Page 7 of A Match Made in Slumber

Yet, most damning of all sat the shameful, quiet undercurrent of relief.

The man unconscious in my arms mirrored the exact figure from my nocturnal fantasies—the very thing that had kept me anchored to my sanity throughout the wreckage of strife. Those dreams had offered me sanctuary, a fleeting escape from the relentless slaughter, the darkness, the screaming nightmares of the trenches and the rot of death. Seeing him now in the flesh, proving he existed as a living, breathing entity rather than a symptom of battlefield madness, stirred a fierce, protective instinct I could neither suppress nor ignore.

The realisation tasted bitter, like ash. Part of me—a deeply buried, exhausted fragment of my soul—felt… dare I call it—gratitude? For being extricated from the endless bleakness of a war zone, even for a little bit. I’d known nothing but blood and the blade since entering the military as a lad, never believing myself entitled to peace or rest, let alone happiness or family. Admitting that I welcomed the reprieve felt like a treasonous surrender.

I lingered on the cobblestones, gazing down at his face as my racing pulse bore witness to the volatile gridlock of my thoughts.

I had never encountered a male so absurdly pretty. The shadowy circles beneath his eyes didn’t take away from his appeal; if anything, the fatigue added refinement to his magnetic beauty.

He carried himself with a natural, ethereal elegance, even in that bizarre, flowing apparel of indescribable colour. Not quite blue or green, either. His pale complexion, framed by a chaotic tumble of ink-black hair, lent him a slight look of helplessness, made more pronounced now while he remained stripped of consciousness. Yet when animated, his dark eyes and subtle features projected a spirited, expressive edge—a captivating contradiction that unsettled my mind.

He appeared, by all observable intel, somewhat of a walking disaster. And gods, could he ramble. But he was real. And my mind kept telling me he belonged to me. I didn’t believe that voice. I didn’t dare to. I didn’t deserve him. Someone like me, with violence-stained hands, didn’t get happy endings in a world filled with—what did he call them?—festive favours.

But until I found a way back to my theatre of war, he remained my only living daydream in this ribbon-cluttered nightmare.

Keălhem

Icouldn’t tell how long I spent brooding over the layers of my contradictory feelings, staring at Elian, before resolving to scoop him gently up from the stones. I deposited his slack form into the padded, comfortable-looking chair and tucked him into the rearmost corner of the stall, partly obscured by the linen curtain. The move served a dual purpose: it kept him shielded from the morning breeze and ensured the growing crowd of early marketgoers wouldn’t gawk at their resident alchemist out cold. Having done so, I took off my cloak and draped it over his shoulders like a heavy shawl. He remained lost to the world, anchored in deep sleep, which my field assessment deemed the remedy his frantic mind required.

With the sun climbing higher into the sky and the surrounding avenues swelling with a morning buzz, I found myself adrift without a clear objective. Inactivity always bred an intense discomfort in my bones, so I turned my attention to the front of Elian’s display counter.

Gods merciful, what an utter and complete disaster. It proved fucking impossible to tell heads or tails of the jumbled wares. The merchandise sat lumped together without a single shred of organisational logic, the sheer visual noise threatening to grant me an immediate tension headache. Even without understanding the exact purpose of these unusual, long and slender matchsticks, each crowned with a different, vivid tip, it did them no favours from a potential buyer’s point of view to be arranged in such a shitshow.

Without much thought, I proceeded to analyse, group and deploy the inventory, approaching the mess as I would a disorganised supply depot. In under half an hour, I transformed the chaos into a functional installation. I cleared the unnecessary trinkets away, sweeping them into the wooden crates beneath the counter, and exposed the merchandise with the most brilliant, glittery resin, which seemed most impressive to me, in the centre.

Upon completing the task, I checked on Elian. He breathed in a regular, tranquil rhythm, his facial colouring improved. Unable to resist the impulse, I reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair away from his cheekbone.

The feel of his satin skin under my calloused fingertips sent a sharp flash of heat straight to my core. I swallowed hard and yanked my hand back. It didn’t bode well that the tiniest touch already threatened to shatter my discipline and leave me completely undone.

“Damn, won’t you look at that. I don’t think Elian’s stall has ever seen a straight line in its entire existence. Not bad.”

I pivoted on my heel, my hand instinctively dropping toward the hilt of my sabre, to find a stranger fixing me with a piercing gaze, his eyes going round. It only proved how preoccupied I’d been for a common civilian to breach my perimeter without triggering my senses.

The newcomer sported a mass of wavy auburn hair, a wide mouth and a light dusting of freckles across his nose. Half a head shorter than me and a bit narrower across the shoulders, though still well-built, he carried a relaxed, grounding presence. He wore a tunic dyed the deep, rich green of moss and exuded an aroma of rosemary and pine needles.

“I’m Fern,” he said, holding up his palms to show they held nothing but a small handful of iridescent purple seeds. With a flick of his wrist, he slipped them safely into his pocket. “Fern Quisoh, Elian’s best friend. We went to the Element-ary together.”

“‘The Elementary’?” I echoed.

“The High Academy of Elemental Magic, Law and Arcane Sciences,” Fern clarified, a warm smile twitching the corner of his lips. “In Emberleigh.”

“I see. Commander Keălhem Reñyés,” I said simply, because what else could I have added? The situation felt too convoluted to explain to a bystander. “You’re also a magical alchemist?”

Fern’s lips curved upwards again, a flash of approval in his eyes. Did he register the fact that I’d chosen the exact, correct honorific Elian had insisted upon prior to hitting the deck?

“No, I’m a magical herbalist and botanical expert. I run the stall next door.” He gestured to the impeccable array of earthenware pots and shallow wicker trays lining his counter.

Unlike the chaotic explosion of Elian’s matchstick display, the herbalist’s workspace hummed with a quiet, organic precision. Bunches of glowing, luminescent moss and ferns hung from the rafters, weeping tiny droplets into silver catch-basins below as refreshing bursts of mist puffed over them at steady intervals. Rows of blown-glass jars containing oddly shaped, vibrant roots stood alongside bundles of fresh herbs, flowers, and dried leaves. Thick, bubbling nectars filled whimsical, stoppered vials, while a massive clay dish served as the centrepiece. It sat piled high with exotic fruits and vegetables in forms and shades unknown to my eye and palate. Every so often, a passing whiff of rain and rich soil drifted from the booth that resembled equal parts vendor stall and experimental laboratory.

Fern displayed neither puzzle nor surprise at my presence, nor did he demand to know what an armed commander intended to do at a market. He cast a glance towards Elian’s sleeping corner. “He’s asleep then? Good. He needs rest.”

Curiosity got the better of me. “Is there anything else you wish to ask me?”

“Why would I?” Fern stepped towards the newly straightened match counter and leant against the post, offering a casual shrug. “I know exactly who you are.”

“You do?” My brow furrowed.

“Sure. I’ve seen enough of your drawings to recognise that austere chin anywhere.”