The Dream of Chains and Ash

The room was quiet.

Nate's breath was steady now, slow, soft, one arm curled loosely against his chest as he slept. The silver moonlight pooled along the marble floor, touching the corner of the couch where Jake lay.

But Jake…

Jake wasn't asleep.

Not really.

Not the way humans understand it.

Demons didn't dream—not unless the soul that bound them bled into their thoughts. And Nate's soul had bled into him in more ways than one.

The quiet tug of his heartbeat thrummed beneath Jake's skin like a second pulse. The warmth still lingered, not from fire—but from care. That's what disturbed him most.

And then…

It began.

---

The Dream.

Smoke.

That was the first thing Jake felt. The air choked with it. Sweet and heavy like burnt myrrh. He stood not in the palace of Kareth, but in a familiar hall lit only by torches.

He knew this place.

Velisya's old war chambers—where oaths were once carved into demon bone and hung as trophies.

And there, in the center, stood Eric.

The former prince.

The man whose blood still echoed in the palace walls.

He was dressed in ceremonial crimson, tall and solemn. But his eyes held no hatred. Only disappointment.

"You were always waiting to be loved," Eric said, not cruelly. "And when you weren't… you punished the world."

Jake's fists clenched. "You lied to me. You called me yours. And then threw me aside like I was filth."

"I was afraid of you."

"You were mine."

Eric stepped forward. "And now Nate is."

The name cracked the dream like thunder. Jake flinched.

"No," he growled. "He's different. He commands like you, but he—he—"

"He hasn't rejected you," Eric said softly. "But he will."

Jake's eyes burned.

"I don't need him."

"Then why did you shield him with your body?"

Jake's hands trembled. "I don't know."

Eric stepped closer. His form flickered with flame and smoke. "Yes, you do."

"I was just… teasing him," Jake whispered. "Just testing his limits."

"But he's not afraid of you," Eric said. "He speaks to you like you're a person. You hate that, don't you?"

Jake's voice cracked. "I hate that he sees me."

Silence.

The torches flickered out.

And from the far end of the dream, like a thread of silver light—came a voice.

> "Jake... wake up."

Jake turned.

It wasn't Eric anymore.

It was Nate. Standing at the edge of the smoke, barefoot, wrapped in moonlight and sleep. His voice calm. Uncertain. Real.

> "You're growling again. And your soul is bleeding into mine."

Jake blinked.

> "Jake. Wake up."

---

Reality.

Jake's eyes snapped open.

His chest was rising fast—too fast. The silk sheets on the couch were damp with sweat. The moon had shifted slightly. The candles had burned lower.

From the bed, Nate stirred, not looking at him. "You okay?"

Jake sat up, rubbing the heel of his hand against his temple. "Fine."

A long pause.

"I dreamt of Eric," he admitted, unbidden.

Nate turned his head slightly. "What did he say?"

Jake hesitated. Then:

> "That you'll reject me, too."

Silence.

Then Nate whispered, "I haven't."

Jake laughed dryly, but it lacked bite. "Not yet."

Nate didn't reply.

He rolled onto his back and said, almost too quietly, "Go back to sleep, Jake."

But Jake remained seated.

Staring at the fire. Wondering if maybe, for once, the bond between demon and master didn't feel like a chain… but a thread. Thin. Fragile. Pulling him somewhere he couldn't control.

Somewhere dangerously close to wanting.

Not power. Not revenge.

But Nate.