The small vial of Moonbloom Essence, hidden deep within Elias's robes, became a secret talisman, a forbidden source of tangible solace. He used it sparingly, a single drop on his temples and pulse points before sleep, terrified of its potency and the implications of its discovery. Its effect was profound. The grinding ache in his bones softened to a bearable murmur, the tension knotting his shoulders and spine eased, and the relentless mental churn of anxieties – the Conclave, the Pontiff, Averey's scheming – quieted, replaced by a profound, velvety darkness.
But the relief came at a price. The deep, dreamless sleep he craved remained elusive. Instead, the potent essence, perhaps by silencing the physical and mental noise, unlocked a different realm: a landscape of vivid, relentless, and deeply unsettling dreams. Dreams haunted by Theron Blackwood.
They began subtly. Elias would find himself standing on the periphery of a vast, echoing training yard, shrouded in mist. The clang of steel on steel rang out, rhythmic and brutal. Through the haze, Theron moved. Not the controlled Commander, but a force of nature unleashed. Sweat glistened on bare, powerful shoulders as he wielded a practice greatsword, muscles coiling and releasing with lethal grace. The air vibrated with the raw power of each swing, the ground trembling faintly under his boots. Elias watched, frozen, as Theron spun, the blade a silver blur, his expression one of fierce, almost feral concentration. He wasn't just training; he was exorcising demons Elias couldn't see, pouring frustration and suppressed fury into every devastating arc. Elias felt the heat radiating from him, smelled the sharp tang of exertion and leather, heard the low, guttural sounds Theron made with each exertion. It was terrifying and mesmerizing. He woke with his heart pounding, the phantom scent of sweat and steel clinging to him, his own skin inexplicably flushed.
Other nights plunged him into suffocating intimacy. He'd be back in his dimly lit meditation chamber, the air thick with incense. Theron would be seated opposite him, impossibly close. Not speaking. Just looking. His golden eyes, usually sharp and guarded, would hold Elias captive. In the dream, they weren't just amber; they seemed to glow with an internal fire, the pupils elongated into distinct, mesmerizing slits – the undeniable mark of his draconic heritage, stripped bare. Elias couldn't look away. The intensity in that gaze was a physical weight, a silent demand that stripped away every layer of pretense, every vestige of his cardinal robes. It spoke of hunger, of possession, of a depth of feeling that both terrified and magnetized him. He'd try to lower his gaze, to break the connection, but the dream held him fast, forcing him to drown in those molten-gold depths. He'd wake gasping, his cheeks burning as if seared, the phantom intensity of that stare leaving him trembling and profoundly exposed.
The most potent dreams, however, were the ones that left him drenched in sweat and aching with a shameful, undeniable longing. He'd be standing in a vast, empty space – perhaps the cathedral nave, perhaps a starless void. Theron would be there, facing him. No words were spoken. Theron would simply raise a hand, palm outward. From his core, a wave of shimmering, golden energy would erupt – not the violent heat of battle, but a deep, resonant warmth, the very essence of his dragon blood made manifest. Simultaneously, Elias would feel his own Resonant Light respond, surging from within him, not as a controlled beam of healing, but as a pure, brilliant white radiance. The two energies would rush towards each other, not colliding, but merging.
In the dream, the sensation was beyond description. It wasn't pain, nor was it merely pleasure. It was a complete dissolution of boundaries. He felt Theron's power – ancient, volcanic, fiercely protective – flood his senses, intertwining with the cool, pure stream of his own Light. It was an invasion and a homecoming, a terrifying loss of self and an ecstatic union. He felt the heat of Theron's presence not just around him, but within him, pulsing in time with his own heartbeat. His Light wrapped around Theron's core, not to heal or purify, but to embrace, to know. There was no thought, only sensation: the overwhelming warmth, the dizzying power exchange, the profound sense of rightness warring with the screaming knowledge of utter, sacrilegious transgression. The dream would build to an unbearable crescendo, a silent symphony of mingling energies, leaving Elias feeling simultaneously consumed and completed. Then, he would jolt awake.
The aftermath was always the same. He'd lie rigid in the pre-dawn gloom, the sheets tangled around his legs, his body slick with sweat that felt illicit. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic prisoner. His skin burned, hypersensitive, as if still resonating from the dream-energy's touch. And the worst part: a low, persistent thrum of arousal, a physical echo of the dream's forbidden ecstasy, tangled inextricably with a crushing wave of guilt.
He'd stare up at the familiar ceiling, the ornate plasterwork resolving into shapes in the dimness. The ache in his bones, soothed by the Moonbloom, was replaced by a deeper, more insidious ache – one of longing and self-loathing. The dreams felt less like random figments and more like treacherous messages from his own deepest, most suppressed desires, amplified and laid bare by the essence meant to calm him. He saw Theron's fierce protectiveness, his raw power, his unwavering, dangerous focus on him – qualities that both terrified and drew him inexorably closer. The dreams stripped away the rationalizations, the vows, the Pontiff's warnings, and left only the stark, undeniable truth: he craved the dragon knight's presence, his warmth, his intensity, in ways that had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with a yearning that felt both sacred and profoundly profane.
The guilt was a physical weight on his chest. He was a Cardinal-elect, sworn to celibacy, his life dedicated to the purity of the Light. Yet his subconscious, fueled by forbidden essence, conjured visions of soul-deep entanglement with a man harboring ancient, volatile power. He imagined Deacon Marcus's cold disapproval, Pontiff Vigilius's disappointed paternal gaze, Deacon Averey's knowing, triumphant sneer if they could glimpse these nocturnal betrayals. He'd clutch the hidden vial of Moonbloom Essence, the smooth wood cool against his feverish palm. Was this the price? Physical relief traded for spiritual torment? The essence granted him respite from the body's pain, only to unleash the far more dangerous pain of the heart and soul.
He'd force himself out of bed, moving like an automaton. He'd splash icy water on his face, the shock a temporary reprieve from the lingering heat and shame. He'd kneel before his small prayer altar, clasping his hands until the knuckles turned white, begging the Light for purity of thought, for strength to resist these treacherous whispers of the night. But the images remained – Theron's sweat-sheened back, the predatory intensity of his slitted golden gaze, the overwhelming, consuming warmth of their energies merging. The dreams were echoes, yes, but they resonated with a terrifying truth he could no longer deny, even in the cold light of dawn. The Moonbloom Essence had opened a door to his own hidden depths, and Theron Blackwood, the forbidden storm, was waiting on the other side. Elias Vance was no longer just battling external pressures; he was besieged from within by entwined dreams that left him flushed, trembling, and utterly conflicted, a servant of the Light haunted by the dragon's fire in the deepest watches of the night.