Page 4 of A Match Made in Slumber

Idid indeed manage a dreamless sleep, but that turned out to be the only saving grace of the entire situation.

When I came round from my slumber, a dull pulse hammered away at the base of my skull. Something sharp dug into my palm. I glanced down to see the spent prototype of Tranquillity Match, its charred head a testament to the charm I’d used. The second thing that came into focus was the friction strip, smudged with two lines of glittering, crystalline residue—coral and indigo, blended together.

Blended together.

My stomach lurched, rising with a sudden, violent heave. Thankfully, there wasn’t much in there to start with and I managed to keep it down.

I rubbed my eyes, stretched my stiff neck and flew off my chair. Suppressing a wave of guilty nervousness, I scanned my surroundings, casting skittish glances left, right, and centre.

It must still have been very early. A handful of vendors had opened their stalls, while others, having just arrived, busybodied over their wares or unloaded deliveries, ignoring me. The few early risers moving through the market aisles walked with purpose, clearly using shortcuts to get elsewhere rather than stopping to shop. Nobody paid me any mind.

My false sense of security shattered once a crisp, crackling pop reverberated through the air. The atmosphere grew heavy, thick with static. It became so intense and oppressive that I struggled to breathe. Goosebumps erupted across my nape, and I felt the live buzz of magic zinging up and down my fingertips. Tiny jolts of purple fizzed and zapped in erratic, drunken arcs all around me.

Just one thing could have left a wake like this: the remnants of a potent, devastating enchantment. A sinking weight dropped onto my chest, the edges of my vision blurring. Whatever prepared to transpire, it wouldn’t be good. What have I done?

An ethereal spiral of shimmering particles erupted from the cobblestones, oozing raw energy, humming with power. A whirl of scorched desert wind and churning grit materialised in front of me, bringing the smell of dry minerals, sun-baked rocks and sand to my trained alchemist’s nostrils. The funnel changed shape, parting like a curtain to reveal a human silhouette within. I registered a flash of steel and a glimpse of leather as the force hurled forth the figure and at once dissipated.

Thud!

The man landed face-first into a heap of silk ribbon talismans I’d planned to offer my customers on a mix-and-match, buy-two-get-one-free deal later that morning. Thank fuck none of them triggered on impact. In other good news, my treasured glass charm standee survived untouched.

He gave a winded grunt, followed by a long, shuddering exhale. Having disentangled himself from the bundle of pastel silk strips, he lifted his head, taking a disoriented moment to get his bearings.

I had an honest-to-goddess impulse to reach out and pull him to his feet. But the moment I saw his face, I froze, my heart leaping into my throat.

Visibly fighting a wave of dizziness, he sought the support of the long, curved blade he held unsheathed to bring himself to standing. Then he unfolded to his full, imposing height, his gaze meeting mine.

I could only gape, words eluding me.

For starters, he spat a whole mouthful of grit. Secondly, an accusation: “It’s you!”

Leaning across the stall’s tabletop, he glared and thrust an elongated finger at me.

I’d gone and done it now—lost what little I’d had left of my marbles. Still, however many times I squeezed my eyes shut and reopened them, my mouth unwittingly mimicking the motion, it continued to be him, all right. My dream soldier. Just standing there, in the waking world and broad daylight, looking mighty pissed.

Pissed wasn’t the singular adjective that came to my boggled mind. I had little trouble finding a bunch of others—like magnificent. Gorgeous in that raw, unforgiving way discipline and combat chiselled into a man. Statuesque. Stripped of any soft angles or vulnerability.

Dressed in leather armour with steel breastplates over a midnight-tinted uniform, he possessed the flawless majesty of a martial deity. Crimson on the hilt of his sabre provided a lonely splash of colour against his dark attire. The reinforced bodice held the fabric flush across his sculptured torso, highlighting a body honed by decades of training. I found the combination of his stern jawline, glacier-blue eyes and sun-kissed skin—all framed by a long ash-blond mane—mouthwatering. His hair, pulled off his face into a high crown and secured with a silver ornament, held the rare, cool hue of weathered white oak. The rest of his smooth strands cascaded down his back like a frozen waterfall, leaving the sharp, uncompromising contours of his face exposed.

While we assessed each other, the silence between us grew wrinkled and silver-bearded.

I cleared my throat. “It… yes, it is me.” Since that appeared to be the single fact I could attest to for the moment, I didn’t mind admitting it. Clearly, that statement drained my supply of sane and coherent thoughts, since I felt compelled to add, “Can you pinch me?”

“Are you a mage?” His voice rasped, low and abrasive, like a heavy iron gate scraping over stone. He sheathed his sabre—a move that at least indicated he didn’t class me as an imminent physical threat.

“A magical alchemist,” I replied, insisting on preserving the distinction most people chose to ignore. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Um, let me introduce myself. Malvelian Fountenblym. Please call me Elian. I run this stall.” I made a wide gesture encompassing my booth. “Enchanted Matchsticks for Every Occasion.”

The extended regard he gave me made my ears flush. “Were those dreams your doing?”

The question, delivered with the persistent gravelly intensity, struck like a blow, cementing the nauseating truth: we had been sharing the same dreams. And he suspected me of inflicting them on him somehow. Well, then.

“Sweet goddess. Not at all. I swear, I had nothing to do with it. Well, I mean, I had something to do with it, since I was in them, obviously. As a participant. An unwilling participant.” I shook my head, realising how it sounded. “Wait, no, that’s not what I’m trying to say. Um, not unwilling as in ‘didn’t want to do it’. That would be untrue. I’ve never done anything so daring and pleasurable in my entire…” Blood rushed to my cheeks. How did I manoeuvre myself into discussing my erotic terrors with the chief protagonist himself? “Err, that is to say, um, I didn’t in any way orchestrate…”

I forced my mouth to cease yapping its flabbergasted nonsense the exact moment the soldier’s left eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. His stern countenance was locked into an expression of bewilderment, as though he were trying to interpret the foreign dialect of an unhinged creature.

“Mmm,” he growled. “Very well, then, alchemist. I have a breach about to happen at the Sable Citadel. You summoned me and now I’m here… Where the hell am I, exactly?” He finally turned to look about him. His glower deepened and his scowl grew more sour with every moment. “What is this place?” A flicker of distaste crossed his features. “What imbecile set up this camp? It’s a mess and a fire hazard. And why is everyone wearing ribbons?”

“Pardon me, I’m so sorry. I didn’t quite summon you, as such, I don’t think. Well, I mean, it wasn’t on purpose.” I protested with a frantic wave. My stupefaction reached its zenith. “You… You have a… breech? Like a baby upside-down?”