CHAPTER 20: MOTH-NADO

  Yael had booked it across the dreamscape.

  Not merely ran— He fled with a kind of urgency reserved for disasters already in motion.

  Streets rippled beneath his boots as if the dream itself were trying to keep pace, folding and bending like wet paper under weight.

  Each breath tore out of his chest in ragged bursts, too uneven to measure, driven by calculations he didn’t have the luxury to complete.

  Suryel tilted her head as he arrived, drifting toward her in his robe, smaller than usual against the warped streets.

  The fabric of his robe though heavy flared unevenly, edges fraying, carrying the weight of a man pressed suddenly into gravity’s harsh embrace.

  He didn’t look wrong. He looked… Urgent. Desperate.

  Like the seconds behind him were gnawing at his heels.

  Questions bubbled in her mind— Where had he gone? What had he done? What was chasing him?— But they were swallowed instantly by action.

  Without greeting, without warning, Yael scooped her into his arms.

  The world jolted violently as her feet lifted from the ground.

  Streetlights streaked into yellow smears. Her sense of direction evaporated, replaced by the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat against her cheek.

  This was not the gentle, steady guardian carry she was used to.

  This was an evacuation.

  She flailed immediately.

  “Hey! I have my own two feet to run on!” Hands slapped his shoulders. Legs kicked air. Her voice ricocheted off the dreamscape, half-shock, half-annoyance.

  “I got it, no worries!” Yael gasped. The lie was obvious in his red, strained face. Control was not his right now— Not entirely. Not yet.

  He picked up pace, almost tripping over the shifting streets, but caught himself instinctively. Arms adjusted, securing her. Eyes scanned for the next route, calculating without pause.

  Pain lanced up his leg with every step. He ignored it. Cataloged it.

  Filed it under later. Warm blood seeped beneath his boot where a vent had bitten him earlier, unnoticed.

  They rounded a corner and slammed into a wall.

  Suryel’s reflexes kicked in; she caught part of the impact, arm pressed against him for balance. “Put me down!”

  She snapped, gritting her teeth. Trapped in a cage of panic and adrenaline, she clawed for autonomy.

  Yael only smiled up at her, breathless and flushed, a mix of pain and determination etched across his features.

  Her hands reached his shoulders again, half to fight, half to protest— But before she could finish, moths swarmed like a goddamn F5 tornado.

  The moths erupted from a vent behind them, spiraling and collapsing, reforming into a chaotic vortex.

  Wings scraped brick and glass, leaving ghostly streaks of powdery marks, whispering in a suffocating drone that wrapped around their ears.

  Suryel froze. She had nowhere to step, nowhere to run. For the first time in the flight, she let herself settle in Yael’s arms.

  Hazel eyes lifted to his face. He was solid. Tank-like. Breathing in perfect rhythm with her own racing pulse.

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  She silently admired him— An anchor in the storm of wings.

  The Chapel glowed ahead, a beacon in the night.

  Almost there. Relief tempted her, sweet and immediate, until the dream betrayed them again. A vent beneath Yael’s foot snapped open.

  The ground peeled away, swallowing his foot like wet paper.

  Balance collapsed.

  Yael dropped to one knee, fighting physics with a hiss.

  He almost lost her, but instinct and adrenaline moved faster than panic. He caught her mid-fall, shoulders straining.

  Pain shot through his shoulder, down his back, radiated to his elbow when it slammed against pavement. “Ow!” He growled, teeth clenched.

  Still, he checked her first.

  Voice ragged. “Are you hurt? I’m sorry. Hold on.” Concern threaded through every word. His grip tightened reflexively, as if no force in any realm could take her from him.

  Suryel stayed silent. Arms draped over his shoulder, she refused to accept the apology with a glance. Now was no time for guilt. Only motion. Only survival. And trust.

  Adrenaline and instinct propelled Yael forward again, unevenly but determined.

  She felt the tremor in him— Not fear, not panic, but the quiet exhaustion of someone pushing past limits without complaint. Something coiled in her chest, a heat of protectiveness, sharp and clear.

  The Chapel loomed closer, edges blurred by moth dust and dreamlight.

  Yael’s steps were precise but strained, each one a careful negotiation with physics.

  Suryel’s fingers dug lightly into his shoulder— Not in fear, but in solidarity: Almost there. We can do this.

  Ahead, the moths thickened, forming a wall between them and safety.

  Suryel clenched her jaw, face tightening into a grimace. She ticked through the mental checklist.

  One. She had been made to feel stomach drops too many times today.

  Two. Kept in the dark with good intentions, fine.

  Three. She had watched Yael take damage and still smile, silent through it all.

  Four. These intruders dared to stand between them when they were so close.

  After everything she had witnessed— Oh hell no.

  Patience snapped.

  The anger came hot, clean, focused.

  Not panic.

  Not fear.

  A sharp fire born of long-suffering patience.

  “ALRIGHT. THAT’S IT. GET OUT!” Suryel screamed. The sound rolled across the dream realm, a thunderous pulse erupting outward before Yael could react.

  Vents shuttered shut. Moths in flight plummeted like falling leaves, stunned, hitting the ground in a flurry of futile flaps.

  The dreamscape rang like glass struck with a hammer.

  Streetlights dimmed momentarily, flickering before regaining their glow.

  Suryel laughed in Yael’s arms, fist-pumping.

  She clapped her hands, ecstatic and satisfied, a grin splitting her face like she’d just won a private war.

  Yael adjusted his footing, crossing the street toward the Chapel.

  He scanned the scattered moths, careful not to crush them beneath his boots.

  Then he looked down at Suryel in his arms, realization dawning: She was not a passenger but a live, volatile force— Unstable, precious, bright as collapsing stars.

  Grip instinctively tightened.

  Suryel pressed herself closer, silently laughing.

  Her energy crackled through the dreamscape, a spark of mischief cutting through the weight of fear and exhaustion. This was her domain, her rules, her fight.

  She had unknowingly drawn a line.

  Helel arrived, drifting through the cold night air, following the echo of her shout.

  His presence rewrote the hierarchy of attention, moths and street alike seemed to yield to him.

  Settling onto a tree branch with casual elegance, he observed the scene, a corner of his lip twitching upward.

  His eyes landed on Yael holding Suryel.

  He watched silently, corners of his mouth lifting even more with amusement, eyes softening slightly at Suryel’s triumphant energy yet remaining sharp.

  “There you are.” He said quietly.

  Weight behind his tone carried approval.

  Moths stilled further, even the fallen ones ceasing struggle.

  The dreamscape itself seemed to acknowledge hierarchy.

  Yael adjusted his hold again, arms locked around Suryel as if no force could prise her free. He stole a breath, muttering to himself, “We’re not done yet.”

  Tremor in his limbs faint now, drowned beneath resolve.