Full Moon
The desert air in Sunna did not soften at night; it merely traded its blistering heat for a cold, clinical stillness. Under the gaze of a full, uncaring moon, the dunes stretched out like the frozen waves of a silver sea.
I was no longer sure if I was riding or simply tethered to the saddle. My body, tall and usually defined by the strength of my craft, felt like a hollowed-out shell. My dark curls, matted with dust and sweat, clung to my cheeks, and my eyes—heavy and burning—could barely track the horizon.
“Lucien,” I breathed, the word barely a whisper against the silence.
Beneath me, the great white horse faltered, his hooves stumbling in the soft sand. He was a beast of noble blood and immense heart, and he had been carrying me through this wasteland for days longer than either of us should have survived. I reached down, pressing a hand to his heaving, salt-crusted neck, sending a small, lingering spark of my own dwindling magic into him. Thank you, I projected, the thought faint as smoke. Forgive me.
Just as the horizon began to blur into a singular, dark void, a shift in the landscape caught my eye. It was green—a deep, impossible dark green—and the shimmer of water reflecting the stars.
An oasis.
I nudged Lucien forward, though the movement sent spikes of agony through my hips. When we finally reached the edge of the pool, I could not even hold the reins. I slid from the saddle, hitting the sand with a graceless thud. My limbs felt like leaden weights. The sound of the wind through the date palms was a rhythmic, lulling chant, urging me to close my eyes and simply stop breathing.
I lay in the sand, too weak to crawl the final few feet to the water.
Lucien nudged my shoulder, his velvet nose warm against my skin. He tugged at the hem of my travel-worn dress, his teeth gentle but insistent, dragging me toward the pool.
“Go,” I rasped, my voice cracking. “Drink, Lucien. Leave me.”
He gave a low, mournful neigh and shook his head, pushing at my shoulder again. His loyalty pierced through my exhaustion, sparking a flicker of desperate, primal grit. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, using the pain to pull myself forward, inch by agonizing inch, until my fingers touched the cool, wet sand at the pool’s edge.
I cupped my hand, the water biting and sweet as it hit my parched tongue. I drank until my stomach cramped, and Lucien drank beside me, his long, rhythmic gulps the only sound in the desert.
I slumped back, staring up at the moon. The world began to fray at the edges. My thoughts drifted to my family—the confusion they would feel when I didn’t return, the questions they would never have answered. I had traveled this path a dozen times; how had the sands betrayed me so completely?
I hoped, at the very least, that someone would find Lucien. He deserved a rider who knew the value of a steady heart and would give him bushels of crisp, sweet apples.
I am dying, I thought, the realization detached and strangely serene. I am so young to be dying here.
I exhaled, a long, ragged sigh, and let the darkness claim my vision. I felt Lucien settle beside me, his head resting near mine, his presence a comfort in the final act.
Then, footsteps.
They were soft, rhythmic, and entirely out of place in the middle of a dead desert. I didn’t have the strength to lift my head, but a shadow fell over me, eclipsing the moon.
A man knelt.
The first thing I registered was the scent—warm summer breeze and something ancient, like rain on hot stone. My pulse flickered. Through the haze, his face sharpened. He was breathtaking, with a sharp jaw, thick dark hair, and warm olive colored skin. But when he looked at me, the air in my lungs froze.
His eyes were not normal eyes at all. They were pits of absolute, pitch-black nothingness.
Fear, cold and sharp, jolted through me, yet it was tangled with an inexplicable, magnetic pull. I looked toward Lucien, expecting him to bolt, but the horse remained perfectly still, as if he didn’t even know we were there.
The man chuckled—a deep, resonant vibration that I felt in the marrow of my bones. He tilted his head, his black eyes fixed on mine. “Only you can see me, Lila.”
I tried to speak, to ask if he had plucked the thought from my mind, but my throat was a desert of its own. He smiled, and his teeth were stark, blindingly white against his tan skin.
“I can’t read your mind,” he said, his voice playful, a low rumble of amusement. “Just a lucky guess.”
He reached out, his touch shockingly warm. He cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek with an intimacy that made my head spin. He looked at me with a strange, possessive melancholy. “It figures,” he whispered to himself, “that you would arrive in my life now.”
I frowned, the effort taxing.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he murmured. He leaned in, his face mere inches from mine, and the scent of him became a tether, keeping my soul from drifting away. His gaze turned grave. “You are going to die, little witch.”
I looked at him, my expression crumpling into a silent admission of defeat. He didn’t blink. He leaned closer still, his dark void of an gaze locking onto mine.
“Do you want to die?”
I shook my head, the motion minuscule.
His smile widened, sharp and dangerous. “I am prepared to make you a deal. I can save you. But if you say yes, there is no undoing it. You will belong to this choice forever.”
I knew, with the last shred of my rational mind, that this was a trap. I knew that whatever he was, he was not the salvation I had prayed for. But the darkness was waiting, and I was so terrified of the end.
I nodded.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, his lips hovering against my own.
I offered one final, desperate nod.
He smiled—a look of such devastating, dark triumph that it stole the last of my breath—and murmured, “Good girl.”
Then, his lips pressed against mine, and the desert, the moon, and the pain vanished into a bottomless, beautiful black.
