Adelaide drifted through a long, singular dream, like a swan afloat on a midnight lake.

It wasn’t like most nights. No weight, no fog. She soaked in a bath as wide as the sea, pink bubbles and petals buoying her like soft tide foam, their touch a tremor of pleasure.

Here, she was free as wind in spring bamboos. No more pressing down the truth of herself. She let her Blood Mage instincts take the helm, to claim, to take, to—

Adelaide opened her eyes, and the pink dream shattered like glass under frost.

Her gaze met the familiar ceiling, paper-patched holes like scars left by two desert colossi trading blows.

When had she returned to the carriage cabin, like a leaf carried back by a quiet current?

She groaned, a thin sound like a reed in wind, pushing up on her hands, but her limbs were cotton-soft, all strength washed out like sand by tide.

What happened? She’d gone to find water, like a pilgrim chasing a mirage.

Right—she and Mira had found a small underground oasis, a green whisper under dunes. Then… a flower, a blush of danger in the dark?

Mm…

Adelaide pressed her temple, eyes shut, breath a shaky thread. The memory froze when a pink bud unfurled, leaving only a haze of deadly perfume, like silk smoke that clung.

Had she been anesthetized by an Eilenoru Flower, a trap poured like honeyed wine?

No… no, that would be too shameful. Adelaide, prepared like a hunter under new moon, snared by something that simple?

It couldn’t be on her. The array had read the life-source tied to the scent, like ink binding to paper. A normal Eilenoru shouldn’t radiate that kind of life glow. And a normal Eilenoru only numbs through fluids, like dew on thorns. She’d only breathed twice and dropped, like a kite cut free. That blossom had to be a mutated kind, exhaling paralytic gas. That’s why she lost.

Yes. Blame the scent, like a lullaby sung by a serpent. Next time, no aroma would sway her—no sweetness could divide her focus—

Her thought snagged, like silk caught on a thorn. She sniffed without thinking, then snapped toward the door, a hawk turning on wind.

Creak—the cabin door opened, wood sighing like old bones, and Mira stepped in with a bowl of paomo, one foot like a cautious wave crossing the threshold.

Adelaide’s eyes fixed on her like stars locked to the moon. Mira’s cheeks flashed red, a rose blooming in snow, and whatever raced through her mind, concern took the lead like a lantern in fog. She moved to the bedside first.

“How do you feel?” She asked with a steady flame of care. “Anything off? Do you have the stomach for food?”

“Uh… mm, I—I’m fine.” Her voice was a quivering string in late wind.

Her stilted words weren’t fine at all. Worry darkened in Mira’s eyes like storm-gray water. She set the food down, turned as if to leave, a swift current heading out.

“Wait, I’ll go grab some medicine,” she said, brisk as a sand-swept gust.

Before she could step away, Adelaide caught her hand, fingers clutching like ivy to stone.

“Don’t… don’t go, Mira…” The plea came raw, a bird’s wing beating against a cage.

She still looked unwell, but not from pain. It was the wind that slipped in when the door opened—the scent riding that wind like light rain on tea leaves—that dragged her back to the flower’s lure.

This fragrance wasn’t as lush as an Eilenoru’s deep garden. No. It was light and clean, like holding a camellia to the nose, cool water over heat, with none of that sultry bite that shakes will. Yet, for the same unknown reason, Adelaide couldn’t resist even a strand of it, as if a silken thread pulled her heart.

In that instant, it felt like someone poured hard liquor down her throat, a fire racing through fog; her head went delightfully light, and only the urge to draw closer to the source remained, a moth to a lamp.

So fragrant…

The thought bloomed and refused to fade. When Mira moved to leave, loss slammed into Adelaide like a cold wave, and she gripped tighter, unwilling to let go. But clutching alone would draw suspicion, and a wisp of sanity nudged her to speak.

“Mira, I can’t remember what happened… Back there, what… was it?” Her question trembled like a leaf.

Mira hesitated a heartbeat, then sat at the bedside again, yielding to her wish like rain returning to earth.

“We found a desert oasis,” she said, voice steady as a road through dunes. “Enough water for the caravan to reach the next supply point. But there was an Eilenoru Flower in there, and you were—”

Her words tripped, her blush deepening to sunset. Anyone watching closely would see the unspoken, like ink washing at the edge of paper. But Adelaide’s mind wasn’t moving right; she only watched Mira’s pretty face, eyes unfocused like moonlight on ripples.

“In short,” Mira said, pushing past the snag like a stream around stone, “you got knocked out by the paralytic gas. I brought you back, and you slept till now. Also, I harvested everything useful off that monster flower. I asked the caravan leader later, and he said it’s a rare variant—he’s only heard of it in old tales.”

She skated over the rest like a swallow over water, then let the topic flow toward the flower itself, words pouring to divert like a new channel in sand.

It didn’t help. Mira strained to steer the current, but Adelaide didn’t catch a drop. Her mind held only one bright pebble:

My little sister… the way she blushes is so cute…

Her heartbeat quickened like drums before battle. Heat curled in her breath like coals waking. A dull ache rose in her lower belly, a tide thudding in pulses, each wave gnawing at sense.

“The leader told me this,” Mira continued, eyes clear as winter light. “In recent years, rumors of variants have spread more than before. He thinks it’s Rockridge’s blood-debts echoing, stains left across the land. Makes sense. The Dreamfeast Spider we met only shows in wartime. And this flower—the pistil had a nascent magic core. Mutation alone doesn’t explain that. It must’ve drunk deep from the chaotic miasma war left behind to grow this far.”

She took a pink core from her pocket, a dawn-stone in her palm, and showed Adelaide. It mattered, a clue bright as a beacon. Adelaide didn’t reach for it. She didn’t even glance at it; her gaze nested at Mira’s neck, where breath pooled like dew.

“What’s that?” Her voice dropped, hungry as a shadow.

A band of cloth looped Mira’s neck, a scarf against grit. Asked, she hesitated, like a candle in draft.

“It keeps sand out of my clothes,” she said, calm as dry wind. “The caravan leader recom—”

“I don’t like it.” The words leapt, sharp as a fang.

Adelaide spoke before thought, a spark snapping from live wire. Heat edged her tone like iron in flame.

Why was she angry? The scarf looked so wrong, like a wall hiding the moon. Hatred pricked her like nettles; she wanted to bleed and call soulflame, to burn it to ash and ash to nothing, so it wouldn’t block the pale skin of Mira’s neck, the place where the fragrance was richest, a spring behind veils…

The thought ran wild like horses. Her canines tingled, her breath thickened into panting, a predator’s rise. Hunger, like a hunger for fruit in summer drought, filled her head. Her hand lifted toward the scarf, an impulse like a tide pulling feet.

Mira froze at Adelaide’s change, stunned like a deer under lantern light, and let her fingers hook the knotted cloth. One pull, and the scarf would fall like shed bark.

Before she tore, a sting bit her wrist, sharp as a thorn. Reflex halted her hand like a rope snap. Her bracelet had a failsafe, pain flaring when emotions spiked like storm-vane. The jolt checked her, a heartbeat’s pause. In that breath, Mira snapped back.

“Don’t!” Her palm struck Adelaide’s hand, a clap like a wing against air, fiercer than before.

Adelaide stared, hollow as night. Mira seemed to realize too, and after that burst turned her face aside, cheeks cooling like embers raked.

“I… I’ll get medicine.” Her voice retreated like a breeze through reed.

She left the cabin, and Adelaide still hadn’t returned to herself, watching the door she passed through as if it were a window to moonlight, until the scent that marked Mira faded completely, like incense ending.

Then Adelaide yanked the quilt and shoved her head under, burying herself like a quail under brush.

Ahhhhh what did I just do, what did I do, what did I do—

Her thoughts screamed, a kettle shrilling. As sense trickled back, she wanted to crawl into a crack like a lizard at noon.

The moment she replayed her words and motions, heat rose like oil in a pan—she could fry an egg on her face.

She’d sworn no scent could distract her. And that—what was that? Hm??? She didn’t even know what she was thinking, why she reached, why she—

Her mind turned to mush, like porridge overcooked. Strangled noises leaked from the blanket, little ghosts without names.

Suddenly she remembered the ache, a dull drum in her lower belly. She threw the quilt back like a curtain, lifted her clothes, eyes a blade braced against fear.

She drew a deep breath, armor for shock, then looked down, like a diver peering into dark water.

And she saw what no amount of bracing could accept, a mark bright as forbidden dawn.

There, a few inches above her most secret place, lines like pink silk threads traced a heart, a sigil inked like a tattoo. The lines glowed with a faint light, fireflies under dusk.

“No… no way…” Her voice broke like twigs.

She stared as the glow pulsed in perfect time with the dull ache, pattern and pain one heartbeat, and despair fell like cold rain.