He woke to warmth.
Real warmth. Not jungle heat, not fire — just warmth.
Soft sheets under his palms. Air that smelled faintly of vanilla and something sweeter underneath, like sun-warmed skin.
Ezra blinked at the ceiling. Smooth stone. No cracks. No moss.
He sat up fast. His heart hammered. The bed moved with him — an actual bed. Clean clothes. No cuts. No dirt.
He slapped himself once, hard.
The sting stayed.
Not a dream, then.
Or maybe one too deep to climb out of.
He swung his legs off the bed — and froze.
There was someone else in the room.
"Finally awake?"
The voice was soft. Light. Familiar and not.
A figure leaned against the doorway — long black hair spilling over bare shoulders, dark skin gleaming like bronze caught in sunlight. Her eyes were violet-blue, shifting as they watched him. Beautiful didn't even touch it. She looked carved from every stupid fantasy he'd never admitted to having.
For a second he just stared — too long, too dumb.
Then his stomach flipped. The voice. The curve of her smile—
He knew that smile.
"Asli?"
The name scraped out of him before he could swallow it.
She tilted her head, amused. "Is that what you see?"
Ezra blinked hard. Once. Twice. The face didn't change.
She looked like him. Not perfectly, but enough that his mind flicked between mismatched images — the Asli he knew, quiet and stubborn behind that blindfold, and this one, bright and whole and bare-eyed, laughing like she already knew every secret in his head.
"This is—" His voice cracked. "This is insane."
"Is it?" she asked, stepping closer. The scent of her — of something — filled the air: vanilla, smoke, honey. He felt it in his pulse, in the heat curling through his gut. "You wanted to see me. So here I am."
"I didn't—" He tried to back away, hit the edge of the bed instead. "You're not even— you're not—"
"Real?" she supplied, smiling.
He swallowed hard. "You're a guy."
Her laughter was soft. Beautiful. Cruel.
She came closer until she stood right in front of him, every inch of her faintly shimmering, as if her skin caught light from someplace unseen. Her hand rose — slow, deliberate — and brushed his chest, right where the brand pulsed beneath the fabric.
Ezra went still. His breath caught. The heat in his body spiked.
Then her eyes changed.
Blue bled into gold. The pupils slit like a serpent's. When she spoke again, her voice was layered — Asli's and something older, something vast.
"Little light," she murmured. "You dream of what you desire most. Be careful what answers."
The warmth burned.
The air fractured.
Vanilla turned to ash.
He gasped and the room fell away.
Ezra woke with a start.
Air tore into his lungs like he'd been drowning. His shirt clung to his skin, damp, the sheets twisted around his legs. The campfire was dead — only embers now, faint and red. Everyone else still slept.
He didn't. Couldn't.
His pulse hammered behind his eyes. His body ached, sticky with sweat. For one stupid, horrible second, he thought he was still in that room — still watching her smile at him with his face.
Then the night air hit him, cold and real.
"Shit," he whispered under his breath.
He shoved his hands through his hair, pressing his palms against his temples like he could scrub the image out. It didn't work. The warmth stayed — low in his gut, crawling under his skin. His throat felt dry, too dry, and when he shifted, he felt the shame of it — heat, sweat, a betrayal he didn't have words for.
He groaned, muffling it against his sleeve.
"Get a grip, Ezra."
No one stirred. Good. The last thing he needed was Rin's sarcasm or Rowan's smirk. Or, gods forbid, Cassian's silent, judging stare.
He peeled the damp fabric from his skin, hating the way it stuck to his legs. His face burned so hot it hurt. The dream had felt real — too real — and the echo of it hadn't left.
She'd smelled like vanilla.
Her laugh had sounded like Asli's.
No. His.
Not hers. His.
Ezra swore softly again, under his breath, just to fill the silence.
He couldn't look anyone in the eye after this. Not if they somehow knew.
He grabbed his water flask, found it half-empty, and left the camp. Careful steps, quiet enough not to wake anyone.
The trees opened a little near the ridge. A small stream glimmered in the dark, thin and silver. He knelt beside it, plunging his hands into the cold water. It burned against his overheated skin. He splashed his face, again and again, until the cold bit deep and the shame ebbed to something he could breathe through.
When he finally looked up, the jungle was still. The pyramid loomed in the distance, a black silhouette against the faint red glow of the horizon. For a moment, it almost looked like it was watching him.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"Just a dream," he muttered. "Just a dream."
"I mean, it's just a normal body reaction, right…?" Ezra muttered under his breath, scrubbing harder at his face. "Yeah. Completely normal. I'm not into men… yeah."
The stream's surface rippled as he rinsed his hands again. His reflection wobbled — red-eyed, hair sticking up, pathetic. He sighed.
"Just a dream," he told the water. "Besides, dreams aren't real."
"…What dreams?"
Ezra froze.
The words came from behind him — too casual to be a threat, too quiet to be safe.
He turned slowly.
Rowan leaned against a tree trunk a few paces away, half in shadow, an apple in one hand, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. His hair was a mess, his shirt half-buttoned, his entire existence a portrait of unbothered calm.
Ezra's brain flatlined.
"Oh," he said, voice cracking. "Uh — morning."
"Barely." Rowan took another slow bite of the apple. "You always talk to yourself when you're naked by a river?"
Ezra's face went scarlet. "I wasn't naked."
"You're half naked," Rowan said through his chew, gesturing lazily with the apple. "Which is worse, really."
Ezra scrambled for his briefs , tugging it on, nearly tripping over his own boots.
"Relax," Rowan drawled, eyes glinting with amusement. "We're both men. It's fine." A pause — just long enough to make it unbearable. "Unless you're into men?"
Ezra hurled the nearest jug at him. Rowan sidestepped, laughing as water splashed across the dirt.
"Can you not—" Ezra groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
"Not what? State facts?" Rowan tilted his head, still grinning. "You're jumpier than usual. Bad dream?"
Ezra turned back to the stream, praying the reflection would drown him. "Something like that."
"Something or someone?"
Ezra choked on air. "What—what's that supposed to mean?"
Rowan shrugged, grin widening. "I don't know, man. You're out here, middle of the night, washing off like you just committed a crime. I've seen that look before."
"There was no look," Ezra snapped.
"Sure," Rowan said. "Whatever helps you sleep."
"Rowan."
"Ezra."
They stared each other down. The jungle hummed around them, low and restless. Somewhere far off, the pyramid pulsed faint red, a heartbeat waiting for dawn.
Finally, Rowan bit into his apple again, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Next time you decide to confess your sins, maybe whisper. Camp's full of light sleepers."
Ezra groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate you."
Rowan tossed the apple core into the trees, strolling back toward the firelight with infuriating ease. "You say that now. Wait till I tell Rin."
Ezra froze mid-step. "You wouldn't—"
But Rowan didn't leave. Instead, he sank down onto a fallen tree near the stream, grin still lazy, eyes glinting. He swung a strap from his shoulder — something Ezra hadn't noticed before — and laid it across his knees. Metal caught the faint red light bleeding through the canopy.
A rifle.
Ezra blinked. The same one from the ceremony — the one that had shattered the air, the one that almost tore reality open. He'd forgotten about it, or maybe just wanted to.
Rowan pulled a rag from his pocket and began cleaning the weapon. Slow, precise. His hands knew what they were doing — too well.
Ezra frowned. "You're seriously keeping that thing?"
Rowan didn't even glance up. "You're seriously still talking?"
Ezra crossed his arms. "It doesn't belong here. Nothing modern does. It shouldn't even exist in the Trial."
A half-smile crept over Rowan's face. "Yeah. That's the point."
He turned the rifle toward the firelight. The black metal gleamed — smooth, flawless, unmarred except for a few faint scratches that looked more like veins than wear. It shimmered faintly, the way resonance did when it wanted to be noticed.
Rowan caught Ezra's stare. "You're wondering how I have this, aren't you?"
Ezra hesitated, then muttered, "It shouldn't be possible."
Rowan chuckled, low and even. "You really think the Trial plays by rules? Everyone's resonance is different — build, destroy, twist, preserve. Some of us just figure out how to keep things the world's supposed to erase."
Ezra arched a brow. "So what, your resonance is gun maintenance?"
Rowan's grin widened. "Cute. No. Let's just say it's something you'd never guess — and better left a secret."
He ran his thumb along the rifle's side, slow and almost fond. "Shame, though. Baby's out of bullets."
He said it lightly, but something beneath his grin cracked — a flicker of nostalgia, or regret. It was small, but Ezra caught it.
Ezra crouched beside him, curiosity edging into unease. "So what's the plan, then? Throw it at people?"
"Maybe," Rowan said, shrugging. "Still worth something. Pretty expensive, you know."
"Yeah," Ezra muttered. "Expensive, useless, and impossible."
Rowan tilted his head, firelight painting his grin in gold and shadow. "Story of our lives, huh?"
Ezra didn't answer. He just looked at the rifle — at the impossible thing that somehow still existed — and wondered if Rowan was talking about the weapon, or the both of them.