Beyond the fields, I see the forest and finally a ridge of mountains rising like black teeth against the star-filled sky.

"Bad dreams?" I ask, the words feeling inadequate for the weight they carry.

His jaw tightens, the scarred side of his face catching moonlight in a way that makes the damaged tissue look almost silver. "Always."

I nod, understanding more than he probably realizes. Even before I began dreaming of the beast in the dark waters, I was haunted by dreams about a storm so massive and powerful it destroyed everything in its path. Three years ago, the nightmares of the storm included horrific glimpses of tanned, familiar hands rising above churning waters—the last glimpses I ever had of my father and brothers.

Compared to these new dreams haunting me, those all feel quaint and gentle by comparison. "Mine are getting worse. More real," I admit, the words raw in my throat. "Like something's trying to claw its way into my head."

"What do you dream about?" he asks, surprising me with the question. He seems different tonight. More approachable, somehow. Maybe it's the simple fact that he's not glaring like he wants to kill me. Or fuck me. With Raith, it's honestly hard to tell. Or maybe it's my own confusing attraction to the man clouding the picture, making me see what I want to see.

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. My fingers absently trace the disguised mark on my hand. "Water. Darkness. Something watching me, hunting me. It feels ancient, hungry." I swallow hard. "It feels like it's waiting for something."

His eyes shift to me then and my breath catches in my throat, an electric current racing down my spine. "Since when?" he asks.

"They started maybe three weeks ago, I think, maybe before. But it's every night now. The same dream, but... more. Clearer." I wrap my arms tighter around myself. "What about yours?"

I don't actually expect an answer, but I'm surprised when he exhales slowly, a sound so weighted with pain it makes my chest ache. "Fire," he says simply.

The word hangs between us, heavy with everything he isn't saying.

Fire.

My memory flashes with the image of his fear when fire sprouted from my fingertips during our training match that first day. The way his eyes widened, the way his body went rigid.

It makes sense. How else would he have those twisted scars running up half of his face and the right side of his arm and hand?

I almost ask him how he's managing to not just survive but thrive as a fire affinity—how he could stand to be bound to the thing he must fear. My fingers itch to reach out and touch his scars, to trace their jagged paths.

And yet I don't need to ask, because I feel I understand completely.