She’d seen it since that morning, even in the way Sarocha touched her now — possessive, careful, restrained. She hadn’t kissed her yet tonight. Not really. Not the way she wanted to.

“You’re holding back again,” Rebecca said, tilting her head.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

Sarocha exhaled, and her hands shifted — one sliding up to brush against the edge of Rebecca’s breast, then stop. “Because I’m close to losing control. Again. I don't want to wear you out.” Her jaw tensed.

Rebecca reached for her, threading fingers into her hair. “Who said I was tired?”

Yet, as Sarocha's eyes met hers, a strange distance entered them. Rebecca was watching her mate, but she didn't seem to actually see anything. Briefly. Then she blinked with subtle confusion.

Outside, wind stirred through the treetops. The river hissed softly in reply.

“You should rest,” Sarocha said after a pause, her voice rough. “You’re glowing again.”

Rebecca glanced down. The edge of the Guardian bracelet on her wrist was pulsing gently with soft gold light, its ancient script illuminated faintly. She hadn’t noticed.

“Am I... starting to veilwalk again?” she asked, touching her stomach instinctively.

“Maybe,” Sarocha said, brushing her lips across Rebecca’s wrist. “But you’ve always been close to the veil, even before it woke.”

“I feel it tonight,” Rebecca murmured. “Like it’s watching.”

“It is.”

Sarocha stood, fingers trailing along Rebecca’s shoulder before stepping away toward the sideboard. She lit one of the herbal lamps — an old bronze burner with coiled serpent motifs — and as it warmed, the room filled with a grounding, earthy scent: vetiver and clove and rain-damp stone.

“I’ve made the room ready,” Sarocha said quietly. “If you walk again, you won’t be alone.”

Rebecca rose slowly, the oversized shirt brushing her thighs, and crossed the room to where Sarocha stood. She reached up, touching her collarbone.

“I don’t want to sleep yet,” she whispered.

Sarocha’s eyes flashed gold in the lamplight. “You won’t.”

There was no kiss — not yet. But the threat of one hung thick in the air between them.

Sarocha raised her hand, brushing Rebecca’s cheek. “When the veil calls… follow it. But stay near the river. Near this place. The cave... it may call you next.”

Rebecca nodded, already feeling the hum building behind her eyes. Her blood tingled.

And somewhere deep beneath the sanctuary, in a cave coiled with pearls and magic, the pool began to shimmer.

---

The silent hours of the night held a breathless weight.

Rebecca drifted between layers — sleep not quite sleep, reality not quite real — suspended in the gentle pulse of something far older than time. She felt herself descending into the veil with no resistance, as if her body remembered the path even if her mind could not name it.

The world around her shimmered into focus: silvery light bathing soft blue hills, the ground beneath her bare feet cool and damp with mist. The air carried no breeze, yet every leaf whispered. She stood once again in the dream-place where the veil thinned, and the jungle echoed with ancient memory.

A figure waited near the edge of a still, glowing pond.

Not a child this time. Not Nitya.

A woman — tall, graceful, eyes that shimmered with nacre and sorrow. Her hair flowed like ink in water, cascading over shoulders dressed in silken folds of pale jade and ivory. Her skin bore a faint iridescence, like pearl dust under moonlight. Familiar, now that Rebecca looked closer.

The pregnant Dreamer from Loei.

Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. “You.”

The woman smiled, hands resting gently over the swell of her stomach. “We meet again, Guardian.”

Something in the cadence of her voice resonated — soft and deep, as if speaking in layered echoes. The Dreamer stepped forward with fluid grace, and the space between them seemed to shimmer.

Rebecca hesitated, instinctively placing her palm over her own lower belly, feeling the warmth that always radiated there now. “I saw you in Loei. And again, in my dreams. Why now?”

“Because the veil has begun to thin around you,” the woman said. “You do not walk it by chance anymore. You are drawing it into yourself.”

Rebecca frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Your blood remembers,” the Dreamer said. “The Guardian blood — yes. But also something else. Older. Buried. It is waking.”

Rebecca felt a ripple pass through her — the way light moves over deep water. “I don’t understand.”

“You will. That is why I came.” The woman stepped closer, her gaze flicking toward the markings faintly glowing along Rebecca’s forearms — runes woven in soft silver along scales that shimmered just beneath the surface. “The bond you carry... the life within you... they are reshaping you.”

“Because of Sarocha?”

“Because of what you were always meant to become,” the Dreamer said. Her eyes gleamed. “The mate completes you, yes. But the child reveals you.”

Rebecca swayed slightly, her pulse a loud throb in her ears. “Then what am I?”

“Guardian,” the woman said, “and more. Dreamer, like me — but born in flesh not bred to slumber. A mortal, yet you walk the veil awake now. That has not happened in many generations.”

The pool behind her shimmered again — not water, not quite. A mirror to the realm just beyond reach.

Rebecca swallowed, breath unsteady. “You said I helped you wake.”

“You did. And many others. The curse that silenced our kind is breaking,” she said. “We owe that to you. And to the one you carry.”

Rebecca looked down at her belly. “She’s... she’s something more than Naga, isn’t she?”

The Dreamer nodded solemnly. “She is a return. A convergence. The Serpent-Borne Dawn. You named her well.”

Nitya.

The name vibrated through Rebecca’s chest like a bell.

“You said your kind were meant to sleep,” Rebecca said softly. “To Dream. But now... what happens now?”

“That depends on you,” the woman said. “And on what you choose to become.”

Rebecca met her gaze. “Tell me your name.”

The Dreamer tilted her head, moonlight silvering her lashes. “I am Chanthira.”

The name rang in Rebecca’s mind like a song she had known in another life.

Chanthira stepped forward again, brushing her fingertips gently against Rebecca’s wrist. The Guardian bracelet, fused around her skin, pulsed warmly in response.

“There is a place,” Chanthira whispered. “A gate. It waits for you still. Below the earth. Where pearls hum and the veil breathes through water.”

Rebecca knew the cave she meant. Her pulse surged.

“Return to it,” Chanthira said. “But not in haste. Let your body lead you. Let the child guide you. She knows the way.”

Rebecca’s vision flickered — the pool behind Chanthira suddenly surging with glowing ripples, as if Nitya’s laughter had stirred the very surface.

A low hum began, like ancient chimes deep underwater.

“Why me?” Rebecca whispered. “Why was I reborn? Why now?”

Chanthira’s eyes were filled with knowing, and pain.

“Because when the balance was broken, you were the one who suffered most,” she said. “And because in your love, the world will be reborn.”

The light rose around them. Rebecca felt it lifting her, peeling her gently away from the veil.

“Wait,” she tried, reaching forward.

But Chanthira only smiled. “We are not finished yet.”

And then she was gone — the pond, the jungle, the shimmer of dreamlight — all vanishing into the rush of waking breath.

---

Rebecca jolted awake in the dark.

The room was thick with humidity, the scent of rain and burning herbs, and Sarocha’s arms locked tightly around her, chest to her back. The Guardian bracelet was glowing hot against her wrist, and across her skin, her scales pulsed with flickering runes — not random now, but forming words.

She didn’t recognize the language. But it looked… alive.

Sarocha stirred behind her.

“Are you okay?” she murmured, groggy but alert.

Rebecca turned her head, whispering against her throat. “We need to go to the cave.”

Sarocha’s arms tightened.

“I know.”

---

The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft golden shapes across the wooden floor and walls of the villa. Birds trilled lazily outside, somewhere in the canopy, and the air was thick with moisture — not unpleasant, but full, like the jungle itself had exhaled in sleep.

Rebecca stirred beneath the sheet, one leg kicked out from under the light cotton cover, her other curled around Sarocha’s hip. They lay tangled on the floor cushions by the open balcony doors, the bed abandoned sometime after midnight when heat and urgency had pushed them into more primitive nesting instincts. She’d fallen asleep wrapped in Sarocha’s arms, lulled by the sound of the river far below and the steady rhythm of her mate’s breathing.

Now, Rebecca blinked at the sunlight dappling over Sarocha’s skin. Her scales shimmered faintly under the surface, iridescent in the gold light, shifting with each slow breath she took. She looked impossibly serene — the calm after the storm. Her brow was smooth, lips parted slightly, one hand resting low on Rebecca’s stomach.

The same place Nitya stirred beneath.

Rebecca smiled, a soft, private thing, and covered Sarocha’s hand with her own.

Last night’s veilwalking returned to her in fragments: Chanthira’s voice, the way the pool shimmered in that unreal light, and the way her runes had pulsed in time with the veil’s breath. A name now anchored her memory. Chanthira. A Dreamer awakened.

And she had spoken of the cave.

Rebecca hadn’t yet told Sarocha the details, but she would. Soon. Just… not this second.

Sarocha stirred then, blinking awake, her eyes catching golden in the light. A soft sound left her throat — somewhere between a hum and a purr — and she shifted, her lips brushing Rebecca’s collarbone.

“You were dreaming again,” she said against her skin, voice still husky.

Rebecca smiled into her hair. “You always know.”

“I always feel it.”

They lay quietly a moment longer before Sarocha lifted her head slightly, her expression still drowsy but sharper beneath it.

“You saw something new?”

Rebecca hesitated. “Chanthira.”

Sarocha stilled, instantly alert. “The Dreamer from Loei?”

“She spoke to me. Clearly this time.”

Sarocha pushed up onto one elbow. “And?”

“She said I’m… drawing the veil into myself. That I’m changing. Not just because of the baby — because of what I’m meant to be.”

Sarocha’s jaw tightened just slightly. “Did she say anything about Nitya?”

“She said Nitya is the Serpent-Borne Dawn.” Rebecca paused, then added quietly, “She said the child will reveal what I’m meant to become.”

Sarocha studied her, silent for a beat.

Then she leaned down and kissed Rebecca’s brow.

“We take this one step at a time,” she murmured. “We’ve come this far together. We don’t rush now.”

A knock startled them both — not from a person, but the unmistakable sound of a phone buzzing against wood. Sarocha stretched an arm out and plucked it from a side table nearby.

“It’s Ananda,” she said.

Rebecca propped herself up, dragging the sheet over her chest.

Sarocha answered, putting the call on speaker. “Ananda. Morning.”

“Is it?” came his dry, familiar voice. “I’ve been awake for hours.”

Rebecca laughed. “That’s your own fault, you chose archaeology.”

“I chose sanity,” he muttered. “But that may have been a miscalculation.”

Sarocha smirked. “What did you find?”

A rustle of paper. The faint scrape of stone.

“I translated more of the text on the slab,” Ananda said. “The symbol — the ouroboros with the runes inside it — it wasn’t just decoration. It’s a seal. Like a metaphysical lock on something. Or someone.”

Rebecca glanced at Sarocha. “You think it was placed on the Naga?”

“Possibly. But that part’s older than any of the known curse scripts. This predates the monk interference.” He paused. “This seal wasn’t meant to suppress. It was meant to protect.”

“Protect who?” Sarocha asked sharply.

“You,” Ananda said. “The Naga, yes. But especially the Dreamers. There’s one reference that repeats again and again — a being called the Janma Jai Sila, the Born-of-Stone Soul. Which I believe refers to a reincarnated Guardian-Dreamer hybrid. The seal was placed to keep her hidden until the time of realignment.”

Rebecca’s stomach tightened.

“You’re saying she was meant to be reborn,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Ananda said. “And her child… it’s referred to only in fragments, but the term Tawan Dawk Mai came up. ‘The Blossom of the Dawn.’ I think that’s Nitya.”

Sarocha was silent, her expression unreadable.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ananda said. “The site has more to it than I realized. I’ve found what might be a second chamber. The rock is hollow beneath the main slab. I’m arranging to get scanning equipment brought in.”

Rebecca felt her heart skip. “What do you think is in there?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But it’s buried on your property, Sarocha. And it’s reacting to Rebecca’s bloodline.”

There was a beat of silence between the three of them.

“I’ll keep working from this side,” Ananda said at last. “But be careful. If the veil is thinning the way you said… the monks may not stay quiet forever.”

“We’re not afraid of them,” Sarocha said, quiet and hard.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s what worries me.”

Rebecca managed a wry smile. “We’ll stay in touch.”

“Please do. And next time, tell me if you meet another mystical being in your dreams. It’s getting hard to keep track.”

“You love it,” she teased.

“I do,” he admitted. “But I also like breathing. So be careful.”

The call ended. The silence returned.

When Sarocha ended the call, she didn’t move immediately. Her fingers rested loosely on the edge of the low table, the pads of them still and contemplative. Light caught in her hair where it tumbled down her back, turning it a dark river threaded with fire. Rebecca watched her for a moment, quietly in awe — the lean grace of her, the restrained storm she carried so effortlessly beneath that ageless exterior.

Sarocha looked up then, as if sensing it, and her eyes found Rebecca’s with devastating ease.

“Come here,” she murmured.

Rebecca wriggled over the cushions and climbed into her lap, straddling her thighs, the sheet slithering away unnoticed. Sarocha’s arms slid around her instinctively, palms warm against her back, grounding her.

“It’s a lot,” Rebecca said softly. “Isn’t it?”

Sarocha hummed low in her throat. “It always was. You just didn’t remember yet.”

Rebecca smiled, then dropped her forehead against Sarocha’s. “I'm starting to.”

They stayed like that for a moment — their breath shared, hearts syncing, the scent of skin and warm wood rising between them. Outside, cicadas had begun their slow morning buzz, and far off, a monkey shrieked somewhere in the trees.

Then Sarocha eased back just enough to brush Rebecca’s hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. Her fingers lingered there, tracing the edge of her jaw, her cheekbone.

“I remember you too,” she said quietly. “I remember watching you kneel before me in another life, swearing to guard me. I remember how the bond made you burn and how we both tried to obey rules that were already breaking beneath us.”

Rebecca’s throat tightened.

“You never speak of it like that.”

“I try not to look back too often,” Sarocha admitted. “I’ve lived too long for that to be anything but pain.”

Her fingers drifted lower, brushing the still-bare skin over Rebecca’s stomach. “But this… you… Nitya… it’s not just history rewriting itself. It’s restoration. It’s balance.”

Rebecca cupped Sarocha’s cheek. “You sound like Ananda.”

“Ananda can theorize. I know.”

There it was again — that absolute steadiness, that deep river current under the surface. Sarocha had always been magnetic, even before Rebecca had realized the pull came from something ancient and supernatural. But now, it was more than that — the soft command in her voice, the quiet dominion of a creature who had waited centuries not just for her beloved, but for the right moment to rise again.

Rebecca leaned forward and kissed her — slow, reverent.

Sarocha returned it with aching tenderness, hands spreading at her back like she could memorize her again through skin alone.

When they parted, Rebecca leaned her forehead to Sarocha’s once more. “She said the veil’s thinning because I’m drawing it into myself. What if that’s dangerous?”

Sarocha considered. “The veil is part of you now. Or maybe it always was. The danger won’t be from the veil — it will be from others who think they can control what you become.”

“The monks?”

“They’re the old guard of a dying order,” Sarocha said, voice like silk wrapped around a blade. “They believed balance came from separation. But they were wrong. This”—her palm moved to press gently over Rebecca’s heart—“is balance. You were never meant to stay away from me.”

Rebecca smiled, eyes glinting. “No. I really wasn’t.”

She shifted closer in Sarocha’s lap, and Sarocha tilted her head, arching a brow at the movement.

“Are you trying to distract me, Guardian?”

“Always.”

Sarocha smirked. “You forget I’ve known your tricks for centuries.”

“And yet you still fall for them,” Rebecca teased, brushing her lips just beneath Sarocha’s jaw.

A shiver ran through Sarocha anyway — not weakness, but exquisite surrender — and her hands tightened momentarily around Rebecca’s waist.

“I fall for you,” she corrected. “That’s different.”

They sat together like that, the moment thick with warmth but not haste, the air between them full of unsaid promises and quiet recognition. Outside, clouds were gathering along the jungle horizon, and the scent of earth and water intensified — as if nature itself leaned closer when they touched.

After a long silence, Rebecca broke it with a thought that had quietly been weaving itself through her mind.

“If I really am this… Janma Jai Sila… if I’m meant to bridge these bloodlines, to carry the child that restores the path — what happens to the Guardians?”

Sarocha looked at her then, serious. “They’ll awaken too. I'm certain some already have. You won’t be alone.”

“But what do I become?”

Sarocha’s gaze turned inward for a moment. “Something more than mortal, I think. Something between. Not Naga. Not just Guardian. Not just Dreamer.”

Rebecca felt it too — the shifting within her that had begun with the bracelet locking to her wrist, that had intensified when her scales bloomed under moonlight, and now whispered at the edges of her perception even during the day. Veilwalking had become easier. The jungle watched her more closely. Even the river had begun to greet her like an old friend.

“You still want me?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

Sarocha’s expression changed instantly — a flash of something ancient and fiercely protective rising in her eyes.

“I chose you before I knew what you were,” she said. “And I stayed when I found out. I’ve walked through centuries alone, hoping some part of you would return to me. You think I’ll let you go now?”

She reached out and cupped Rebecca’s face with both hands, gaze unflinching.

“I want you when you’re human and soft and silly. I want you when your eyes flash and your voice commands. I want you when you walk the veil in your sleep, and when you kiss me like the stars were made for your mouth. I want you when you grow wings or scales or whatever else the gods decide you need.”

Rebecca laughed — a wet, shaking sound — and buried her face against Sarocha’s throat.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” she mumbled.

“I’m yours,” Sarocha corrected, gently. “And that’s more dangerous than ridiculous.”

They stayed pressed together, heartbeat to heartbeat, letting the minutes pass in silence, the jungle cradling them in breath and song.

Later, they would speak of caves and callings, of ancient locks and the serpents that waited to rise again.

But for now — for just a little while longer — they were two souls intertwined on the floor of a villa in the arms of the waking earth.

Bound by fire. Bound by fate. Bound by love.

But eventually, the stillness between them became too full.

Rebecca shifted in Sarocha’s lap — not intentionally at first, just the small, restless adjustment of someone wrapped too tightly around another person they loved too much — and it was enough. The brush of skin against skin, the way her thighs squeezed lightly around Sarocha’s hips, the lazy arc of her back. It sparked.

Sarocha stilled. Beneath her palms, the warmth in Rebecca’s spine began to pulse — slow, blooming heat, familiar now in its ache and hunger.

“Mm,” Rebecca murmured, catching the change immediately. Her eyes darkened. “There it is.”

Sarocha didn’t answer, but her hands had slid lower — deliberate, claiming — fingertips tracing the swell of Rebecca’s hips with reverence and intention. She tilted her chin just slightly, grazing her lips along the underside of Rebecca’s jaw.

“You’re insatiable,” she whispered, voice threaded with fond accusation.

“You’re the one making the air taste like lightning and rain,” Rebecca murmured, arching a little, chasing the ghost of the contact.

“The air listens to you now, chan rak,” Sarocha said, breath hot against her throat. “Not me.”

A hum of energy flickered between them. The ambient light shifted subtly in the room — just a degree darker, just a shade more golden — and from outside came a slow rustle, as if the jungle had leaned closer again.

Rebecca’s breath caught.

The mark at her nape — the last one Sarocha had left when she’d claimed her the day before — began to warm, glowing softly beneath her skin.

Sarocha exhaled through her nose, eyes narrowing with that coil of possessiveness that always followed — not controlling, but protective, reverent, ready.

“Do you feel that?” Rebecca asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” Sarocha rasped. “Your need. The baby’s need.”

The air was thicker now, cloying and sweet. The veil stirred faintly — a shimmering ripple in the edge of Rebecca’s perception — and her magic surged in response, instinctual, desperate to anchor itself in something living, something real.

Sarocha answered it without hesitation.

She shifted beneath Rebecca, and the phantom length of her formed in full — born of magic, desire, and ancestral biology twisted by centuries of Naga instinct. Rebecca gasped softly at the feel of it between them, not new anymore but no less shocking in its heat, its weight, its intensity.

Sarocha’s hands cupped her thighs, lifting her slightly — just enough to grind their bodies together.

Rebecca shuddered.

“I should take you slow,” Sarocha murmured. “But you won’t let me, will you?”

Rebecca’s laugh was low, wrecked already. “I never do.”

“Because you like when I break you open.”

“You need to,” Rebecca said, leaning in to press her lips against Sarocha’s temple. “Because I’m carrying something ancient and impossible and if you don’t ground me, I’ll float away.”

Sarocha’s breath hitched.

She surged upward, sealing their mouths together with sudden hunger — no preamble, no hesitation. Her tongue swept into Rebecca’s mouth like a tide reclaiming shore, and Rebecca moaned, arms wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

The phantom pressed up between them, slick and hot, and the moment Rebecca shifted forward, taking it inside her wet depths with one slow, rolling motion, the room shifted.

The wood under their love nest shivered faintly. The scent of orchids burst into the air from somewhere unseen. Outside, the river below the sanctuary slapped against the embankment with excitement.

Rebecca cried out against Sarocha’s mouth, hips rocking into the motion, claiming and claimed.

“Gods,” she gasped. “Always so much—”

“You hold galaxies in you now,” Sarocha murmured, thrusting upward again, slow and deep, hands gripping her hips like she could anchor the entire world to her. “You think I’m going to hold myself back from the stars?”

Rebecca’s laugh turned into a whimper, her head falling back, exposing her throat — and Sarocha latched onto it immediately, fangs and tongue dragging heat across the delicate skin there.

She fucked Rebecca with the precision of someone who knew her body better than memory, better than instinct — someone who had watched her die once and now made love to her like every second was a reclamation.

The magic spiraled with every motion, flaring through the room in waves. Vines along the veranda twitched toward the windows. Flowers bloomed with reckless urgency along the trellis. Birds called out from the trees — shrill, wild cries of mating and warning both.

Rebecca bucked against her, one hand braced on her shoulder, the other gripping Sarocha's thigh behind her to steady herself.

Sarocha's fingers slid between Rebecca’s legs, seeking the place where their bodies met, the slick heat made molten by magic. She stroked there, slow and sure, as she thrust again, deeper now, harder.

Again. And again.

And Rebecca shattered like crystal flung against the floor.

Her magic erupted first — light and pressure bursting from her core — and then her body followed, clenching hard around Sarocha with a ragged cry. The orgasm was long and wild, surging in spirals through her limbs, down her spine, across her belly, into the mark glowing bright at her nape.

And through it all, Sarocha held her.

She thrust once more — once, deep, anchoring — before stilling inside her, arms tight, her head bowed to Rebecca’s shoulder as her own body trembled.

They breathed together, wrecked and whole, limbs tangled, magic still crackling faintly in the air.

Somewhere in the villa, a glass cracked quietly on a shelf.

Outside, the clouds over the jungle parted slightly, and a shaft of sunlight broke through, striking the flowering vines and setting their petals aflame.

Sarocha eased her backward slowly, laying her onto the cushions, still joined, still wrapped around her.

Rebecca blinked up at her with glazed, swollen eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered again, smiling even as her chest heaved.

“I’m yours,” Sarocha repeated, brushing her hair from her brow. “Even when you can’t speak.”

Rebecca’s laugh was hoarse. “I can always speak. I just shouldn’t.”

Sarocha chuckled — a sound that had grown warmer lately, less haunted, more herself. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Rebecca’s lips, softer this time, reverent.

The veil pulsed once around them — gentle, approving — and then stilled.

Beneath her skin, the baby moved. Just a ripple. Just a sign. But both of them felt it.

They exhaled together.

Whole. Alive. Ready.

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the cave, the air had changed.

It wasn’t just the jungle — though that, too, was quieter. A deep hush had descended over the land as if the earth itself was aware of what approached. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in long, angled shafts, painting their path in molten gold and shadow. The vines draped low and heavy now, swaying only slightly despite the still air.

When they reached the entrance, Rebecca paused.

The archway was almost entirely veiled by ferns and curling liana, but she could see it clearly now — not just with her eyes. The serpentine carvings etched into the stone were more defined than she remembered. Almond-eyed Nagas twined along the curved frame in a sinuous loop of warning and welcome, their open mouths captured mid-song. Between them, the embedded gems shimmered faintly, glinting like starlight beneath moss.

The air here was dense, humid, but not oppressive. It felt saturated — like it held meaning. The faint scent of damp stone and mineral sweetness curled in Rebecca’s lungs as she exhaled slowly.

“They’re listening,” she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the hanging green.

Sarocha stepped beside her, gaze forward, posture regal. “They always were,” she murmured. “But now… they see you.”

They stepped through the arch together, Rebecca brushing her fingers lightly against the nearest carving. The stone was warm to the touch. Thrumming.

Beyond the vines, the cavern opened like a great throat — wide, domed, and lit from within.

Rebecca’s breath caught.

The walls gleamed with a soft, blue-green glow, cast from thick swaths of luminescent moss that spread across the stone like veins. Moisture beaded on the surfaces, catching the light in trembling constellations. The air was thick with steam, coiling languidly from the wide hot spring pool at the cave’s heart. But it wasn’t just heat that curled through the air — it was magic.

And memory.

Along the inner wall, the pearls glowed.

Not dozens. Hundreds. Each embedded like a seed in stone, nestled between the moss and mineral — smooth and pale, some no larger than a thumbnail, others the size of a child’s fist. And each one pulsed gently, as though breathing. The sound was almost imperceptible — a low subsonic hum, just beneath awareness. Not musical. Not mechanical. Something more primal.

Living memory.

Rebecca stepped forward, drawn as if by gravity.

Sarocha followed without a word, her bare feet making no sound on the stone. The space between them and the pool was wide, but it felt close, almost intimate. The very shape of the cave curved in protective embrace. High above, droplets of water fell from the ceiling with slow, deliberate rhythm, their impacts echoing like time made audible.

Rebecca reached toward one of the pearls — then hesitated. The hum beneath her skin responded instantly, a faint vibration rising in her chest.

“They’re awake,” she whispered.

Sarocha nodded once. “They remember you.”

A pearl pulsed brighter.

Rebecca didn’t touch it. She didn’t need to. Its presence was already in her — brushing against her senses like an old voice trying to recall a name.

They moved closer to the pool, and the warmth of it rolled over Rebecca’s legs like a sigh. The surface was smooth, save for a gentle whirling at the far end where it was deeper — a place where the water dipped into a hollow, glimmering with otherworldly light.

The veilgate. The portal.

It shimmered faintly, like a mirage viewed through a dream, soft and silent but thrumming with immense depth. It wasn’t open — not yet — but it watched them.

“It’s beautiful,” Rebecca murmured.

“It’s sacred,” Sarocha said. “This was one of the oldest passageways."

She stepped into the shallows, her body lit from beneath as the water caught and refracted the moss-glow from the walls. Rebecca watched her for a moment, heart pounding not with fear, but reverence. This was no longer a woman — not simply. Sarocha was power, history, grief and survival and blood bound into form.

Rebecca stepped in after her.

The heat was immediate, wrapping around her legs like silk. But it was more than heat. It was an embrace. The water recognized her.

The spiraling light at the end didn’t flare, didn’t surge — but it stirred. A ripple moved through the pool, subtle but unmistakable.

Rebecca stilled.

Sarocha’s voice came gently, “It feels you.”

The pool stirred again.

And from the edges of the stone, pearls began to glow brighter — one after the other, a chain reaction. Soft illumination filled the chamber, pearlescent and reverent.

Rebecca turned slowly, looking across the walls.

“They’re responding to Nitya,” she said. “To me.”

Sarocha stepped behind her, sliding one arm around her waist. Her chin came to rest lightly on Rebecca’s shoulder.

“They’ve waited so long for this,” she said. “The return of the sacred bloodline. The balancing of the bond.”

Rebecca’s gaze dropped to the water — and stopped.

Her reflection wasn’t her own.

Not entirely.

The woman in the water had her face, her body — but she was gilded, luminous. Her eyes gleamed gold, her skin etched with living runes that shifted like language mid-thought. And behind her — faint but shimmering — a serpentine halo, undulating with grace and infinite patience.

Rebecca sucked in a breath.

Sarocha held her tighter.

“You see it now,” she murmured.

“I don’t understand it,” Rebecca said, voice almost breaking. “But I feel it.”

“You are it.”

Rebecca stayed still, the image in the water rippling only faintly with her breath. The figure staring back at her was both herself and something more — ancient, knowing, and new. Her heart beat slow and heavy, reverberating against the stone like a drum summoning forgotten things.

Behind her, Sarocha was quiet. She hadn’t moved, but Rebecca could feel the shift in her — the tension in the arm wrapped around her waist, the reverence in her breath as it brushed the side of Rebecca’s neck.

“What do you see?” Rebecca asked, her voice low, almost afraid to disturb the moment.

“I see your awakening,” Sarocha said, and her lips barely moved. “Piece by piece, you’re becoming. The cave… this water… the pearls… they’re not just remembering you, Rebecca. They’re recognizing you.”

Rebecca tilted her head toward her, eyes still trained on the ghost of her reflection. “As what?”

Sarocha’s pause was weighty. “As the convergence. The bearer of the split soul. You are Guardian. And Dreamer. You are bonded. And becoming. What was once separated is fusing again through you.”

Rebecca swallowed, throat dry despite the humidity in the air. “So what does that make the child?”

Sarocha’s hand slid slowly up her side, her touch more comfort than seduction — though it always carried the echo of both. “A bridge,” she said. “And a beacon. One that even the veil cannot ignore.”

As if in agreement, a pulse shimmered across the surface of the water. This time, the ripples didn’t just move outward — they moved toward Rebecca, curving around her feet like silver threads pulled by tide and intention.

Something brushed her ankle.

She gasped softly and looked down — nothing there. Only warm water and shimmering light.

But in her mind, for half a breath, there was something else. A flicker of a voice not her own. A language she didn’t speak, yet somehow understood. Like a lullaby sung in another life.

Instinctively, she turned toward the nearest wall of pearls.

They were brighter now — not uniformly so, but pulsing in irregular rhythm, as though some called out louder than others.

Rebecca stepped toward them, half-lost in trance, the water lapping quietly at her thighs. Sarocha remained behind her but followed, protective, her presence unwavering.

Rebecca reached out — and this time, she touched one.

It was warm. Smooth like bone. But within it, as her fingers made contact, she felt a shock of emotion.

Not memory exactly. Impression.

A young Naga, laughing as she slithered down a tree, scales glittering in moonlight.

Another — older — laying her head in someone’s lap, a song rising from her throat like prayer.

A third — fierce, grieving — diving into the whirlpool with her hands bloodied, leaving the pearl behind like a tear.

Rebecca drew a trembling breath and pulled her hand back.

“They’re watching,” she whispered.

“They want to be remembered,” Sarocha said. “That’s why they left these behind. These pearls… they’re fragments. Crystallized echoes of soul and power, shed at the threshold of the veil. It was the only way they could leave a tether behind.”

“Did you leave one?”

Sarocha’s silence was long.

“No,” she said eventually. “I couldn’t. I stayed behind.”

Rebecca turned to face her. “You never crossed?”

“I wanted to. Once.” Sarocha looked past her, toward the whirling light at the heart of the pool. “But after what happened… after I lost you, I couldn’t leave. Not when I believed you might one day return. I swore I’d be here if you ever did.”

Rebecca’s breath caught.

All the centuries. All the silence. All the waiting.

“You stayed for me?”

“I stayed because I had nowhere else,” Sarocha said softly. “My heart was buried on this side of the veil. I couldn’t cross with only half of it.”

The ache that surged through Rebecca’s chest was too wide for words. Instead, she closed the space between them and wrapped her arms around Sarocha’s waist, pulling her close in the warmth of the glowing water. Their foreheads touched. Breath against breath.

“I don’t know what I’m becoming,” Rebecca said. “But I want to become it with you.”

“You already are,” Sarocha whispered.

They stood in silence, surrounded by glowing pearls and the living echo of old power.

The cave seemed to breathe around them. The veil pulsed softly in its spiral. The air thickened, vibrating faintly with the hum of something vast and unseen watching from the other side. A presence. Not hostile. Not urgent. Just… waiting.

“What exactly lies beyond?” Rebecca asked at last, her voice hushed.

Sarocha didn’t answer immediately. She turned her gaze toward the whirlpool, her eyes distant, ancient.

“Patala. Muang Nakhon,” she said. “It’s a realm deeper than dream, older than prayer. A city of coiled gold and moonlight rivers. Where time flows sideways and serpents sing the histories of the world. It is where I was born. And where my father still rules, beneath a sky that never dies.”

Rebecca leaned closer. “And will I see it?”

A long pause. Then: “When the veil opens for you, it will be because you’re ready. And not before.”

Rebecca turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against Sarocha’s temple. “Then we’ll wait. Together.”

Sarocha’s arm tightened gently around her.

From the far end of the pool, a soft chime echoed — not sound, but resonance — like the ring of a crystal struck in deep water.

The veil had heard them.

And it approved.

---

The jungle felt different on the way back.

The trees watched.

Their leaves didn’t whisper — they held their breath.

Sarocha moved ahead of Rebecca through the overgrowth, bare feet light and silent despite the thickness of the underbrush. The path from the cave to the villa was only partially marked, half-wild, winding along the sanctuary’s stream. Normally, this walk was quiet, calming — a cool shift from sacred intensity to homely peace. But now the air was tight and electric, heavy as if bracing for a monsoon.

Behind her, Rebecca followed, barefoot too, skin still humming with residual energy. The cave had changed something — or revealed something — and now the world knew it. She was alert, her eyes sharp, catching every flicker of movement in the corners of her vision. Something tugged at her veins, subtle but insistent. As if the land itself was reaching out, whispering: Something’s here.

Sarocha felt it first.

She halted mid-stride, every muscle pulled taut in an instant. One hand lifted in a silent signal behind her, and Rebecca stopped immediately.

They stood on a ridge overlooking the last short descent toward the villa — reeded roof dark through the thick foliage below, verandah half-hidden behind palm fronds and mango trees.

There was something else there.

Or someone.

Sarocha’s nostrils flared.

The magic wards around the sanctuary were woven so tight they could have hidden a comet. Nothing should be able to get in without her permission. Nothing. Not unless it had once belonged.

The hair on the back of her neck rose.

Rebecca stepped beside her, whisper-quiet. “What is it?”

Sarocha didn’t look at her. Her eyes were fixed on the villa — predator sharp. “Something’s in the perimeter.”

Rebecca’s stomach dropped. “Intruder?”

“Not… exactly.” Sarocha’s voice was low now, molten iron wrapped in silk. “Not human. The wards don’t scream. But they ripple.”

There was a sudden crackle in the undergrowth far below. Not heavy — not crashing. Just… off. Like a being not fully settled in its skin, not sure where the weight of its body should land.

Sarocha stepped forward without another word, shoulders coiling with muscle, her body sliding instinctively into a protective posture. A Guardian might have grabbed a blade. Sarocha, being what she was, reached inward — her magic responding in quiet fury.

Veins of iridescent, shimmering scales bloomed faintly along her arms and collarbone. Her eyes pulsed gold, slitted, focused.

Rebecca touched her elbow gently. “You think it’s…”

“I don’t know yet.”

They moved swiftly but silently. It took less than two minutes to reach the lower path and curve around to the open clearing where the villa waited, ringed with flowering trees and the scent of frangipani and lemongrass.

At first, all seemed still.

Then the wind shifted.

The trees leaned away from the verandah.

Rebecca’s eyes went wide.

There, near the main entrance — just off the wooden deck — stood a figure.

Or more accurately, unfolded a figure.

She wasn’t cloaked in glamour or human illusion. She didn’t need to be. The magic shimmered off her like water off a cliff — glinting scales refracting the late afternoon sun, slick and vivid, like river stones brought to life. Her skin was dusky gold, kissed by a hue that shifted with the light — copper, green, sapphire. Long, dark hair hung wet down her back, as if she’d just risen from deep water. She was barefoot, naked save for the shimmer of magic laced like silk over her body — translucent, respectful, beautiful.

But her eyes.

They were ancient.

Lost.

And confused.

She turned toward them the moment they stepped into the clearing, her spine straightening instinctively — nostrils flaring, head tilting. Her expression was halfway between wild animal and awe-struck child.

Sarocha flung an arm out in front of Rebecca.

Not roughly — but firmly.

Her entire body shifted. Not into full form, but close enough. Her muscles lengthened. Her aura snapped outward like a shield. The magic in the ground answered.

A low growl curled in her throat, protective and dangerous.

“Who are you?” Sarocha’s voice was low, deadly smooth.

The woman blinked, startled. Her mouth opened. Then closed again. She took a single step forward, but Sarocha growled louder.

“Stop.”

The woman did.

Her eyes flicked between the two of them — wide, shimmering — and then something in her face crumpled. Recognition. Relief.

And joy.

“N’Saro…” she breathed, lips curling with a flicker of mischief beneath the awe. “You’ve grown sharp teeth.”

Sarocha froze.

Her entire body went still, stone-like.

Only her eyes moved — narrowing, blazing.

“…Looknam?” she whispered.

The woman — Looknam — grinned. “Who else would come all this way just to see your sulky face again?”

Sarocha didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Then, with a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and something far more primal, she stepped forward once — twice — then crushed her cousin into a tight, almost-violent embrace.

Looknam laughed, breathless and bright.

Rebecca stared, stunned. Her body was still humming with tension — but the sight before her…

Sarocha was shaking.

Not with rage.

With relief.

And with memory.

Looknam's arms wrapped easily around her — like they’d done it a thousand times before. No fear. No hesitation. Her voice was muffled into Sarocha’s shoulder. “Gods, you’re heavier now. I thought you’d gone soft with land living, but damn, N’Saro. You’re stacked.”

Sarocha let out a short, choking laugh that was more sob than amusement. “You haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you. Except now you smell like you’ve claimed someone.”

That was when Looknam pulled back slightly — and her eyes slid past Sarocha to Rebecca.

And everything stilled again.

Looknam’s expression shifted. The teasing drained from her mouth, but not from her eyes. Those only grew wider.

She blinked once. Then twice.

And then, slowly, reverently, she bowed her head.

“…Dreamer-born,” she said softly. “You’re the one who woke the pearls.”

Rebecca swallowed, uncertain. “I—yes. I think. And you’re…”

“Naga,” Looknam said, straightening. “I slipped the veil when your breath shook it. When the child in you called out without words. I followed the shimmer. I didn’t know where I’d land.”

She turned to Sarocha again, gaze warming.

“But of course it’d be you.”

"Still no shame, I see." Sarocha smirked and shirked off her buttoned shirt to wrap around Looknam.

"As the gods intended," she replied as she took the offered shirt, eyes alive but filled with fondness.

And that gaze—when it landed fully on Rebecca again—changed.

“Oh,” Looknam breathed. “Oh, it’s really you.”

Rebecca’s throat constricted. “You… know me?”

Looknam took another slow step forward, Sarocha's oversized cotton blouse now clutched loosely in her fingers. Her voice was soft, edged with awe.

“I didn’t know it was you I was following. Not until now. Not until I felt it here—” Her hand went to her sternum. “But I should’ve known. Of course it would be you. The one who loved her enough to break a thousand years of silence.”

Rebecca flinched at the words. But it wasn’t shame that stirred in her. It was the weight of recognition. Of grief, and fate, and something older.

“I don’t remember everything,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ve… seen pieces. Felt things. I know who I was. And what it cost.”

Looknam’s expression softened into something shimmering between sorrow and reverence.

“I remember you,” she said gently. “Not your face. Not exactly. But your presence. Your light. Even before you were reborn, when you passed through Muang Nakhon after death—you touched things. Stirred them. We could feel it, like a breeze under the surface of a still lake. It wasn’t just Sarocha who waited. We all felt the echo of you.”

Rebecca’s breath caught. “Then… you knew I’d return.”

“We hoped.” Looknam’s gaze drifted briefly to Sarocha. “She knew. The rest of us just... prayed the curse would lift. That someday the world would be soft enough again to hold your bond.”

Sarocha was quiet beside her. Rebecca felt the strength in her silence, the way she held it like a blade she refused to raise. Her tension had ebbed, but only slightly—her magic still coiled protectively around Rebecca like water stirred before a storm.

“I didn’t mean to frighten either of you,” Looknam said softly. “I followed the shimmer because something in me knew. Not just that the veil had thinned—but that it was her. That she was here.”

She looked at Rebecca again, and her voice dropped low, sincere.

“And when I stepped through… I recognized you. Not your name, not your life. But your soul.”

Rebecca’s pulse quickened.

She had never heard anyone say it quite like that before. Not even Sarocha, who knew her deepest self by feel. But something about Looknam’s words — their simplicity, their sacred clarity — struck her heart like a bell.

She managed a shaky smile. “Well. You’re not wrong.”

Looknam’s eyes twinkled with just a flash of teasing mirth. “I never am.”

Sarocha finally let out a breath.

“Still insufferable,” she muttered.

“Still magnificent,” Looknam shot back with a grin. Then, mischievously: “N’Saro.”

Sarocha groaned. Rebecca blinked, amused. “N’...?”

“Little Saro,” Looknam explained smugly. “It’s what I called her when she followed me around the shallows, pretending not to want to race.”

“I was faster than you,” Sarocha said, deadpan.

“Only because you cheated.”

“I was stronger.”

“You still cheat.”

Rebecca covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Looknam grinned even wider.

The tension began to unravel.

A lightness settled in — not dismissing the moment’s weight, but balancing it. Like sunlight pouring through storm clouds, illuminating the path ahead.

Rebecca finally spoke. “You said you followed something through the veil. Did you mean to come through?”

Looknam turned serious again. “No. I felt the veil thin — not like a tear, but a… breath. A calling. It shimmered, and I followed it. I didn’t realize what it was until it was too late.”

Sarocha folded her arms. “You could’ve been torn apart.”

“Not with her here.” Looknam’s voice was confident. “Rebecca and the child… they stabilized it. The shimmer wouldn’t have lasted long otherwise. But with her power, with the Dreamer blood, the veil flexed instead of breaking.”

Rebecca’s hand instinctively went to her belly.

The baby fluttered excitedly, soft but sure. Like a signal. A heartbeat shared with the unseen world.

“And now that you’re here?” Rebecca asked.

Looknam hesitated, her playful energy dimming just slightly.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I can feel it, like a low pulse. Something is shifting. The pearls in the cave weren’t just reacting to you—they were calling us back. More Naga may feel the shimmer now. More might try to cross. The old order may rise again.”

“And your Guardian?” Sarocha asked gently.

Looknam’s face shifted. Something flickered across it — surprise, confusion, longing, maybe even fear.

“I don’t know who he is,” she said carefully. “Not yet. But I’ll feel it when I’m close.”

Rebecca tilted her head, studying her. “But you remember him… from before?”

Looknam nodded once, then looked away. “Yes. But that doesn’t mean he’ll remember me. Not right away. That’s not always how it works.”

Sarocha and Rebecca exchanged a glance.

Looknam caught it and grinned, the mischief returning to her voice.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to seduce the first poor soul I lay eyes on.”

Rebecca arched a brow. “That’s exactly what Sarocha did to me.”

Sarocha let out a very low growl of protest, which Looknam gleefully ignored.

---

The living room had never felt so full of memory.

Sunlight dappled through gauzy curtains as Sarocha led Looknam inside, one hand steady on the small of Rebecca’s back, the other occasionally ghosting toward her cousin as if needing to make sure she was still truly there. Alive. Whole. Real.

Looknam wrinkled her nose at the electric fan spinning lazily overhead.

“This thing is possessed.”

Rebecca laughed softly as she sank into the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. “Not quite. It’s just electricity. You’ll get used to it.”

“I refuse,” Looknam muttered, tugging on the oversized cotton shirt Sarocha had pressed into her arms. It hung loosely off one shoulder, still damp at the hem. “Everything hums. It’s unnerving.”

Sarocha arched a brow as she passed into the kitchen. “You’ve barely been back half an hour and you’re already complaining.”

“I’m adjusting,” Looknam said primly. “With grace and resilience.”

Rebecca snorted into her tea.

She watched as Looknam padded around the room, eyes drifting from framed photographs to odd devices to the shimmering silk wall hangings from Chiang Mai. Everything seemed to puzzle and delight her in equal measure.

“It’s loud,” Looknam decided. “This world. Even when it’s quiet, it’s loud.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “You can hear the vibrations?”

“Not just sound,” she said. “Everything’s layered. Synthetic. No wonder the veil held for so long—this place buzzes with interference.”

“It’s softened here,” Sarocha offered from the kitchen doorway, holding a second teacup. “The sanctuary grounds help. The land remembers.”

“And you, N’Saro, turned into a mountain hermit,” Looknam teased, accepting the cup. “I half-expected to find you draped in moss, croaking riddles to lost villagers.”

Sarocha didn’t smile, but the faint twitch of her mouth betrayed her affection.

“I’ve had little cause to laugh,” she said softly. “Until recently.”

Looknam’s teasing faded into something gentler as she sat cross-legged on the rug before them, cradling the warm ceramic in her palms. “Then tell me. Tell me everything.”

Rebecca and Sarocha exchanged a glance.

It was Sarocha who started.

She didn’t embellish. She told it simply, plainly — how she stayed behind when the others crossed back into Patala, remaining tethered to the mortal realm on instinct, unable to part from the Guardian whose life had been cut short. How she lingered, watched centuries pass, and became almost myth herself.

Rebecca picked up the thread next — how she’d been drawn to the land without understanding why, how her team discovered the buried chamber beneath the soil, the bracelet, the awakening. The pull. The recognition. The ache that hadn’t made sense until Sarocha touched her, and everything remembered.

They told Looknam about their discoveries and their journeys. About the Dreamers. The monks. And the child.

Looknam listened without interruption, eyes wide, luminous. When Rebecca fell silent, Looknam stared at her for a long moment, then looked down at Rebecca’s belly.

“So it’s true,” she whispered. “You’re carrying one of us.”

Rebecca nodded. “Sarocha says Nitya is… different.”

“She would be,” Looknam murmured. “A child born not of necessity or duty, but love. That hasn’t happened in… thousands of years? Longer?” Her gaze flitted to Sarocha. “And by you, of all people. You did this.”

Sarocha met her eyes without flinching, just a hint of pride flashing in her gaze.

“I did.”

Something passed between them—relief, perhaps nostalgia, and an echo of mourning. Old pain, revisited and rewritten.

“Not all of us blamed you,” Looknam said softly. “Not even most. We were afraid. The curse terrified us, and we were made to believe it was the price of crossing certain lines. But some of us… remembered the tenderness between you. We remembered how you honored her, even when the world punished you for it.”

Rebecca blinked, her throat tightening. Sarocha looked away, jaw set.

Looknam’s expression softened again, and she exhaled, placing her teacup aside.

“I’ve waited so long to say this, N’Saro—thank you. For not giving up. For staying.”

Sarocha stilled. Then—quietly—she nodded.

“And what of you?” she asked. “What happened in Muang Nakhon, after I stayed behind?”

Looknam leaned back on her palms, eyes turning inward.

“It grew quiet for a while. After the crossing, after the curse sealed the veil… most of us just slept. Not truly — not like the humans sleep. But we lay low. Drifted in the waters. The city dimmed. It was like living inside memory.”

She paused.

“But slowly, we began to dream again. Not just of the past — but of the future. Small stirrings at first. Flickers of light, like fireflies beneath the surface. Some of us began gathering stories, writing them into the stones. We waited.”

“And King Phaya?” Sarocha asked carefully.

Looknam’s expression flickered — not quite grief, not quite fondness. Something older. Resignation wrapped in reverence.

“He still rules. But he is quieter than he once was. The fire in him banked low. You were always his most favored, Sarocha. When you stayed behind, he said nothing — but the ache in him was a tidal thing.”

Sarocha’s hand flexed on her knee.

“He won’t punish you,” Looknam added quickly. “Not now. Not when the veil has moved again.”

Rebecca reached for Sarocha’s hand, curling her fingers gently over hers.

“Would you return?” she asked Sarocha softly. “If the way opened?”

The Naga woman shook her head slowly. “Not yet. Not while the world still needs guarding. And not while you are here.”

Rebecca’s smile was small, but fierce.

Looknam watched the exchange, her eyes misting slightly, though she blinked it away with exaggerated flair.

“Well,” she said, breaking the quiet, “you two are nauseatingly romantic. It's disgusting. I love it.”

Rebecca laughed. Even Sarocha huffed.

“Still,” Looknam continued, nudging a pillow aside to lean against the couch, “it makes me wonder. If the veil can shift for me, who wasn’t even trying… others will feel it soon. More Naga. More Guardians. The tide’s turning.”

Rebecca sat up straighter. “What happens when more come?”

Sarocha’s gaze darkened with thought. “We protect them. And guide them. As best we can.”

Looknam sipped her tea, then wrinkled her nose. “Too bitter.”

Rebecca reached over, plucked the cup from her hand, and added a generous spoonful of honey.

“Better?”

Looknam took another sip. Then blinked. “Yes. Much.”

She set the cup down and tilted her head at Rebecca.

“You really have changed things,” she said softly. “More than you know.”

Rebecca flushed, uncertain of what to say.

Sarocha’s hand squeezed hers.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was a quiet hum of clinking spoons and the soft sputter of the kettle. Warm lamplight spilled across the long wooden table, casting golden halos over clay bowls and the scattering of dishes half-filled with sliced mango, sticky rice, fried tofu, and sautéed greens. The scent of lemongrass and ginger hung in the air, mingling with the sweetness of roasted coconut and something earthy that trailed faintly behind Looknam like an echo from the river.

She sat cross-legged on one of the wicker chairs, now wrapped in a deep maroon wraparound skirt and loose cotton blouse borrowed from one of Sarocha’s upstairs closets. The clothing didn’t quite match her wild halo of hair or the shimmering trace of scales still clinging faintly to the curve of her collarbone, but she looked pleased enough with herself.

Rebecca watched her try to operate a fork with the same concentration she’d once reserved for ancient scripts.

“Why does this thing separate like this?” Looknam asked, stabbing at a piece of tofu, then switching to her fingers with a decisive shrug. “It’s clever but useless. I don’t trust a tool that can’t carry sticky rice.”

Sarocha’s low laugh filled the space, warm as thunder in the distance. “P'Nam, no one said you had to use the fork.”

“You gave it to me!”

Rebecca, grinning, passed her a spoon and took the opportunity to stretch her legs out, brushing lightly against Sarocha’s under the table. The older Naga’s eyes flicked to hers immediately, something slow and smoldering stirring in her gaze. It was a silent reminder — nesting never really stopped. The bond between them had settled into a quieter hum since their return from the cave, but the heat was there, constant as breath.

Rebecca cleared her throat and turned to Looknam, who was now chewing happily, eyes fluttered shut in delight.

“You’re adjusting remarkably well for someone who crossed worlds earlier today.”

Looknam cracked one eye open. “Well, you’re feeding me. I’d be loyal to any realm that offers mango sticky rice and a warm bath.” She paused. “Although that... water cave was a bit more dramatic than I expected. The veil is thin here. Hungry, almost.”

Sarocha’s face grew thoughtful. “It’s the baby,” she said softly. “She’s Dreamer-blooded. She’s feeding the veil just by existing.”

Looknam’s gaze swept to Rebecca’s belly, eyes narrowing, lips pursed in quiet reverence. “She’s powerful,” she murmured. “And clever. I wonder if she knew what she was doing, calling out like that.”

“She’s been doing that since she was nothing more than a seedling,” Rebecca muttered, cradling her belly instinctively. “I think she knew what she wanted before I did.”

Sarocha shifted beside her and wrapped an arm behind Rebecca’s shoulders, pulling her gently in. She pressed a slow kiss to Rebecca’s temple — a gesture that wasn’t even about affection anymore. It was grounding. Instinctive. Necessary.

Looknam leaned forward slightly, chin resting on one hand as she observed them with amused fondness. “You two are absolutely dripping with mating haze. It’s adorable.”

“Don’t start,” Sarocha warned, her tone playful but rich with weight. “You’re lucky I didn’t bite your throat out when I saw you in my territory. I nearly did.”

“I could feel that,” Looknam admitted. “But then I remembered the last time you tried to bite me during a sparring match and bruised your own lip. So I risked it.”

Rebecca’s snort turned into a full-bodied laugh, and she leaned into Sarocha’s side with a quiet sigh of contentment. This—this absurd domesticity—felt like the eye of a storm.

A soft buzz broke the easy rhythm of dinner.

Looknam startled, halfway through popping a slice of mango into her mouth. The sound came again — a high-pitched hum and a slight vibration against the wood of the table. She blinked and leaned back slightly as if the phone were a creature ready to bite.

“What is that?” she asked, brows lifting in concern, lips half-curled in suspicion. Her gaze flicked to Sarocha and Rebecca, searching their faces.

Rebecca reached calmly for the device. “It’s just my phone,” she said gently, though her smile turned slightly amused. “Someone’s calling.”

Looknam narrowed her eyes. “Calling?” She leaned forward again, squinting at the glowing rectangle. “There’s no fire. No smoke. What spirit is trapped in there?”

Sarocha let out a rare, quiet snort of laughter and shook her head. “It’s not a spirit. It’s... communication magic. Mechanical magic,” she added, teasing.

“You’re both too calm about this,” Looknam muttered, still staring suspiciously at the object. “You’re telling me you carry this glowing stone that hums like a serpent in mating season, and you trust it?”

Rebecca bit her lip to keep from laughing. “It’s a phone. It’s like a long-distance mirror. You can speak to someone who’s not in the room.”

“Without incense? Without a portal? Without even a bowl of water?” Looknam’s voice rose slightly in protest. “You just… carry this in your pocket?”

“Constantly,” Rebecca replied, grinning now.

Sarocha gave Looknam a mild look. “This is the world now, P'Nam. Try not to declare war on the internet.”

Looknam muttered something in ancient dialect that made Sarocha smirk.

Rebecca glanced at the screen. “It’s Ananda,” she announced. “I should answer.”

Sarocha straightened slightly. “Put it on speaker.”

Still watching Looknam’s bewildered expression with quiet amusement, Rebecca tapped the screen and set the phone gently back down on the table.

A moment passed, and then Ananda’s voice filled the air — calm and clear, with that familiar trace of formality and Bangkok polish.

“Hello? Rebecca?”

Looknam’s head tilted sharply. Her posture shifted like a predator sensing prey for the first time — not with hunger, but with sudden, fierce attention. She didn’t speak, but her gaze locked onto the phone with unnerving stillness.

“Hey,” Rebecca said, suddenly aware of the subtle shift in the room. “We just sat down. How’s the site?”

On the other end of the line, there was a muffled clatter — papers moving, a metal tool striking rock.

“Tiring,” came Ananda’s reply. “No new discoveries yet, but I’ve had a few pieces of equipment brought in. They’ll arrive tomorrow. I’ll scan the chamber floor and see if there’s anything beneath the surface. That hollow… something about it isn’t sitting right with me.”

Rebecca looked toward Sarocha, who gave the smallest nod. “It feels unfinished,” the Naga said softly.

“Exactly,” Ananda murmured. “Like something's waiting underneath.”

He paused, his tone shifting subtly.

“I’ve been feeling strange since this morning,” he added, slower now. “It’s hard to explain. Not sick. Not tired. Just... off. As if something is brushing against my awareness. Something I should know but can’t quite remember.”

Rebecca noticed the way Looknam was sitting now — perfectly still, but alert. Not tense, not fearful, but poised. Listening deeper than the words.

Sarocha’s gaze flicked to her cousin. “That’s Ananda,” she said, gently. “The man we mentioned. He’s… helped us a lot. Trusted us.”

“He’s more than that,” Rebecca added. “He’s been with us through some impossible moments. Helped navigate Loei and locate the Dreamers. Translated sacred texts, even stood with us against the monks. He’s one of the few people we’d stake everything on.”

Looknam didn’t respond immediately. Her expression was unreadable, but her head was tilted slightly, as if the voice pouring from the small rectangle had touched a chord so distant, she was still listening for its echo.

Then, softly: “What was the name?”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “Ananda.”

Looknam blinked, something unreadable flashing behind her eyes. Her voice, when it came, was light — too light. “Ananda. Bliss,” she murmured. “Sanskrit. Rooted in joy.”

On the phone, Ananda gave a faint laugh. “That’s right,” he said, clearly surprised. “You know your etymology.”

Another pause, more cautious this time. “Who’s asking?”

Rebecca cleared her throat, glancing quickly at Looknam before answering. “This is Sarocha’s cousin. She… just came through today.”

There was a sharp inhale from the other end of the line. “What?”

“She’s here,” Sarocha confirmed. “She crossed fully.”

Long silence followed — the weight of a world shifting on its axis. Then, Ananda’s voice dropped an octave.

“That shouldn’t be possible.”

“No,” Sarocha said. “It wasn’t.”

“And yet—” he trailed off. Then, again, but softer: “It wasn’t supposed to be possible for years. Not until the next veil thinning. Not without a coordinated blood ritual. Not unless…”

“Unless a Dreamer child of the bloodline called her through,” Rebecca said gently, hand resting protectively over her belly.

Another moment of silence.

“She did,” Sarocha said. “And she made it look easy.”

Ananda exhaled sharply. “That changes everything.”

Looknam’s gaze hadn’t left the phone once. Her eyes shimmered now — not with tears, but with a kind of eerie light. Something old, and half-remembered. She leaned forward slightly, not even conscious of it.

“He has a strange voice,” she said under her breath.

Sarocha frowned. “What do you mean?”

Looknam blinked, then shook her head faintly. “Not strange. Just… familiar.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable, like someone who had brushed against a dream they couldn’t place. “But I’ve never heard it before.”

On the other end, Ananda’s voice broke the moment. “I need to meet her,” he said. “Soon.”

Looknam leaned back slightly, folding her hands together in her lap. Her voice was casual again, almost teasing — but the undertone of something ancient hummed beneath it.

“You might get your wish,” she said softly.

And something in the room shifted again — not violently, but like the gentle shift of wind before a storm.

There was a beat of silence after Looknam's soft, almost teasing reply. Rebecca glanced between her and the phone, then cleared her throat.

"We can set up a proper meeting soon," she said into the speaker. "Why don’t we talk again after you scan the chamber? Maybe you’ll find something new, or get a better read on that hollow."

"Yes, good idea," Ananda replied, still sounding mildly stunned. "Tomorrow night, then. Same time?"

"Works for us," Rebecca said. "And Ananda?"

"Mm?"

"Try to get some sleep. You sound like you’re about to start climbing the walls."

There was a small, dry chuckle. "I’ll do my best."

They exchanged brief goodnights, and the call ended with a quiet click.

The moment the phone fell silent, Looknam exhaled slowly, almost like she’d been holding her breath the entire time. She sat back again, her shoulders relaxing fractionally. But her eyes were still sharp.

"There’s more to him," she murmured.

Sarocha tilted her head. "You felt something?"

Looknam didn’t answer immediately. She looked toward the closed window, moonlight washing pale across the curtains. "It was like hearing a song I’d forgotten I knew the lyrics to. Not the tune, just the words. The rhythm of it. And I didn’t remember until I heard it."

Rebecca watched her closely. "You think he might be your Guardian."

Looknam didn’t flinch. She met Rebecca’s eyes, then Sarocha's. "I think I won’t know for sure until I see him. But the way his voice stirred something… I can’t dismiss it."

"If he is," Rebecca said gently, "it would make sense. You returned today. That’s the catalyst. That’s when the bond awakens."

Sarocha nodded slowly. "Guardians are born into the bloodline, but their true bond would stay dormant until their Naga returns to this realm. That’s why I was immediately drawn to Rebecca when the bracelet bound to her. She felt familiar, but... incomplete."

Rebecca gave a soft laugh. "I used to think I just wanted to reconnect with my roots. Mum never spoke much about Thailand, but something always called to me. Pulled me back here. I thought it was just nostalgia or identity. Not some deep soul connection."

"The bond is ancient," Sarocha murmured. "It manifests in ways the waking mind doesn’t understand. Drawn across lifetimes, across worlds. And when it's time... it finds you."

Looknam was silent for a moment, eyes distant. Then she asked, quietly, "Tell me how it happened. You and her. The bond."

Sarocha glanced at Rebecca, who gave her a small smile and nodded.

"It began in fragments," Sarocha said. "The first time we met, there was... friction. And gravity. She saw me for what I was, even when others couldn’t. It frightened her. But she didn’t run."

Rebecca added, her voice low, "The bracelet fused to my wrist the night we met. I touched the engravings, and it just... bound to me. Burned like fire. I couldn’t take it off after that. That was the moment it all awakened."

"And from there," Sarocha continued, "everything accelerated. Her dreams, her memories. The stirrings of what was."

Looknam watched them, her expression unreadable. Then she asked, "You were the only ones who broke the law. Who turned the bond romantic."

Rebecca flushed faintly, but lifted her chin. "Yes."

"And that’s what triggered the split," Looknam said, not unkindly. "The Great Return. The curse. The rift."

Sarocha nodded once. "Yes. But it was never truly a curse. It was fear. Control. We were punished for loving each other."

Looknam was quiet again. Her gaze dropped to her hands, resting on her lap. "He was never mine in that way. Asavarid. My Guardian. He was loyal, fiercely so. Brave, sometimes reckless. We trained together, fought together. He once carried me from a collapsing cliffside and made jokes while we were falling."

Rebecca smiled. "Sounds like he was important to you."

"He was." Looknam glanced back at them. "But there was never romance. He loved someone else, long ago. It faded in time, but it never turned to me. We had... other things. Trust. Devotion. Duty."

Sarocha tilted her head. "If Ananda is him, what will you do?"

Looknam met her cousin's gaze. "I don't know. Part of me feels like a door is creaking open inside my soul. Not wide enough to see what’s behind it, but I can hear the wind coming through."

They were quiet for a time, the three of them, as the weight of those possibilities settled into the room like dust.

Then Rebecca rose, stretching slightly and rubbing her belly absently. "I’ll make tea. Gods know we need it. Nitya’s been quiet, but she’s listening."

"I’ll help," Looknam offered, standing.

Rebecca handed her a mug. "Careful. It gets hot."

Looknam examined the electric kettle with thinly veiled suspicion. "It sings?"

"It boils," Rebecca replied.

"Same thing."

Sarocha chuckled under her breath. "Welcome to the modern age, P'Nam. It's not so bad."

Looknam turned the mug in her hands, then smirked. "If this kettle starts glowing like your... stone, I’m throwing it out the window."

Rebecca laughed, soft and bright.

Warmth, laughter, and centuries-old mystery wrapped around them like silk as the water began to bubble, and somewhere far from their little house, a man named Ananda dreamed of a voice he didn’t know he missed.

---

The moon was high now, silvering the edges of the villa’s rooftop and casting soft reflections over the terrace. The night air had cooled, carrying with it the whisper of the nearby river and the scent of frangipani blossoms that clung to the borders of the garden. Cicadas sang, a distant chorus. Crickets answered. The villa, for all its history and magic, felt suspended in peace.

Sarocha sat on the veranda bench, long legs stretched before her, bare feet brushing the cool tile. A thin cotton shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, her hair loose and wild, spilling like ink across her shoulders. Her eyes were trained on the horizon where the dark jungle merged with the dark sky, but her mind was elsewhere. The soft scrape of sliding doors drew her attention.

Looknam padded out barefoot, a steaming mug of ginger tea cradled in her hands. She’d changed into one of Rebecca’s robes—satin, sea-green, barely contained wild hair. “Humans really love silk and cushions,” she said lightly. “I nearly drowned in that bath.”

Sarocha let out a low laugh, shifting to make space. Looknam sank beside her, sighing as if it had been centuries since she last sat in peace. Maybe it had been.

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats, the warm tea fogging gently in the night.

“She’s soaking?” Looknam asked.

Sarocha nodded. “The baby tires her more each day. It’s a lot, even for her lineage.”

Looknam sipped, eyes half-lidded. “And you?”

Sarocha hesitated.

“Tired. Grateful. Constantly disoriented.” A soft laugh. “And sometimes, I feel like I might lose my mind if I don’t have her in my arms.”

Looknam gave a long, knowing hum. “Ah. Nesting fever.”

Sarocha groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “It’s worse than I imagined. Worse than anything we ever mocked the older pairs about.”

“Oh, little N'Saro...” Looknam grinned, eyes twinkling. “If the elders could see you now. Fussed over by a human who practically glows with your seed. Glaring at anyone who even breathes too close to her. Scenting rooms like a wild creature.”

Sarocha half-laughed, half-whined. “Don’t start.”

“No, no, I like this version of you,” Looknam said, nudging her with her shoulder. “You’re softened. But not weakened.” Her tone gentled. “You were always sharp, Sarocha. All blade and fury. Even when we were girls, I knew you’d be the one to change things. It was never a question.”

Silence fell again, softer this time. Sarocha’s gaze remained fixed outward.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ve already changed everything I was meant to,” she said, voice low. “And now... I don’t know what comes next. The world’s shifted under me. I can barely keep my balance.”

Looknam took another sip, thoughtful. “You recognised her first, didn’t you?”

Sarocha nodded.

“You claimed her. Chose her. You were the first Naga in history to bind yourself in love to a Guardian.”

“And the last,” Sarocha murmured.

“Maybe not.” Looknam smiled. “But that’s not the point. You’re the one who waited. Who stayed behind, century after century, until the veil thinned. Until she could return. And now, she has. Because of you. Because you saw her.”

Sarocha looked down, throat tight.

Looknam went on, softer now. “She would never have awakened without your call. She would never have remembered herself, never have bloomed into what she is now. And she sure as hell wouldn’t be carrying your daughter if you weren’t who you are.”

A long exhale from Sarocha. She turned her head slowly. “You think she carries someone like me?”

Looknam smiled sideways. “Come on, Saro. The girl practically sings through her skin. That child is powerful, yes, but she’s gentle. I can feel it.”

Sarocha blinked against sudden wetness in her eyes. “Sometimes I worry I’ll fail her. Them.”

“You won’t.” Looknam said it simply. As though it were fact.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the weight of honesty settling between them.

Then Looknam smirked, eyes glinting.

“Although,” she added slyly, “I may have only just arrived, but even I can tell… whatever rutting haze you two are going through is potent. The villa practically vibrates with it. Honestly, I swear the trees are blooming out of season.”

Sarocha groaned, hiding her face in one hand. “Why are you like this?”

“Because someone has to keep your brooding ass in check,” Looknam teased. “You’ve always taken yourself far too seriously. It’s a good thing Rebecca humbles you.”

A pause.

“She does,” Sarocha admitted. “In every way. She makes me better.”

“Then be better,” Looknam said gently. “Be who she already believes you are.”

Sarocha sat back, absorbing that. Her hand drifted to the small pendant resting against her collarbone — a trinket Rebecca had given her.

“You think Ananda really is…?” she asked after a moment.

Looknam’s smile dimmed into something quieter. “I don’t know. But something about his voice...” Her brow furrowed faintly. “It stirred something. I felt... called. Not pulled like I was to you, or Rebecca. But familiar. Deep.”

Sarocha nodded. “We’ll know soon enough. He’ll come here. He needs to see you.”

“And when he does?”

Sarocha shrugged. “We follow the current.”

They watched the moon in silence then, side by side, like they had centuries ago on riverbanks far from here. The night held them gently, thick with promise and memory.

Eventually, Looknam sighed. “I missed this. Missed you.”

“I missed you too, P'Nam,” Sarocha whispered. “Welcome home.”

The sky had deepened to velvet, the stars shyly piercing through the canopy above. Crickets hummed in the distance, their chorus lulling the villa into a rare stillness. On the veranda, the soft golden spill of the interior lights cast Sarocha and Looknam in a warm, dappled glow, their tea nearly forgotten as the quiet settled between them.

The screen door creaked gently.

Sarocha’s breath caught.

Rebecca stepped out barefoot, wrapped in a light cotton robe that clung damply to her skin, her freshly washed hair tumbling down her shoulders in lazy waves. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the bath, and her scent—sweet, floral, and unmistakably hers—curled through the air like a lure.

Sarocha’s nostrils flared. A low, unbidden hum stirred in her chest.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Rebecca greeted softly, padding toward them.

Looknam gave an exaggerated sigh and tilted her head at Sarocha. “I’d say brace yourself, N’Saro, but I think it’s already too late.”

Sarocha shot her cousin a narrow look, but her gaze drifted helplessly back to Rebecca. She couldn’t not look. The haze that had been threatening at the edges of her senses for hours now surged closer, heavier. Rebecca’s presence, freshly softened by heat and water and the glow of her own contentment, was like incense lit inside her bones.

Rebecca curled herself easily onto the low bench beside Sarocha, her thigh brushing deliberately against her mate’s. Her grin was all wicked innocence.

“Miss me?” she murmured.

Sarocha cleared her throat. “You were gone thirty minutes.”

Rebecca raised a brow. “So… yes?”

Looknam snorted into her tea. “She was practically vibrating. Thought she might go stalking into the bathroom like a beast if you took a moment longer.”

Sarocha gave her a flat look, though a faint pink crept into her cheeks. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Looknam beamed. “You’re just too wound up to admit it.”

Rebecca leaned her head on Sarocha’s shoulder, eyes glinting. “You could join me in the next bath, you know. I might still be warm enough to coax you in.”

Sarocha went still. She tilted her head slightly, pressing her lips to Rebecca’s temple in a show of restraint that only Looknam, watching closely, could see was absolutely not calm.

“I will,” Sarocha said slowly, “after I get some air.”

Looknam kicked a bare foot out and gave a lazy smile. “Or you could just surrender now and save us the show of you pacing for twenty minutes trying not to leap her.”

Rebecca let out a low laugh, the sound deliciously husky. “I’m happy to be leapt.”

Sarocha turned to Rebecca with a pleading sort of tension. “Please.”

Rebecca blinked innocently. “Please… what?”

Sarocha exhaled through her nose and closed her eyes for a beat. “You know what.”

Rebecca smirked and kissed her cheek, feather-light. “Then maybe I want to hear you say it.”

Looknam let out a scandalized whew, fanning herself with a hand. “Okay! So this is what centuries of restraint finally snapping looks like. I get it now.”

That broke the tension just long enough for Sarocha to exhale and shift her weight, brushing her knuckles along Rebecca’s thigh in silent promise.

But Rebecca, ever the tactician, changed the subject with grace. “Before I forget… I was going to ask—Looknam. About veilwalking.”

That sobered things slightly. Looknam straightened, still half-lounging, but her tone shifted to something more curious than playful. “What about it?”

Rebecca leaned back, chewing her lower lip for a moment. “It’s been happening more lately. Especially when I’m asleep. I don’t remember everything, but I wake up feeling like I’ve been somewhere else. Not just dreaming—more like I’ve touched something real.”

Sarocha glanced sideways at her. “You’ve been stronger in your dreaming since conception. Nitya anchors you, draws energy and memory like breath.”

Looknam nodded slowly. “It makes sense. You’ve got power running through you now—Sarocha’s essence, the child, the bloodline awakening.”

Rebecca hesitated. “But is that… safe? Should I be trying to stay out of those spaces?”

Looknam tilted her head, visibly thinking. “It depends. You’re already tied to Muang Nakhon. You were in it before you reincarnated, weren’t you?”

Rebecca nodded. “I don’t remember much. Just… impressions. I think I saw Sarocha before I ever saw her here.”

Looknam’s expression softened. “Then your soul remembers. Which means veilwalking isn’t dangerous for you—not in the same way it would be for a normal Dreamer. Your paths are open.”

“But unguarded paths can still lead to dangerous places,” Sarocha muttered, her tone tight.

“I’m not saying she should run barefoot into the fog,” Looknam said calmly. “But if it’s happening naturally, don’t fight it. Just… be conscious. Focus on grounding. Let Sarocha guide you back when you feel yourself slipping.”

Rebecca nodded slowly. “I do feel it—her. Even when I’m far. It’s like a thread tugging me back.”

“You’ll grow into it,” Looknam said. “The more it happens, the easier it will be to control.”

Sarocha turned a hand over in her lap, palm open. Rebecca laced their fingers gently.

“You’re handling all this well,” Sarocha murmured to Looknam. “Adjusting fast.”

“Well, I am brilliant,” Looknam said airily. “But also… I’ve waited centuries to come back. I used to dream of this realm, even when I was certain I’d never return. Everything tastes like memory here. Even the weird rectangular things that sing.”

Rebecca laughed. “Phones.”

“Yes. That. Horrifying. Why does the little light keep blinking like it knows something I don’t?”

Sarocha smiled faintly, shaking her head. “You’ll get used to it.”

Looknam looked between them, then leaned forward with a slight, knowing squint. “Speaking of things I wasn’t prepared for… I wasn’t expecting you to be like this.”

“Like what?” Sarocha asked warily.

“In love,” Looknam said simply. “Smitten.”

Sarocha tried to scoff, but Rebecca leaned closer and brushed her lips over her mate’s shoulder, murmuring, “It’s true.”

Sarocha narrowed her eyes. “You two are ganging up on me.”

“And loving it,” Looknam said. “Though you should go wash before the poor woman combusts from your proximity.”

“I’m not combusting,” Rebecca protested softly, then added under her breath, “Not yet.”

Sarocha stood slowly, a deep rumble of breath escaping her chest. “I’ll be quick.”

She brushed her hand along Rebecca’s back as she passed, lingering a moment longer than necessary, before disappearing inside.

Looknam leaned back with a pleased sigh.

“Well,” she said to no one in particular, “this is going to be fun.”

Looknam watched Sarocha’s retreat with a little smirk still tugging at her lips, but when she turned her attention to Rebecca, it softened into something more sincere.

“You ground her,” she said quietly, sipping the last of her tea.

Rebecca blinked, surprised by the gentleness in her tone. “I try.”

“No,” Looknam said, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “You do. She used to carry her strength like a shield, even when no one was attacking. Now it looks more like… a root system. Deep. Steady. That's you.”

Rebecca’s smile was touched with both gratitude and emotion. “She saved me first, you know. I didn’t even believe in any of this—any of her—until she reached through it all and pulled me to her.”

Looknam nodded slowly, her gaze thoughtful. “You saw her. And she saw you. That kind of recognition—across realms, across lives—it doesn’t happen by accident. There’s prophecy, yes, but also choice. You chose her. She chose you. And look what came of it.”

Rebecca's hand drifted to her stomach, warm and gently rounded beneath the thin robe. “A miracle.”

Looknam’s gaze dropped there for a moment, reverent. Then her voice lightened again, teasing back into place like a returning tide. “Which is all very beautiful and poetic, but I do think you’re currently torturing her.”

Rebecca lifted a brow. “Me?”

“You smell like jasmine and heat and the kind of patience only a saint would have,” Looknam drawled. “And I know for a fact Sarocha is not a saint.”

Rebecca laughed, cheeks flushing slightly.

“Go on,” Looknam said, flicking her wrist. “She’s probably pacing like a caged tiger by now. Maybe rinse her off again before the mating haze eats her alive.”

Rebecca gave her a mock bow as she rose. “Your grace and wisdom are unmatched, Cousin.”

“I know,” Looknam said loftily. “Now go. Before she starts chewing through the walls.”

---

The villa’s interior was quiet, the hush of evening settling like silk. Rebecca padded barefoot down the hall, fingers brushing along the smooth plaster walls, heart picking up speed with every step. The bathroom door was cracked open, soft steam curling lazily into the corridor.

She slipped in gently.

Sarocha stood with her back to the door, towel in hand, long hair damp and dripping down her spine. She hadn’t heard Rebecca enter, and for a moment Rebecca simply watched her—how the candlelight painted her in gold and amber, how the curve of her hip caught shadow and gleam.

Then she cleared her throat softly.

Sarocha turned, and the sight of her—nude, fresh from the water, glowing with warmth and rawness—was enough to rob Rebecca of breath. She looked like something old and sacred. A goddess, half-formed from dream.

“You’re not being fair,” Rebecca murmured.

Sarocha’s mouth twitched. “I warned you I’d be quick.”

Rebecca stepped forward, reaching out to run her fingers gently down Sarocha’s damp arm. “You’re radiant.”

The compliment hit its mark. Sarocha stilled, lashes lowering for a moment as she swallowed. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Little bit,” Rebecca admitted, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Looknam told me to.”

Sarocha groaned. “Of course she did.”

Rebecca laughed softly, her breath skating across wet skin. “She said you’re not a saint.”

“I’m not,” Sarocha muttered, voice husky. “Especially not when you look at me like that.”

Rebecca reached for the towel, tugging it gently from her hands and replacing it with her own fingers. “Then don’t be.”

Sarocha's hands twitched at her sides, aching to grab, to pull, to claim. But she let Rebecca take the lead, let her guide the towel over her arms and shoulders, slow and deliberate. Every swipe was reverent. Worshipful.

“I’ve been thinking,” Rebecca said as she worked. “About what Looknam said. About me being a veilwalker.”

Sarocha exhaled slowly. “You’ve always been one. The blood just needed waking.”

“I think I want to learn,” Rebecca said. “Not just what I am. But how to use it. Where it leads. How to return.”

Sarocha reached up then, cupping Rebecca’s cheek with one damp hand, fingers trembling faintly.

“I’ll guide you,” she said. “Whatever path you walk, I’ll be beside you.”

The moment bloomed between them, heavy and fragile. Rebecca leaned in, brushing their noses together.

“Come to bed,” she whispered.

They stumbled together down the hall, giggling softly between kisses, the towel abandoned somewhere behind them. By the time they reached their bedroom, the haze was curling around them like heat lightning—charged and crackling, but still waiting for the storm.

Rebecca let her robe fall open as she climbed onto the bed, the candlelight catching on her curves and casting wild shadows on the walls. Sarocha followed her with the reverence of a supplicant, climbing over her slowly, bracing herself on her forearms to avoid crushing her.

“You’re too beautiful,” she rasped. “It hurts.”

Rebecca wrapped her arms around her neck and pulled her down until their bodies aligned. “Then don’t fight it. Just feel it.”

Their mouths met, slow and deep, and the air around them seemed to pulse in response—just the way it always did when the bond opened wide and raw between them. Sarocha’s hand skimmed down Rebecca’s side, lingering at the swell of her belly, her breath catching at the way their child stirred faintly beneath her touch.

“I love you,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to Rebecca’s.

Rebecca smiled, eyes closed, utterly at peace. “I know. And I love you."

They didn’t rush.

They savored—the kind of patience born only of those who knew they would never be separated again.

Outside, on the veranda, Looknam sipped another cup of tea.

The air shimmered faintly. She smiled to herself.

“Still not saints,” she murmured, and leaned back into the evening.

Chapter Text

Rebecca drifted into sleep like a leaf caught in slow-moving water, the weight of the day slipping from her body as Sarocha's arms wrapped warmly around her. She sank deep, past the velvet folds of dreams, and when her breath steadied, something inside her opened.

The veil parted.

Not torn, not pierced—but drawn back, like a curtain stirring in windless air. Rebecca felt the familiar flutter in her sternum, the subtle quickening in her pulse, and then she was no longer in her bed.

She stood beneath a canopy of soft violet trees, their blossoms trembling like breath. A low mist curled around her ankles, glowing faintly with the blue-silver light of the in-between. The air shimmered, a silent chorus of possibility vibrating through her skin.

But this time was different.

There was no disorientation. No stumbling. No push and pull.

She moved.

With purpose. With ease.

Her steps carried her across the dream-laced terrain like she belonged to it, the veil not resisting her, but flowing around her. She was no longer a visitor. She was part of the current.

Ahead, nestled beneath the flowering trees, was a stone platform surrounded by water. On it sat Chanthira.

The Dreamer from Loei looked much the same as the last time Rebecca had seen her, save for the unmistakable swell of her belly. She radiated serenity, the same soft light curling around her fingers as she looked up and smiled.

"You found your way again," Chanthira said, voice lilting like a lullaby. "And more easily this time."

Rebecca stepped onto the platform, her feet bare but steady. "It feels different now. Like I'm not just falling into it."

"You're learning to listen," Chanthira said. "And the veil is listening back."

Rebecca exhaled slowly, still taking in the vast calm of the place. The dreamscape pulsed around them with quiet life—not fully real, but more than memory.

"Where are we exactly?" she asked.

"A space we call the Dreamscape," Chanthira replied. "A realm layered between realms. Most Dreamers reside here when they're not embodied. This is where we wait, and watch, and walk."

Rebecca's brow furrowed. "You're dreaming here... but also real in the waking world now?"

"Yes. Some of us can move between the layers more fluidly. You helped me cross. And because of that, I'm now tethered to both."

She patted the stone beside her, and Rebecca sat.

"I want to understand more," Rebecca said. "Why can I do this? Why me?"

Chanthira looked at her gently. "Because of who you are. Because of what you are. You're a veilwalker—a bridge. Your soul remembers the path. Nitya is your anchor in the mortal realm, a beacon for those beyond. Her presence thins and stabilizes the veil, makes it safer to cross."

"And me?"

"You... you bend the veil as you move," Chanthira said. "You carry a piece of the in-between within you. It's why you're able to guide others across. You don't force the veil—you entice it to open."

Rebecca's thoughts churned. The strange pull she'd always felt. The inexplicable sense of place in a country she'd barely known. The deep magnetism of the site. Of Sarocha.

"Sarocha is your tether," Chanthira said, as if reading her mind. "Your bond to her ensures you always find your way back. No matter how far you walk, you'll never be lost."

Rebecca's eyes stung faintly. "I think I always felt it. Even before I knew her. She was the pull."

Chanthira nodded. "And now, with Nitya within you... that bond is even deeper. You are becoming what you were meant to be."

A quiet passed between them, filled only by the soft rustle of the dream-trees.

"How do the Naga return?" Rebecca asked after a while. "Looknam crossed over. No ritual. No summoning. Just... emerged."

"The veil is thinner than it has been in centuries," Chanthira said. "Nitya's presence is changing things. Prophecy spoke of the time when she would act as a living bridge, a divine anchor. The Naga are beginning to stir. Some will cross. Many will wait."

"Will they return in large numbers?"

"Eventually. But not all at once. The mortal realm must acclimate, or it will resist. But know this: their return is not doom. It is correction. A weaving back together of what was unraveled."

Rebecca breathed a little easier.

"What exactly is Nitya?" she asked carefully. "I know she's special. A child of prophecy. But who is she really?"

Chanthira tilted her head, smile enigmatic. "You already know her name. And names carry echoes. In time, her essence will awaken. You need only nurture her into herself."

Rebecca frowned slightly, unsatisfied but not ungrateful. "You're very good at not giving me straight answers."

Chanthira laughed softly. "Some truths must grow alongside you."

A moment passed, and then Rebecca looked down at Chanthira's stomach.

"You have grown. How are you feeling?"

"Balanced," Chanthira said. "The child dreams with me. Already learning to walk between."

"Do you think... our daughters will know each other?"

"They already do."

Then a hum ran through the air, faint but rising. A light buzzing. A tug. A pulse. Rebecca gasped softly. She felt it clearly.

Chanthira's expression turned knowingly amused. "Ah. Your mate calls."

"Sarocha?"

"The tether pulls when her need rises," Chanthira said, laughter dancing in her eyes. "You are deeply bonded. The veil listens to her too, you know. She's half your key."

Rebecca stood, the call in her chest growing stronger, like a heartbeat echoing through stone.

"Before you go," Chanthira said, rising slowly beside her, "there is something I should tell you. If you wish to veilwalk while awake—with Sarocha beside you—there is a way."

Rebecca stilled, intrigued.

"Find a place between sleep and wakefulness," Chanthira said. "Let her body anchor yours. Breathe in unison. Trust your bond and in feeling safe and secure in her, then you might be able to slip through with greater ease."

Rebecca committed the words to memory.

"Try it soon," Chanthira said. "You are more ready than you think."

The dreamscape shimmered.

The call throbbed through her again, low and aching.

Rebecca looked back one last time.

Chanthira lifted a hand in farewell. "Go to her."

And Rebecca slipped through the veil like a thread through silk, pulled gently, inexorably, back to where she belonged.

---

The morning light had only just begun to stretch fingers of gold through the gauzy curtains when Rebecca stirred, the warmth of Sarocha’s body pressing solid and familiar against her side. She blinked slowly, the quiet thrum of returning from the veil still humming beneath her skin, like a fading echo vibrating in her bones. For a moment, the world shimmered — not quite here, not quite there — and then it solidified with the soft inhale of Sarocha beside her.

Rebecca turned her head, expecting Sarocha’s eyes to be open, but found them still closed. And yet… there it was. A soft pulse, like the brush of a hand against the curve of her soul. A call, not conscious, but persistent. Sarocha was still sleeping, brow smooth, her lashes fluttering slightly against flushed cheeks, lips parted as she exhaled slow, warm breath.

Still, that tether — that pull — had yanked Rebecca back to her. Back home.

“Saro,” she whispered, her voice low and sleep-rough.

Sarocha stirred, the faintest hitch in her breath, a soft hum in the back of her throat. Then her eyes blinked open — languid, gold-flecked, heavy-lidded. Her gaze found Rebecca instantly, and something shifted in the air, subtle but undeniable.

“You were veilwalking,” she murmured, voice husky, as if she already knew. As if she’d felt every step Rebecca had taken in another realm.

Rebecca nodded slowly, pressing her forehead to Sarocha’s. “Didn’t mean to… I just drifted. Ended up with Chanthira.”

Sarocha closed her eyes at the name, her arms wrapping tighter around Rebecca’s waist, her palm flattening instinctively over the slight swell of her belly. “Where did you go?”

Rebecca nodded again. “She showed me more this time. She showed me the Dreamscape. Talked about how I walk… and what Nitya does. How she stabilises the veil, how you tether me.”

Sarocha exhaled slowly. “That’s why you always come back.”

Their breath mingled. The warmth between them thickened. Rebecca’s hand had slipped up to Sarocha’s cheek, thumb stroking along her cheekbone. A lazy movement. Familiar. Intimate.

“And maybe,” Rebecca said softly, “why I always want to.”

Sarocha’s smile was small and raw, eyes flickering golden as her fingers splayed wide over Rebecca’s belly again. “She’s so awake,” she murmured. “Can you feel it?”

Rebecca could. Not as movement exactly, not yet. But a thrum beneath her skin, like a live wire connecting all three of them. A heartbeat that wasn’t just hers. Or Sarocha’s. A pressure rising with maddening gentleness, as if time itself were thickening.

“She was waiting for me to come back,” Rebecca whispered.

Sarocha’s head tilted slightly, brow furrowed.

“I think she wanted us to—” Rebecca paused, breath catching as Sarocha’s hand slid up beneath the loose hem of her nightshirt. Not teasing. Just contact. Skin to skin. As if her palm could settle the baby through sheer presence.

“—reconnect?” Rebecca finished, breathier now.

Sarocha didn’t answer with words. She leaned in and brushed her nose against Rebecca’s cheek. Then her temple. Then her jaw. It was soft, not quite kisses — more like how big cats nuzzle, slow and deliberate, scent-marking.

Rebecca melted into it with a low hum, her own hands tangling in Sarocha’s sleep-tousled hair. “You’re doing that thing again,” she murmured.

“What thing?” Sarocha replied against her neck, voice like velvet and smoke.

“The thing where you act like you’re not about to devour me, but your hands say otherwise.”

Sarocha chuckled, throat deep. “I’m not the only one. You’re rubbing against me like a cat in heat.”

Rebecca let out a breathy laugh, then gasped softly as Sarocha’s fingers trailed down the arch of her spine. Her skin had begun to shimmer, pale scales surfacing along her ribs and hips in flickers. Sarocha’s were already visible — a flush of iridescence along her cheekbones and collar, her pupils slitted and glinting in the soft light.

“I think the veil does something,” Rebecca whispered, voice thickening. “When I come back… it’s like I need you. Like my whole body remembers what it’s supposed to feel like. Who I belong to.”

Sarocha stilled at that, her eyes flashing, golden and wild. “You do belong to me.”

Rebecca shivered. “I know.”

Sarocha’s hand slid lower, curving over the swell of Rebecca’s hip. “And I to you.”

The haze between them thickened. The heat was no longer subtle. It pulsed in the air, a tangible, invisible current that made the room feel smaller, tighter. Scented with arousal and something older. Something primal. Sacred.

Nitya stirred beneath Rebecca’s skin, a ripple, a pulse.

Rebecca pressed their foreheads together. “She wants this. She always does.”

“She’s impatient,” Sarocha whispered, kissing the tip of her nose. “Just like her mother.”

Rebecca laughed, breathless. “Which one?”

“Both.”

They grinned, pressed together, and then Rebecca was nudging, shifting, rolling until she straddled Sarocha’s hips. The sheet slipped away from her bare thighs and Sarocha exhaled sharply, her hands gripping her waist, holding her steady.

“I love waking up to you,” Rebecca murmured.

Sarocha leaned up, teeth grazing Rebecca’s throat in a soft nip. “You’re going to kill me one day.”

“Worth it,” Rebecca said.

They paused there — teetering — the world suspended between inhale and exhale. Hunger and restraint. A moment longer and it would tip.

Sarocha’s golden eyes narrowed slightly, their glow deepening. The edges of her irises shimmered with a serpentine glint, her pupils reduced to slits as her gaze tracked every tiny motion Rebecca made. Beneath her hands, Rebecca’s skin burned—soft, silken, the faintest shimmer of scales pulsing to the surface in response to Sarocha’s touch.

“Turn over,” Sarocha murmured, voice low, a command wrapped in velvet.

Rebecca’s breath caught.

The tone of her lover’s voice had changed—no longer teasing, no longer lazy with the languor of waking. It was the voice of the Naga in her. The predator. The protector. The mate reclaiming what belonged to her.

“Saro…” Rebecca breathed, not in protest but in anticipation.

Sarocha slid her hand into Rebecca’s hair, threading her fingers through the thick, damp strands at the base of her neck. She tugged gently but firmly, guiding Rebecca down, coaxing her to shift until she was on her knees, arms braced against the bed. Sarocha moved behind her with slow certainty, worship in every deliberate touch.

“I need to remind you,” she whispered, lips brushing Rebecca’s shoulder, her sleep shirt already discarded, “who you belong to.”

Rebecca’s moan was a low, aching sound. “Show me.”

Sarocha’s hand slid down the curve of Rebecca’s spine, reverent. Possessive. She bent over her, pressing her chest flush to Rebecca’s back, their skin burning where it met. The faint shimmer of scales lit along both their bodies, magic rising, curling like smoke between them.

Outside, the wind stirred. The trees shifted. The world was holding its breath.

Sarocha’s illusion formed between them—the phantom length of her desire, summoned by magic and need and the bone-deep instinct to claim. It pressed hot and thick against Rebecca’s slick folds, sliding along her slit with slow, maddening precision.

Rebecca whimpered.

Sarocha licked the shell of her ear. “You veilwalked,” she whispered, “and when you came back, your magic tangled with mine so tight I couldn’t breathe.”

Her hips rocked forward slowly, letting the tip of her pulsing energy slide just inside. Rebecca gasped.

“You left a hole when you slipped away. And now…” She pushed deeper—inch by aching inch. “Now I have to fill it.”

Rebecca sobbed out a breath, pressing back against her, desperate for more. “Yes—please, gods, Saro—”

Sarocha’s fangs grazed her shoulder. “You’ll take everything I give you.”

Rebecca shuddered. “I always do.”

Then Sarocha bit her.

Her fangs sank into the soft muscle at the juncture of Rebecca’s neck and shoulder—just above the last mark that had begun to glow faintly, pulsing with golden-red light. Her venom surged into Rebecca’s bloodstream in a euphoric wave, and Rebecca cried out, collapsing slightly forward, bracing her weight on shaking arms.

Her eyes rolled back.

Sarocha held her there with one arm, the other hand gripping Rebecca’s hip tightly as she began to thrust in earnest. Deep. Sure. Possessive.

Outside the villa, the forest responded again—leaves shivering, vines writhing toward the windows. The scent of blooming jasmine filled the air, thick and dizzying. Somewhere in the trees, birds took flight with shrieking cries of heat and joy.

Rebecca’s mouth dropped open in a silent moan, her body arching to meet each of Sarocha’s slow, punishing strokes.

“You feel different,” Sarocha groaned into her skin. “Even tighter. Hotter.”

“Veil…” Rebecca gasped. “The veil—it thinned me out—stretched me somewhere else—now I need to be filled again—”

Sarocha growled low in her throat, thrusting harder, her phantom energy soaked with Rebecca’s arousal. “Then I’ll fill you until there’s no room for anything but me.”

Rebecca’s body clenched at the words, her magic crackling. The mark at her nape flared bright gold, veins of molten light pulsing out beneath her skin.

Sarocha licked up the blood droplets where she’d bitten her, her tongue laving gently as Rebecca trembled, soothing, healing.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “And I will never let you drift too far, too long.”

“I don’t want to,” Rebecca choked out. “I want this—I want you—always—”

Sarocha’s hand slid between Rebecca’s thighs, her fingers finding the slick, swollen nub at the apex of her folds. She rubbed there in tight circles, slow and devastating, matching the rhythm of her thrusts.

Rebecca screamed.

The orgasm hit her like a storm—magic and sensation crashing together, flooding the room. Her hips bucked back against Sarocha, thighs trembling, her body rippling around the phantom length inside her like it was pulling the stars from the sky.

Sarocha fucked her through it, relentless and grounding, tethering Rebecca with each powerful, controlled movement.

Only when the aftershocks had fully wracked through her did she thrust deep one last time and still—pressing flush against Rebecca’s back, arms curling around her as her own climax took her with a low, guttural growl.

They stayed that way for a long moment.

Breathing. Trembling. Anchored.

Sarocha’s face buried in the curve of Rebecca’s shoulder, her arms cradling her mate as if she could shield her from every realm she walked through.

“Still think you can veilwalk away from me?” she whispered.

Rebecca gave a breathless, dazed laugh. “Not without you dragging me back like this.”

Sarocha smiled against her skin.

“Good.”

Soft morning sun poured through the sheer curtains of their balcony doors, gilding the floorboards and casting patterns across the walls. The heat of the rising day was just beginning to kiss the air — warm, sticky, heavy with the scent of orchid and dew-soaked vines.

Sarocha’s breath was still shallow, her pupils blown wide, body thrumming with that deep, ancient ache that came not only from magic and mating haze, but from Rebecca — from her scent, her sound, her skin. From the pull of their bond, red-hot and reverberating after Rebecca’s veilwalk.

Rebecca, glowing and flushed and still trembling faintly from the half-dozed entanglement, leaned back on the bed and gave Sarocha a lazy, wicked smile.

“Is that it?” she teased, voice hoarse. “I disappear into the veil, you wake me up, pin me down, get me shaking—then call it a day?”

Sarocha stilled.

Then her eyes narrowed.

“You’re really going to say that,” she said slowly, “after the way you just came apart in my arms?”

Rebecca’s smirk widened. “Maybe I need you to prove your point.”

Sarocha didn’t reply with words.

She pulled back and climbed out of bed, dragging Rebecca with her by the hips, and walked them both straight through the open balcony doors. The air outside was humid, fragrant with jungle bloom. Their private balcony was quiet, shaded by high hanging foliage, and more importantly — entirely secluded.

The small wooden table beneath the climbing bougainvillea was cool to the touch as Sarocha gently pressed Rebecca down to sit, her legs spreading open with instinctual grace.

Rebecca tilted her head, lips parted, breath beginning to tremble again.

“You’re insatiable,” she murmured.

Sarocha stepped between her thighs, leaned in close, and growled into her neck, “You’re the one who lit the match, chan rak.”

And then she kissed her — slow, consuming, deep — before pulling back just enough to let her phantom length form between them again, already thick and pulsing with magic.

It pressed against Rebecca’s folds, slick and hot, and Rebecca arched, her body welcoming the sensation with a greedy moan. Sarocha didn’t push in yet. Instead, she gripped Rebecca’s thighs and dragged her to the edge of the table, making sure they both could look down — down between their bodies where everything glistened with arousal and hunger and need and shimmered with translucent energy.

“You want to know what this does to me?” Sarocha asked, voice rough silk. “Watch.”

She slid inside slowly — inch by devastating inch — and Rebecca’s head fell back with a guttural moan.

“I feel you everywhere,” Sarocha whispered, hips finally flush against her, buried to the hilt. “Like you claim me from the inside out.”

She rolled her hips once, and Rebecca’s moan caught in her throat.

“And when I’m like this, inside you, watching you stretch around me, feeling your heat pull me deeper—” Her voice broke on the edge of a gasp. “It’s the only time I feel fully real. Like my magic, my body, my soul — all of it exists to be here, in you.”

Rebecca’s fingers clawed at Sarocha’s back, eyes glassy.

“I’m not gentle because I don’t want to be,” Sarocha growled, thrusting again, slow and deep, “I fuck you like this because it’s the only thing that keeps me tethered.”

“Sar—” Rebecca choked on her name, body trembling.

“You think I control you like this,” Sarocha said, pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in, “but you don’t know how I'm already possessed by you.”

She leaned down and kissed Rebecca again, biting at her lower lip, voice hot against her mouth. “You split me open. You burn me alive.”

Rebecca whimpered, and her arms wrapped tight around Sarocha’s shoulders, legs lifting higher, thighs framing her waist.

“Tell me,” she begged. “Tell me how it feels—”

Sarocha’s voice dropped, guttural, desperate and reverent. “It feels like coming home.”

She thrust again, harder, her fingers gripping Rebecca’s hips with reverence and claim. Each roll of her body sent Rebecca gasping, bucking, eyes rolling back.

“You look down,” Sarocha said roughly, “and you’ll see what you do to me. Look how I disappear into you.”

Rebecca obeyed — barely coherent — and when she looked, she saw the clear throbbing energy of her lover sunk deep between her legs, slick and glimmering and glistening, their bodies joined so intimately that it was both magical and obscene.

Her orgasm built slowly at first — a slow, curling tension, deep in her belly and low in her spine, coiling tighter with every roll of Sarocha’s hips. Her breath came in ragged bursts, lips parted, eyes glossed over in pleasure.

Sarocha moved deliberately, holding Rebecca’s hips in her strong hands, her rhythm deep and measured — intentional. Each thrust was a brand, a pulse of magic and possession that sank further into Rebecca’s trembling body.

Rebecca clutched at her, nails digging into her shoulders, her moans turning higher, breathier, as the heat built — too fast now, too much, not enough.

“Sarocha,” she gasped, voice already wrecked.

“I know,” Sarocha murmured, forehead pressed against Rebecca’s, eyes molten with restraint slipping thin. “You’re almost there. I feel it.”

Rebecca trembled under her, thighs twitching, body aching to fall. The friction was searing, their slick bodies sliding against one another with every desperate thrust. Sweat beaded along Sarocha’s spine, glistening along her collarbone. Rebecca leaned in, tongue tracing salt from her skin, starving for her, even as she drowned in her.

Sarocha groaned. Her hips stuttered, just once — a flash of near-loss — before she corrected, drove deeper.

Her voice rasped against Rebecca’s mouth. “I’m going to mark you again.”

Rebecca gasped, head falling back. “Yes—yes, gods—please—”

“I have to,” Sarocha growled, the sound low and vibrating through both of them. “I need you to feel me. To wear me. To know you’re mine even when I’m not inside you.”

Her thrusts grew more erratic now — rhythm lost to something animal, primal and wild — and Rebecca cracked around her edge, trembling, clawing, begging.

Their magic surged and pulsed together, rippling outward, distorting the very air around them. Steam hissed off their skin like breath from fire. The leaves above them rustled violently despite the still morning air, birds bursting from trees in a flurry of startled wings.

Rebecca’s voice broke on a sob of need. “I can’t—I’m—please—”

“I’ve got you,” Sarocha panted, and then her mouth was at Rebecca’s throat.

Fangs pierced.

The moment the venom hit her bloodstream, Rebecca screamed.

Pleasure detonated in her core — white-hot and obliterating. Her back arched hard, body convulsing, muscles locking as her orgasm tore through her like a storm given flesh. Her magic exploded outward in a pulse that shook the balcony rails, rippling along the wood, rushing down into the earth.

She was still coming when Sarocha gave in to her own need — hips jerking, face buried in Rebecca’s neck as a final guttural growl tore free, muffled by the bite. She came deep and hard, filling her mate with pulse after pulse of molten magic, of everything she had. Claiming. Reclaiming. Branding.

Rebecca cried out again — not from pain, but from the unbearable throbbing fullness, from the rightness of it. Her body locked around Sarocha, milking her through it, magic tangled, sweat-slicked and shivering.

Sarocha didn’t stop moving — didn’t pull away. She slowed only after the last tremor passed through them both, then finally collapsed forward, forehead pressed to Rebecca’s shoulder, breathing hard.

They stayed like that — fused and heaving, hearts pounding in synchronicity, their bodies still trembling from the aftershocks. The mark at Rebecca’s neck glowed faintly, renewed, fresh.

She blinked up at Sarocha, dazed and clinging, unable to speak.

Sarocha let out a low, reverent breath.

“You always burn me alive,” she whispered against her skin, voice hoarse. “And I’d always let you do it again.”

Rebecca only managed a quiet laugh, tears prickling at her eyes from the sheer magnitude of it — from love, from magic, from the fact that this was hers.

She stroked Sarocha’s hair, breath still shaky.

Finally, when the world stilled, Sarocha leaned in and licked the fresh bite mark at Rebecca’s neck, already glowing faintly with magic.

“Still think that was all I had?” she whispered, teasing, breathless.

Rebecca let out a half-laugh, half-whimper, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re… fucking dangerous.”

Sarocha smiled, pressing her forehead to hers. “No,” she murmured. “I’m yours.”

And on the breeze, the orchids swayed, soft petals trembling in approval.

---

The scent of jasmine tea hung in the air, mingling with the earthy tang of grilled sticky rice and ripe mango. A soft breeze stirred the trees beyond the veranda, sending a glitter of dew from the leaves. Birds were loud and chattering. The morning sun had crested fully now, spilling honeyed light through the slatted wood of the villa’s upper deck.

And Looknam looked wrecked.

She sat cross-legged on a floor cushion at the low breakfast table, a mug of strong coffee in her hand and a positively evil grin on her face.

“Well,” she said, lifting an eyebrow without looking up, “I’d ask if you two slept well… but the entire forest already told me how that went.”

Sarocha groaned as she slid into her seat, hair still damp from a rinse and a fresh hickey barely hidden beneath the collar of her loose linen shirt. “You’re never going to stop, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” Looknam took a slow, obnoxious sip of her coffee. “The orchids are blooming out of season, the vines are creeping across the railings like they’re trying to get a better view, and the fish in the stream below were thrashing around like they’d hit the spawning moon early. You’ve single-handedly shifted an ecosystem.”

Rebecca choked on her tea.

Sarocha buried her face in her hands. “Please stop talking.”

Rebecca, giggling now, reached across the table and squeezed Sarocha’s wrist. “You can’t even blame her. That was… you know. Fairly seismic.”

Looknam snorted. “Seismic is a polite way to put it. I had to reinforce a barrier spell in the middle of the night because your mating haze started bleeding through the walls. You’re lucky the shrine ward is intact, or the monks would’ve had to process their own ‘divine visitation’ this morning.”

Rebecca’s cheeks flamed, but she was laughing, and she didn’t pull her hand away from Sarocha’s. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re staying here now. We might need a permanent buffer.”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” Looknam said with mock gravity. “I’m far too invested now. I want to witness firsthand how many trees bloom, how many birds take new mates, and whether the river changes course next time you two get carried away.”

Sarocha made a strangled noise and reached for her coffee. “You sound like you’re preparing an almanac.”

Looknam smirked. “Why not? Someone has to keep record of the chaos. Call it… a chronicle of carnal cataclysms.”

Rebecca, still giggling, leaned back against the railing and let the quiet stretch for a moment, birdsong thrumming faintly beyond the villa. The energy had settled now — warm and golden and calm. She felt full, and not just physically. Anchored. Connected. Home.

But her thoughts drifted — back to the Dreamscape, the pull of it still ghosting along her skin.

“I veilwalked again last night,” she said softly.

That quieted the teasing instantly.

Sarocha’s head lifted, and her hand tightened gently on Rebecca’s. “Go ahead.”

Rebecca nodded. “It was different this time. Longer. Easier.” She looked down at the table, frowning slightly. “Like I could choose where to go. Like I wasn’t just… drifting.”

Looknam’s posture straightened subtly. “You’re adjusting. Tuning to it.”

“I found Chanthira again. She… showed me things.” Rebecca glanced between them, unsure where to begin. “She said I’m thinning the veil wherever I go. That I bend it slightly just by brushing alongside it. Which is part of how others can cross — because of me.”

Sarocha went very still beside her.

“She said you are my tether,” Rebecca said, looking at her now. “That you’re what brings me back. That I’ll always be able to return to wherever you are.”

Sarocha’s breath hitched, just slightly. “That’s why I felt you,” she murmured. “Before dawn. I wasn’t even awake yet, but… something in me reached for you. Pulled.”

Rebecca smiled faintly. “And I followed.”

Looknam watched them for a moment with something softer in her gaze than usual. Then she leaned back on one arm, tilting her head. “Chanthira is right. I’ve felt it myself. That thinning. Like reality stretches when you’re near. It’s not dangerous… yet. But it is powerful. And growing.”

Rebecca nodded slowly. “She also told me more about the Dreamers — how they use veilwalking differently. How they watch from the Dreamscape. How she can more easily slip between.”

“And Nitya?” Sarocha asked, voice low. “Did she say anything else about her?”

“She said Nitya is… an anchor,” Rebecca murmured. “That she’s the reason crossings happen at all. Without her, the veil wouldn’t hold. And that she draws the supernatural toward her — especially the Naga.”

Looknam gave a slow nod. “That tracks.”

“She said the return is a good thing,” Rebecca added quickly. “That it will be gradual. But it’s started.”

The silence that followed was thoughtful — not heavy, but brimming with unspoken what ifs.

“So,” Looknam said after a long sip of coffee, “let’s imagine that for a moment. The Naga return. Hundreds of them. Maybe more. Most haven’t seen the mortal world in centuries. They remember empires that no longer exist. Languages that aren’t spoken. They’ll be powerful. And confused.”

Rebecca nodded, eyes wide. “How do we even find them? Help them adjust? Help them understand what’s happening?”

“They’ll seek out anchors,” Sarocha said, more to herself than the others. “Sources of familiarity. Magic. People like you.”

“And Guardians,” Looknam added. “Some will remember theirs. Every Naga will need one, especially if their return is traumatic. They've always served as the bridge, but if they don’t understand that anymore…”

“They’ll be lost,” Rebecca finished quietly.

“Or worse,” Looknam said, not unkindly. “They’ll lash out. Or go to ground. Or… just vanish.”

They were quiet again.

Rebecca ran a hand along the rim of her mug. “I keep thinking of you,” she said to Looknam. “How difficult you're finding it to adjust — and you have support. You’re trying.”

Looknam snorted softly. “I don't know if I'll ever be able to use your coffee machine without breaking something.”

“Exactly,” Rebecca said gently. “Now multiply that by a hundred. Drop them in cities. Noise. Screens. Disbelief. We need… I don’t know. A plan. Or at least a network.”

“We’ll make one,” Sarocha said firmly. “One Guardian and one Naga at a time.”

Rebecca looked up at her mate, and the warmth there — the fierce loyalty — made something in her chest tighten.

“We’re not alone anymore,” she said quietly.

“No,” Sarocha agreed, leaning in to press her lips to Rebecca’s temple. “We’re not.”

Looknam made a gagging noise into her mug. “Okay, someone pass the mango before you start mating again on top of the breakfast table.”

Rebecca tossed a piece of grilled rice at her head.

Chapter Text

The late morning sun filtered softly through the canopy, dappling the sanctuary grounds in shifting mosaics of gold and green. The jungle hummed with quiet life—birds chirping, insects trilling, and the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. The air was thick with warmth and the perfume of flowering vines, but on the shaded veranda, nestled in the curved embrace of a wide hammock, Rebecca was utterly at peace.

Her bare feet swayed slightly, toes brushing against the wooden railing. The fabric of the hammock cradled her comfortably, and one hand rested protectively over her belly, feeling the subtle pulse of warmth within. Nitya stirred, a sleepy ripple of consciousness brushing up against her own, and Rebecca smiled.

"Good morning again," she murmured, voice soft and affectionate.

A shimmer answered her—faint at first, like sunlit mist, then blooming with color and motion. Magic coiled lazily around her fingers and up her arm, blooming where her hand touched her belly. It was more than a kick, more than instinct. It was recognition.

Rebecca felt it deep in her chest: Nitya responding to her voice, to her love. The child’s magic was still nascent but growing fast, blooming like an ancient tree remembering how to flower. A warmth surged beneath Rebecca's skin, her body momentarily aglow, gold threading through her veins like sunlight laced into blood.

The sensation was dizzying—not painful, not even overwhelming, just vast. And intimate.

"You're getting stronger every day," she whispered. "You're going to change everything, aren't you?"

A pulse of affirmation answered her—playful, bright, and curious. Rebecca laughed softly, eyes damp.

"You sound just like your mother," she said with a crooked grin, picturing Sarocha and her razor-sharp smirks, the gentle arrogance, the tenderness buried beneath iron discipline. "Gods help me."

A bird trilled loudly from a nearby branch, and Rebecca's eyes drifted upward, the canopy fracturing the sunlight in radiant splinters. For a moment, all was still. The magic, the bond, the sanctuary—a still lake of belonging where she could float, weightless and safe.

But peace was a fickle thing.

From somewhere inside, memory stirred. Not of this sacred place, or of Sarocha's body against hers, or even the Dreamscape, but of a kitchen in London. Clinking mugs. The smell of ginger tea. A woman’s hands—older, smaller, lined from age and hard work—wrapping around hers.

"I always knew there was something a little strange about our family," her mother had once said, half-laughing, as she recounted one of her grandmother's bedtime stories. "But strange doesn't mean bad. Just means we carry old things. Sacred things."

Rebecca blinked, and the image faded.

The guilt landed with the subtlety of a falling blade.

Her smile wavered. Her hand still rested on her belly, but now her fingers had curled slightly inward.

How long had it been since she’d last called? Not since the veilwalking began. Not since she'd truly become. Her mother had always been patient, understanding, giving her space to wander and explore. But months?

No matter how much she tried to justify it—the danger, the intensity, the magic spiraling so fast it felt like a storm—the silence was starting to feel like betrayal.

Would her mother even believe her now? How could she explain the bond, the mating, the divine pregnancy, the Naga?

'Hi Mom, sorry I ghosted. I accidentally soul-bonded with an ancient serpentine protector goddess and now I’m carrying what might be a literal reincarnated deity inside me. You know, the usual.'

Rebecca snorted aloud, then buried her face in her hands.

Nitya nudged gently from within, sensing her disquiet. Another warm pulse. This time it wasn’t just recognition—it was concern. A small thread of comfort curled upward, almost like a magical hug from the inside.

"I'm okay," she whispered. "Just thinking too much."

But she wasn’t okay.

She missed her mother. Missed her voice. Missed being someone’s daughter.

And suddenly the thought of her mother never knowing, never being part of this—of Nitya's life—felt unbearable.

Rebecca slowly reached for her phone where it rested on a nearby stool. Her fingers hesitated over the screen. There were older messages there, unread. Missed calls. One short voicemail, probably weeks old. Her chest tightened.

She exhaled slowly, thumb hovering.

It didn’t have to be a full explanation. Not yet. Just a step. A connection.

She opened a new message and stared at the blinking cursor for a long moment. Then, finally, she typed:

'Hi Mom. I know it’s been too long. I’m safe. I promise. I miss you. Can we talk soon? I really need to hear your voice.'

She stared at it.

Then hit send.

The message disappeared into the ether.

She sat back in the hammock and closed her eyes. Nitya pulsed again in gentle reassurance, and Rebecca smiled, faint and wobbly.

Whatever storm was coming—whatever truths had to be told, however impossible they were—she'd face it. But not alone.

Never alone again.

The sun filtered softly through the leaves above, dappling the wooden floor of the veranda with warm patches of gold. Rebecca swayed gently in the hammock, her hands folded over her belly, where Nitya stirred in tranquil waves of energy just beneath her skin. A slow, quiet hum of magic pulsed between them—subtle, steady, like a heartbeat shared.

She smiled to herself, eyes half-closed, tuning into the little glimmers of presence that Nitya offered: a curious flicker at the sound of birdsong, a flutter when a breeze swept past. Sometimes it felt like her daughter was dreaming with her eyes open, already aware of the world she hadn’t yet entered. Sometimes it felt like she was the one being watched.

“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?” Rebecca whispered, rubbing slow circles across the soft curve of her belly. “I’m already unraveling.”

The answer was a flicker of warmth. Affection, even. Her magic responded to it instinctively, gathering in the hollow of her throat, pulsing outward in soft, golden threads. She let it rise and fall naturally, bathing the both of them in that familiar shared glow. Everything felt quieter when it was just them like this. Still. Timeless.

Then the soft creak of the door behind her.

She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Sarocha’s scent reached her before her footsteps—jasmine, riverstone, skin-warmth and rain—and Rebecca felt herself soften, relaxing even more deeply into the hammock as Sarocha stepped out onto the veranda carrying a tray with iced tea and a small bowl of mango slices.

“For my queen,” Sarocha murmured, kneeling gracefully to set the tray down on the low table beside her.

Rebecca huffed a laugh. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“You looked like you were bonding with the cosmos again.” Sarocha leaned forward, brushing her lips over Rebecca’s temple. “Thought I’d keep you tethered.”

“You’re obsessed with tethering me.”

“I have my reasons.”

Rebecca reached up and curled her fingers around Sarocha’s wrist, tugging her down. “Stay a while.”

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

Sarocha settled beside the hammock, half-sitting against one of the thick posts, legs stretched out beside her. They shared a piece of mango, and Rebecca reached for the iced tea, sipping slowly. The sweet cold cut through the warmth of the morning, grounding her again.

After a quiet moment, Rebecca spoke.

“I messaged my mom.”

Sarocha turned to her, brows raised slightly in surprise, though not unkind. “Oh?”

Rebecca nodded, then sighed, resting her head on the edge of the hammock where it met Sarocha’s thigh. “I should have done it sooner. I don’t even know what I’m going to say when she replies. ‘Hi Mom, sorry for ghosting you for months. I got bonded to a mystical river creature and now I’m pregnant with a child of ancient divinity.’”

Sarocha chuckled, her fingers brushing gently through Rebecca’s hair. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I feel awful,” Rebecca whispered, softer now. “She must be worried sick. She always used to check in every day. And I just… disappeared.”

Sarocha nodded, letting the silence settle for a moment before speaking, her voice low and rough with memory. “I know that guilt,” she said. “But for me, it wasn’t silence by choice. When the curse fell, and the others retreated to Muang Nakhon… I stayed. Alone. The portal sealed behind them, and any link we had to the realm—it vanished. There was no way to send word. No way to know if they even survived.”

Rebecca’s throat tightened. “And your father…?”

“I didn’t know if he was alive. For centuries. I told myself he must be—he was strong, revered, more than capable of surviving the collapse.” Her voice caught slightly. “But I didn’t know. I had no way of knowing. I thought I might have been forgotten. Or worse… erased.”

Rebecca reached for her, instinctively grounding her with a touch.

“Looknam mentioned,” Sarocha said after a breath, “that he rules Muang Nakhon now. That he mourned me. That he… never stopped waiting. Just like I did.”

Rebecca’s heart ached. “Sarocha…”

“I left as his heir,” Sarocha murmured. “I was strong, certain, proud. And now… I wonder what he’ll see if we meet again. What he’ll think of what I’ve become.”

Rebecca tightened her hold. “He’ll see a survivor. A protector. A daughter who stayed behind to guard what mattered most.”

Sarocha gave a faint, brittle smile. “You’re very good at rewriting the stories we tell ourselves.”

Rebecca brought her hand to her lips, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “Only the ones that deserve rewriting.”

Sarocha’s eyes softened. “That’s why I’m still here,” she said, quieter now. “Because you saw what was left of me… and didn’t turn away.”

They stayed like that for a moment, the breeze shifting softly between them, and Rebecca found herself blinking hard against the sudden tightness behind her eyes.

“I think I want her to know,” she said after a moment. “My mom. Not everything, not yet. But… I want her to know I’m safe. That I’m happy. That something extraordinary happened.”

Sarocha smiled. “She’s your tether, too. In her own way.”

Rebecca exhaled, the guilt easing just a little. “Maybe.”

They sat in quiet again, birdsong rustling in the trees nearby. Rebecca glanced at Sarocha sideways. “Chanthira said something else, when I saw her in the Dreamscape.”

“Oh?” Sarocha turned, curiosity sparking.

“She said we could try veilwalking consciously. Together. If you ground me.”

Sarocha’s brow arched slightly. “Consciously? That’s a risk.”

“She seemed to think we could do it safely. Said if you hold me here, I could explore more freely—without getting lost. That you’re my tether, in every realm.”

Sarocha considered this, gaze steady. “We’ve only ever let the veil take you. You’re talking about pushing through it. Intentionally.”

“I know,” Rebecca said. “But I feel stronger. Like it’s time. And… maybe it’ll help us understand more about what’s coming. About Nitya.”

Sarocha hummed, then reached up to trail a finger along the side of Rebecca’s neck, down to her collarbone. “You want to go now?”

Rebecca tilted her head, teasing. “What, no dramatic warnings about how we’re meddling with powers we don’t fully understand?”

Sarocha grinned, sharp and wicked. “You’re carrying divinity, Rebecca. I think that ship has sailed.”

They laughed together—light and easy—and for a moment, Rebecca felt something lift. The guilt, the worry, the sheer impossibility of the path ahead—it all fell away, just for a heartbeat.

“Okay,” she said, breath catching a little as she straightened in the hammock. “Let’s try it.”

Sarocha stood fluidly, extending her hand to help Rebecca up. “Come with me. We’ll find a quiet place.”

Rebecca took her hand, and the pulse between them thrummed—bright and steady.

“I’m always with you,” Sarocha whispered.

“I know,” Rebecca said.

---

The clearing was a secret place — tucked behind a curtain of ferns and trailing orchids, where the trees arched overhead in cathedral-like reverence. Light filtered through the leaves in dappled gold, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns that pulsed like breath. Birdsong echoed faintly, and the hum of the world was low and patient. Waiting.

Sarocha had found it ages ago, long before Rebecca, when solitude was the only way to keep her sanity intact. Now, as they stepped through the underbrush hand-in-hand, she glanced over and knew—this place had been waiting for Rebecca all along.

A soft blanket was laid over the mossy earth, tucked with pillows and a thin sheet, carried here earlier when they’d agreed to try. A gourd of water, a few ripe mangosteens, a linen cloth for wiping sweat from sun-kissed skin. Simple comforts. Necessary ones.

Rebecca exhaled slowly as she stepped barefoot onto the blanket. The warmth of the ground radiated up through her soles, grounding. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“I wanted quiet,” Sarocha said. “And privacy.”

Rebecca turned toward her, a slow smile curving her lips. “You wanted skin.”

Sarocha’s answering smile was slow and knowing. “Always.”

Their laughter was soft — shared between them like a language no one else would understand.

They undressed slowly, reverently, as if the act itself was part of the ritual.

Sarocha started with Rebecca’s shirt, slipping fingers under the hem to lift it over her head, eyes never leaving hers. She folded it carefully beside them. Rebecca mirrored the motion, tracing the smooth lines of Sarocha’s arms as she pulled her top free, exposing skin that shimmered faintly where scale met flesh — like dusk catching on water.

Pants followed, underthings peeled away. The heat between them wasn’t hungry — not now — but reverent. Intentional. A sacred kind of closeness.

Rebecca’s rune-etched scales shimmered faintly over her thighs and along her ribs, gold and deep blue and that impossible iridescent silver, the language of magic carved into her skin by the veil itself. Sarocha reached out and brushed her fingers down Rebecca’s side, reverent. “They’re brighter today.”

Rebecca nodded. “She’s stirring more. I think she can feel what we’re about to do.”

“Good,” Sarocha murmured. “Then let’s help her listen.”

They settled together on the blanket, bodies curved in quiet tension. Sarocha pulled Rebecca into her lap, skin pressed flush to scale, legs folded around her like armor — or a cradle. One hand splayed at the base of Rebecca’s spine, the other gently cradled her jaw.

“Just breathe,” she whispered. “Let me hold you here.”

Rebecca exhaled slowly and leaned into her. The world hushed.

Magic began to thrum between them — subtle at first. Like a tide pulling out to sea.

The scales on Sarocha’s thighs deepened in color where they touched Rebecca’s skin, iridescent patterns flickering faintly in reaction. Her serpent heritage wasn’t hidden here. Her pupils had narrowed, sharp and vertical, her scent thick with divine instinct. And still, she was gentle. Devoted.

Rebecca tilted her face up, brushing her lips to Sarocha’s jaw. “I love you.”

Sarocha’s breath caught. She rested her forehead against Rebecca’s, nose brushing hers. “You are everything I waited for.”

Fingers curled over her hips, grounding her.

“Let it come,” Sarocha whispered. “Don’t chase it. Let it find you.”

Rebecca closed her eyes.

The forest around them breathed in rhythm. Magic pooled beneath her skin. And within her womb, Nitya stirred — not as a child, but as something vast and eternal in embryonic stillness. She was listening.

The veil stirred. Not ripped or torn or disturbed in any way. It brushed against Rebecca like silk across skin, a coaxing, an invitation.

She relaxed into Sarocha’s hold, letting the press of her thighs, the scent of her skin, the warmth of her breath keep her tethered. Sarocha hummed low — not a tune, but a vibration, a resonance only their bond could interpret. It sang through Rebecca’s bones.

Sarocha traced a finger slowly along the line of Rebecca’s spine, mapping each vertebra, each soft tremble. Her palm pressed over the small of her back, anchoring her in place. “Go when you’re ready,” she said softly. “I’m here. Always.”

Rebecca opened her mouth to respond, but the veil had already begun to open.

She felt herself shift — not out of body, but out of time. Out of density.

The jungle light blurred slightly, edges going soft, like a dream she was waking into rather than out of. Her heartbeat slowed, then quickened again — a strange loop of tempo and timelessness.

Sarocha’s grip firmed around her hips. “Don’t go too far yet,” she murmured, voice grounding, steady. “Just find the edge.”

Rebecca nodded faintly, breath slow, eyes distant. Her magic pulsed in her chest. She could feel it — the shimmer between realms. The place she had crossed before in sleep and instinct.

This time, she was awake.

This time, she would step through by choice.

And she would come back.

Because Sarocha was holding her.

Because this wasn’t an escape.

It was a beginning.

The warmth of Sarocha's skin faded gently from Rebecca's awareness as she drifted.

Eyes closed, breath slow, she let herself sink into the stillness of the clearing. Magic pulsed softly between them, grounding her, anchoring her, Sarocha's arms coiled protectively around her waist, cheek pressed to Rebecca's shoulder. The jungle hushed, its vibrant song fading to a distant hum. The veil shimmered.

And then—

She was elsewhere.

The world she entered bloomed with golden mist, thick and slow as honey. The air was warm, wet with life. Vines coiled lazily through the ether, and beneath her bare feet, the ground pulsed—alive, breathing, coiled like muscle under skin.

She knew this place.

"You came again."

The voice was richer now. Not the lisping childlike tones of earlier dreams, but something older, more grounded. Rebecca turned.

Nitya stood a few paces away, her form clearer than ever before. Taller. Adolescent in frame, but radiant with a presence that transcended age. Her dark hair curled around her shoulders in thick waves, and her eyes—those ancient, ageless eyes—gleamed like sunlit amber. Serpent scales glinted over her collarbone and along her cheeks in delicate runes, a mirror to Rebecca's own.

"Nitya," Rebecca whispered, stepping forward.

Her daughter smiled, not with the bashful grin of a child, but with the serene confidence of divinity. She reached out, and when their palms met, a rush of heat surged through Rebecca’s chest.

"You are growing," Nitya said softly. "You feel more like me now."

Rebecca laughed, tears prickling her eyes. "I'm still trying to understand what that means."

Nitya tilted her head, thoughtful. "It means you remember. Even if not with your mind. Your body, your blood, your magic knows. You were once more than just Rebecca."

Rebecca's breath caught. "Wait... Manasa?"

Nitya shook her head. "No. But she chose you to carry me. She saw you across the river of time and knew your heart would be strong enough to bear mine."

"So you're her. Reborn."

"In part. I am not a copy. I am what remains. What becomes. Manasa was worshipped in lands that forgot her name. They prayed to her to cure snakebites, to bring fertility, to guard fields. But they feared her too. As they always do when women carry teeth."

Rebecca smiled faintly at that.

"She was power and devotion," Nitya continued. "She loved, and she fought for love. She was betrayed. She died, and did not die. And now, through you, I return. But I will not be alone."

Something shifted in the mist. Rebecca felt it before she saw it—a pull, a sharpness like gravity yawning open. Her head turned.

In the distance, beyond a veil of gold and green, shimmered something vast. A city that was not a city. Temple spires twisted with scales and smoke. The sky above it shimmered like water. Muang Nakhon.

Rebecca stepped forward instinctively, but Nitya caught her wrist.

"Not yet," she said.

"Why?" Rebecca asked. Her heart hammered.

Nitya looked toward the city. Her gaze softened. "He waits for her still."

And in that moment, Rebecca saw it. A figure on a high perch, shadowed in mist and sorrow. A man—no, a king—with eyes like molten gold and robes that shimmered with age. His expression carved from longing.

King Phaya.

He turned, and for a flicker of a heartbeat, their eyes met across realms.

"My daughter," he whispered.

But the words weren’t for Rebecca. They were for Sarocha.

Rebecca's heart ached. Her throat tightened.

"He thinks she’s gone," she murmured.

Nitya nodded. "Time is different there. Memory heavier. He dreams of her, but believes it a trick."

Rebecca wanted to reach out, to speak, to promise—but the image already blurred, fading like breath on glass.

"Soon," Nitya said gently. "You will return there. When it is time. For now, you must root yourself."

"How?"

Nitya's smile turned mischievous. "Love. Magic. The usual."

Rebecca laughed wetly, then took her daughter's face in her hands. "You're not alone either, you know."

Nitya leaned into the touch. "I never was."

The golden mist began to thin. The jungle called her back. A tether, warm and strong, tugged at her chest. Sarocha.

"Go," Nitya said, pressing a kiss to her mother’s knuckles. "She misses you already."

Rebecca stepped backward, the last glimpse of her daughter a haloed silhouette in the mist.

And then she was falling gently, like a feather drifting down, toward the heartbeat that waited below.

Back to Sarocha. Back to the world. Back to the fire and the breath and the love that made all of this possible.

Rebecca blinked once, twice—her breath caught like thread unraveling in her chest as her senses realigned.

The jungle returned in pieces: the soft rustle of leaves above them, the golden light slanting through the canopy, the humid warmth of Sarocha’s skin pressed against her own.

Then—touch. The slow, sinuous brush of fingers along her spine. A hand, familiar and firm, cradling the back of her head like something precious. And the faintest tremble in the arms that held her.

“Sarocha,” she murmured, her voice thick with the weight of the veil still slipping from her.

She felt the answering breath before she heard it. A sharp, quiet inhale—and then Sarocha pulled her closer, one arm wrapping fully around her middle, the other fisting gently in her hair, anchoring her in place.

“You’re back,” Sarocha whispered. “You’re alright?”

Rebecca tilted her head just enough to see her face. There it was—that flicker behind Sarocha’s eyes, usually so controlled. Fear, soft and raw.

“I’m okay,” Rebecca said, reaching up to touch Sarocha’s cheek. “I’m here.”

Sarocha’s jaw flexed once. “You were so still. I could feel your magic but not your body. Not your heartbeat. You stopped breathing for a moment.”

Rebecca leaned forward and pressed her forehead to hers. “I wasn’t gone long.”

“You were,” Sarocha said, low and hoarse. “To me, you were.”

The words hit deep. Rebecca cupped her lover’s face in both hands, pressing a kiss to her brow, then her cheek, then her mouth—soft, lingering touches.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered between kisses. “But it was beautiful. I saw Nitya again.”

Sarocha’s hand stilled on her back. “She came to you?”

“She’s older now,” Rebecca said, voice quiet with awe. “Not a baby anymore. A child—but ancient, somehow. She glowed like starlight. And she spoke in full sentences this time.”

Sarocha exhaled slowly. “Tell me everything.”

They shifted slightly, nestling deeper into the blanket laid across the soft clearing. Rebecca lay back into Sarocha’s arms, one leg slung over hers, her head resting against a warm, bare shoulder. The scale markings along Sarocha’s collarbone glimmered faintly with magic—not defensive, just present. Alive.

Rebecca reached out, tracing one of the markings with her fingertip.

“She told me about how she remembers everything,” Rebecca said. “Not just this life. All of them. She explained how she's an iteration of Manasa. It wasn’t just a name—it was a shape she once wore. A goddess of serpents, fertility, death. Rebirth.”

Sarocha stiffened slightly. “Manasa. That name hasn’t been spoken among our kind in… gods, Rebecca. That’s an old current.”

“She wasn’t just reborn—she was reawakened. As if this life was waiting for the right bond to stir her.”

Sarocha was silent for a moment, eyes distant as her fingers resumed their path along Rebecca’s ribs—slow, reverent strokes, anchoring them both.

“That explains her magic,” she murmured. “The way she sings through you. She’s not just our child. She’s a deity in her own right. And she chose to be born through you.”

Rebecca swallowed, overwhelmed again by the enormity of it.

Sarocha leaned back slightly to study her. “That’s a heavy burden.”

“It is,” Rebecca admitted. “But I’m not afraid of it. Not anymore.”

She reached out, brushing a hand along Sarocha’s chest, palm resting over her heart. “Because I have you.”

Sarocha’s breath caught again, but this time it wasn’t fear—it was wonder. She turned her head, kissing Rebecca’s wrist, then the inside of her forearm.

“You keep coming back to me,” she murmured against her skin.

“Always,” Rebecca whispered.

They stayed like that for a long moment—just breathing, skin to skin, scales shimmering faintly where their magic pulsed against each other. The jungle hushed around them as if listening.

Then Sarocha tentatively broke the silence. “Did you... see my father?”

Rebecca blinked. “I think so, actually. In the distance. Just a glimpse. He didn’t come close, but… he felt powerful. Sad, but still strong.”

Sarocha’s gaze dropped, her fingers pausing where they traced the curve of Rebecca’s belly. “I don’t know what I’d say to him. If he saw me now.”

Rebecca’s hand found hers. “He’d see what I see.”

Sarocha looked up again, something fragile flickering in her expression.

“A protector,” Rebecca said. “A warrior. Someone who never stopped hoping, even when she forgot she was hoping.”

Sarocha’s eyes softened. She leaned in, brushing their noses together. “You always say the right thing.”

Rebecca grinned, heart aching with love. “I’m just repeating the truth.”

Sarocha laughed under her breath, then nuzzled into her neck, pressing a long, slow kiss just below her jaw. “I’m glad you came back.”

Rebecca tilted her head to give her better access, her hand threading into dark hair. “You’ll always bring me back.”

Their bodies settled again, tangled and warm in the sun-dappled clearing. The bond between them pulsed steady and sure, and for a moment, the weight of prophecy and past lives felt lighter—carried between two souls bound by fire, fate, and choice.

And still… the veil hummed in the distance. Waiting. Thinning.

Calling.

But for now, they simply held each other.

And breathed.

The quiet between them stretched, thick and golden like honey, as the jungle hummed around them—alive, ancient, watching.

Rebecca’s fingertips traced lazy circles over the curve of Sarocha’s shoulder, lingering over the faint shimmer of scales that had surfaced there. Their bond pulsed gently between them, warm and electric where their skin met.

Sarocha’s hand remained pressed to Rebecca’s stomach, unmoving now, but tense. Coiled.

Rebecca felt the tension brewing beneath that stillness—how tightly her mate was holding herself in check.

She knew this rhythm now. The quiet just before the claiming instinct kicked in fully.

“You’re getting itchy,” she murmured against Sarocha’s jaw, a little smile curling her lips.

Sarocha let out a rough sound halfway between a chuckle and a growl. “You always come back glowing. It stirs… everything.”

Rebecca shifted, nudging herself more fully atop her mate, sliding one leg over Sarocha’s hips completely now, settling her weight in a deliberate straddle.

Sarocha inhaled sharply.

The air between them thickened, magic sparking just beneath the surface. Rebecca’s rune-etched scales began to appear like azure and gold filigree along her thighs and belly, flaring with subtle light.

Sarocha’s eyes dropped to them—and darkened.

“I can feel the veil still clinging to you,” she said, voice low and rough, hands bracing themselves at Rebecca’s hips. “You’ve still got one foot in that world, and it makes me want to—”

“Claim me?” Rebecca finished, voice soft, teasing.

Sarocha’s grip tightened. “Yes.”

Rebecca rolled her hips once, slow and smooth, and smiled at the strangled sound Sarocha made in response. “Then do it.”

Sarocha’s jaw clenched. “You don’t understand. It’s instinct. I get feral when you veilwalk. The bond screams at me to cover you in scent and magic until the other side is burned off.”

Rebecca bent down, her mouth a breath from Sarocha’s. “Maybe I want to be claimed.”

That made something flicker hot in Sarocha’s expression. But Rebecca saw the restraint too. The care. The control she was exerting to make sure she didn’t overwhelm her.

Which was sweet.

But unnecessary.

Rebecca leaned in further, brushing her lips over Sarocha’s cheek, to her ear. “But maybe,” she whispered, “I want to be the one who claims this time.”

Sarocha stiffened beneath her.

Rebecca didn’t give her time to second guess.

She kissed her.

Not gently—not this time.

She kissed her like she wanted to brand her. Mouth firm, sure, insistent. Her hands threaded into Sarocha’s hair, tilting her head back to deepen it, to devour. And Sarocha let her—just for a heartbeat too long—before she responded with equal hunger.

But it was Rebecca who pressed harder, who rocked her hips again with slow, maddening pressure. She was the one who broke the kiss and looked down with eyes glowing faintly gold, magic singing along her skin.

“I want to mark you,” she said, voice low, smoky. “I want to remind you that I chose this. That I choose you. Over and over.”

Sarocha swallowed hard, her breath uneven now. “Be careful,” she warned. “You’re stirring the Naga.”

“Good,” Rebecca said, smiling like sin. “Let her rise.”

Then she kissed along Sarocha’s throat, nipped just above the pulse point, and felt her mate tremble beneath her.

“Rebecca,” Sarocha breathed, voice rough with want.

But there was awe in it too. As if she couldn’t quite believe the woman moving over her now was the same one who’d trembled the first time they touched.

Rebecca shifted again, undulating like silk, her magic pouring into the space between them—cool and warm at once, humming with veilfire. Sarocha’s scales bloomed more fully in response, tracing over her ribs and arms, glowing faintly.

“I need you,” Sarocha admitted, voice a rasp. “But more than that—I ache for you.”

Rebecca kissed her again, softer this time. “Then let me give you what you need.”

She slid her hands down Sarocha’s sides, slow and reverent, and leaned in to press her forehead to hers.

“This bond… it’s not just instinct,” she whispered. “It’s choice. It’s us.”

Sarocha nodded, eyes searching hers, something raw and worshipful blooming in her gaze.

And then she finally let go.

Not of control—but of the need to lead.

She surrendered.

Rebecca felt it like a key turning in a lock, a breath loosed into the wild.

And then everything ignited.

They came together in a tangle of limbs and light, scales and skin, their magic weaving tight between them like threads pulled taut across realms. Rebecca pressed Sarocha into the earth, kissed down the line of her throat to her chest, her stomach, everywhere she could reach.

But this time—it was different.

This time, Sarocha didn’t surge forward to take over. She lay back, yielding with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving Rebecca’s. There was tension in her body, yes, the constant current of dominance coiled tight—but there was something else too.

Permission.

Curiosity.

Even reverence.

Rebecca hovered above her, breath shallow, her hands trailing slowly across the raised shimmer of Sarocha’s scales. Her magic pulsed visibly now, shifting under her skin in radiant waves—veillight made flesh. The gold runes across her belly and hips gleamed brighter with every heartbeat, syncopating with Sarocha’s own rhythm, their bond humming so loudly it felt like the whole jungle might start vibrating with it.

She was no longer the trembling woman from months ago. She wasn’t even the same one who had reached out to her mother hours earlier.

Rebecca had changed. Was changing. Always evolving.

She felt it in her bones now—the subtle lengthening of her fingers, the gentle flex of her spine that suggested she could be something more than human. And beneath her lips, Sarocha’s breath hitched as Rebecca kissed lower. Slower.

Deliberate.

When Rebecca reached her navel, she paused—just long enough for Sarocha to lift her head and meet her gaze.

"Tell me to stop," Rebecca whispered, voice husky and low.

Sarocha's lips parted, eyes wide and dark, but she said nothing. Only shook her head once, slow and sure.

Rebecca smiled, her body thrumming with heat and power. She pressed a kiss just above Sarocha’s pubic bone—and then opened her mouth.

Her fangs had only ever appeared in flashes before—barely more than extensions of her shifting state. But now they slipped past her lips, fine and sharp, not as long or formidable as Sarocha’s—but real. Defined.

Her body was still mostly human. But not entirely.

A little gasp escaped Sarocha, as if she understood what was coming—what it meant. Her hands clenched in the blanket beneath them.

Rebecca lowered her mouth and bit.

Not hard. Not deep.

Just enough to pierce the skin, just enough to feel the soft give of muscle and the heat of blood blooming beneath the surface. Her fangs slid in—delicate, precise—and she held there for a breath, instinct flaring so fiercely that her whole body trembled with it.

Magic moved between them, an electric bloom—Rebecca’s venom, something light and strange, flowing like mist. Not meant to overpower or sedate, but to open. To expand.

Sarocha gasped, her back arching beneath Rebecca as the effects began to stir. Her fingers loosened, then flexed again, grasping at the earth as if grounding herself.

“Gods,” she breathed, voice thick, eyes fluttering shut. “What did you just do?”

Rebecca pulled back, licking the hint of blood from her lips, her own pupils vertical and blown wide. “I think… I think I marked you.”

Sarocha’s head fell back with a soft, astonished laugh, but her limbs trembled. “You bit me.”

“You said I stirred the Naga,” Rebecca murmured, and kissed her inner thigh in apology. “Seems only fair I offer my own sharp reminder.”

The flush of magic under Sarocha’s skin deepened—her scales brightened visibly around the bite, glowing faintly green-gold, as if absorbing something new.

The magic didn’t settle. Not right away.

Rebecca felt it ripple through Sarocha like a gentle intoxication, not disorienting—but deeply pleasurable. Her mate’s body responded with a soft, helpless shudder, her thighs slowly falling open, wider, breath uneven.

“You’re high on me,” Rebecca whispered, astonished.

Sarocha laughed again, a little slurred this time, her hand catching Rebecca’s wrist and pulling her up. “Of course I am. You’re… gods, you’re changing.”

Rebecca kissed her slowly. “I know. And I think I’m only just beginning.”

Then she moved down again—lower still.

They had never done this before. Not like this.

But Sarocha didn’t stop her.

Each press of Rebecca's mouth, each flicker of magic from her fingertips, was a promise.

'You are mine.'

'You are safe.'

'You are loved.'

Sarocha gasped her name again and again, her body arching, her own magic flaring in answering waves. But she never once tried to flip them. Never once seized control. She let Rebecca lead her into the fire.

And gods—it burned beautifully.

She moaned, deep and unguarded, when Rebecca’s tongue finally met her heat—when she felt her mate taste her like worship, like discovery. Rebecca’s hands kept her thighs spread, her thumbs stroking lightly over her hips as she licked and kissed with reverence and hunger.

Sarocha’s head thrashed, pleasure crashing through her like waves. And still the magic between them pulsed, tethered them, thickened the air until it felt like everything—light, time, breath—was bending around this moment.

But there was still something Sarocha needed. Something primal and irrefutable coiled inside her.

When Rebecca finally pulled away, flushed and glowing, she climbed back up her lover’s body, kissed her again, letting Sarocha taste herself on her tongue.

“I’m yours,” Rebecca whispered. “But I needed you to be mine, too.”

Sarocha’s eyes were wild now. Pupils blown wide, hands shaking. “You are,” she rasped. “And I am... But I have to finish it. I need—”

“I know.”

Rebecca laid back, guiding Sarocha over her, opening to her fully.

Sarocha’s scales flared brilliantly now, her magic roaring to life. The phantom length of her claim began to form, heat and pressure building between her legs as instinct finally overtook restraint.

But her mouth was soft when she kissed Rebecca’s collarbone.

“You’re not submissive,” she murmured. “Not anymore.”

Rebecca smiled, dazed and in love. “Then mark me again, my Naga queen. Just to be sure.”

Sarocha didn’t need to be told twice.

She rolled her hips forward and sank into her mate with a groan—body, magic, soul. And this time, when her fangs found Rebecca’s neck again, the bite was laced not only with possession, but reverence.

They moved together like tide and moon.

Sarocha’s venom spilled into her with tender precision—cool and electric at first, like water on fire. It threaded through Rebecca’s veins with a slow-burning bloom, not numbing but heightening, awakening every nerve with reverent fire. Her breath hitched as the sensations crested: her skin became too sensitive, her pulse a thrumming drumbeat, her magic flickering like candleflame caught in a storm.

Their scales rose together—Rebecca’s glowing faintly sapphire where they etched her thighs and hips, the rune-script shimmering like holy writ. Sarocha’s scales shimmered deeper bronze now, edged in a rich emerald that almost smoked in the fading light, as though the jungle were responding to her.

As though the earth knew who she was.

Their eyes locked, glowing with matching intensity—Rebecca’s azure-gold, burning brighter than ever, and Sarocha’s a molten amber rimmed in firelight. For a moment, their pupils slit in unison, serpent-like and divine.

And then Sarocha began to move again.

Not frantic. Not desperate.

Measured.

Worshipful.

The phantom shaft of energy that had formed from desire and necessity, pulsed with purpose now, not just driven by instinct, but by the conscious need to seal this. To sink deeper into their bond—not only through flesh, but through soul.

Each movement built upon the last, pressure winding higher, until the air itself felt like it might fracture from the magic they were generating between them.

Rebecca’s hands clutched at Sarocha’s back, fingers digging into shifting skin, stroking the outline of scales and bone as she arched to meet her. The ache in her body bloomed into something celestial—pleasure braided with power, threaded with love, twined with purpose.

Their magic didn’t just pulse—it sang.

The phantom length inside her wasn’t just sensation—it was communion. A merging. A grafting of two beings who had circled each other across centuries, across lives, now finally fused in something that no longer cared for names like “dominant” or “submissive.” This was beyond roles.

This was truth.

Every time Sarocha thrust into her, another thread between them tightened—until it wasn’t just a bond, it was a weave. A tapestry. A lifeline stretching across the veil and back again.

Sarocha pressed her forehead to Rebecca’s, breath ragged, voice hoarse. “You’re inside me now,” she whispered. “I can feel your soul in mine.”

Rebecca nodded, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, breathless. “Yours. Always.”

And then she came—hard and silent, as if the moment had stolen her breath away completely. Her body arched like lightning through stormclouds, her magic flaring gold from her fingertips to her womb. The runes on her belly surged with light, then dimmed to a warm glow, cradling the life within like a promise.

Sarocha followed moments later with a shuddering gasp, collapsing into her, body trembling, fangs retreating slowly as her tongue swiped over the mark she’d made on Rebecca’s neck—now darker, fuller, anchored by love.

They stayed that way, tangled and glowing, breathing each other in.

The bond between them no longer pulsed.

It thrummed, settled, complete.

And from deep in the earth, from some ancient root of magic beneath them, the jungle sighed in approval.

The air shimmered with residual magic, the grass around them gently singed in a perfect, circular radius. The jungle, blessedly, had the decency to remain silent—save for the slow rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds.

Collapsed and still breathing heavily, Sarocha shifted to allow Rebecca room to lay across her chest, flushed and glowing, fingers still tracing lazy patterns over her skin.

Sarocha’s arms wrapped tight around her, anchoring her close. She tilted her head down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Rebecca’s head.

“You just seduced an ancient serpent deity out of her own instincts,” she murmured, still a little dazed as Rebecca's bite tingled slightly below her belly.

Rebecca grinned against her skin. “Guess I must be persuasive.”

Sarocha let out a soft laugh and tucked a piece of hair behind Rebecca’s ear. “You’re becoming dangerous, you know that?”

Rebecca looked up at her, eyes warm. “Good. We might need dangerous.”

And in the golden hush of the jungle, tangled together beneath the sun, the future didn’t feel quite so impossible. Not with this kind of love. Not with this kind of fire.