CHAPTER TWO — “The Dream Feeds the Real”

The mark didn’t fade.

Seraphina checked her palm every hour the next morning—first while brushing her teeth, then while fumbling through her unpacked bag, again between flipping pages in her class schedule, and twice more while picking at a bowl of cereal in the cavernous dining hall.

The glow had stopped.

But the rune remained.

Thin. Pale. Unnaturally perfect. Almost too neat to be real.

She kept her hand tucked under her sleeve like a secret, her fingers curling around the edge of her coat whenever someone walked by.

No one could see it. No one would believe her anyway.

Hell—she barely believed it.

By the time orientation started, her nerves were already worn to threads. The main hall buzzed with voices, chairs scraping, laughter that sounded a little too loud. Students filled the space in clumps, chatting, whispering, comparing notes or pretending not to care. Everything smelled faintly like old books and lavender wax.

A stained-glass dome arched overhead, casting streaks of soft color across the crowd below. Blues, purples, a splash of orange where the light hit just right. It should have been calming.

It wasn’t.

Seraphina found an empty seat in the back row and sank into it, keeping her head low.

Then she saw him.

He stood near the library doors, half-shadowed beneath a stone arch. The dim light didn’t hide him—it carved around him like it knew him.

Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. Calm posture, almost careless.

But it was him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Same face.

Same jaw.

Same unreadable eyes.

His wings were gone—but they didn’t need to be there. She would’ve known him anywhere.

The man from her dream.

She froze. Couldn’t look away.

And somehow, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he turned.

His eyes met hers.

Not in passing.

He saw her.

Seraphina’s stomach dropped.

He didn’t smile. Not really. But the corner of his mouth lifted—just barely. Like a quiet nod no one else would notice.

Like he was saying: I see you too.

And then, just like that, he looked away.

As if nothing had happened.

As if the air hadn’t just shifted entirely around her.

She barely heard the headmistress begin to speak. Her voice floated somewhere above the ringing in Seraphina’s ears, words melting into nothing.

The room moved on.

But Seraphina didn’t.

—

Later, when the students were dismissed, she slipped away from the crowd and made her way toward the administration wing. Her steps were fast, quiet, unsure.

Outside the main office, a tall bulletin board stood beside the hallway wall—lined with photos, names, and neatly printed roles beneath each.

Her hands shook as she scanned the faculty list.

Row after row of strangers. Stern faces. Names she didn’t recognize.

And then—there it was.

Lucan Vale — Literature Assistant. Restricted Office Hours. By Appointment Only.

She stared at it.

One line.

So simple.

So cold.

But it confirmed everything.

Lucan.

He had a name.

A title.

A place here.

He wasn’t just a dream.

She backed away from the board like it had burned her.

—

That night, she didn’t want to sleep.

Her body was exhausted, but her mind kept spinning. Her thoughts refused to lie still long enough for rest.

She left the light on, blanket pulled up to her chin. Her roommate was still out—maybe by choice, maybe a no-show. The dorm hallway was silent, doors closed like mouths that had nothing left to say.

Rain fell again outside. Heavier this time. It hit the window in thick, steady sheets, the kind of storm that sounded ancient.

Seraphina stared up at the ceiling and tried not to remember how it felt when his fingers touched hers. How warm the mark had been. How his voice had sounded too clear to be imaginary.

She was afraid to close her eyes.

Because she knew the moment she did—he’d be there.

And she didn’t know what she wanted more: for it to stop… or for it to continue.

Eventually, sleep won.

Her body gave in.

And the dream began.

—

She stood barefoot again, but this time not in a glowing chamber.

The air was different.

She was in a garden.

A maze, almost. Hedges climbed high around her, their leaves heavy with rain. The ground beneath her was soft. Damp earth. Rose petals scattered like ash.

The night sky above was silver and still.

A fountain trickled nearby.

Then she saw him.

Lucan.

He stood beside the fountain with his sleeves rolled again, water dancing from his fingers as if the drops answered to him alone.

He looked peaceful.

He looked like he’d been waiting.

“You came back,” he said softly, without turning.

She took one careful step forward. “You’re not real.”

Lucan turned his head. Met her gaze.

“Then why does your hand still burn?” he asked.

She looked down.

The rune on her palm glowed again.

Gold in the moonlight.

Alive.

He crossed the distance between them slowly. Not hesitantly. Just… careful.

“I’ve searched for you through lifetimes,” he said. “Always just out of reach. Always fading before I can hold you.”

“You don’t know me,” she whispered.

He didn’t touch her face.

But he lifted a hand—close, not quite grazing her skin.

“I know your soul,” he said.

His voice had shifted. It wasn’t just soft—it was tired.

Like he’d spent years trying not to forget her.

Then he kissed her.

Not wildly.

Not rushed.

Just enough.

Enough for her to feel something spark inside her ribs.

Enough to make her lean in without thinking.

The dream around them pulsed gold—soft, like candlelight.

—

She woke up breathless.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it had been chasing something in her sleep.

She reached for her face without thinking, fingers brushing her lips.

They tingled. Burned.

She stumbled out of bed and flipped on the lamp.

Then leaned in toward the mirror.

There—curved along her bottom lip—was a faint red mark.

Not a bruise.

Not a scratch.

A rune.

Left by a kiss that didn’t happen here.

But had happened somewhere.

—

She avoided people all morning.

The breakfast hall was too loud. The classrooms too tight. Everyone’s energy felt sharp against her skin.

So she went where it was quiet.

The library.

Books didn’t whisper. Books didn’t judge.

She wandered between the shelves, letting her fingertips trace the spines, letting her thoughts uncoil for the first time all day.

Then she turned a corner—and stopped cold.

Lucan was there.

Not a memory.

Not a dream.

Standing in front of a tall window, flipping through a worn book like he hadn’t just shattered her sleep.

“You’re early,” he said.

He didn’t look up.

Her breath caught. “For what?”

He finally turned.

His eyes—his real eyes—were the same as in the dream.

Deep. Still. Too old.

“You’re remembering me,” he said. “That’s what this is.”

Seraphina took a step back, heart thudding. “That wasn’t remembering. It was a dream.”

He closed the book slowly.

“I’m not like other people, Seraphina. I’m not even… people.”

She said nothing.

“I’m an incubus,” he said. “Cursed to walk through dreams until I find the soul that belongs to me.”

She shook her head. “No. This is crazy.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I can’t.” Her voice was thin. “I can’t believe you.”

Lucan stepped a little closer. Lowered his voice.

“You were mine in the last life. You died in my arms.”

She didn’t move.

He didn’t touch her.

He only said, “You loved me. You trusted me.”

Seraphina’s throat tightened. Her voice dropped.

“Even if you’re right… I’m not her.”

Lucan’s gaze didn’t break.

But his smile was soft. Quiet.

“Then I’ll make you fall for me all over again.”