The farther west they traveled, the clearer Annemarie’s visions became.

  At first it was just fragments— blurred shapes, muffled words, flashes of movement. Then came the thoughts. Not hers. Callista’s. Disjointed, but urgent. Images of twisting black trees, of cold air biting at her skin, of something moving in the dark.

  And above all— the sensation of fighting. Of clawing, resisting, pushing back against something hungry and endless.

  It wasn’t fear. It was defiance. Callista wasn’t running.

  She was holding the line.

  Annemarie tightened her grip on the reins as they rode, her heart hammering. They had no idea what they were walking into.

  The feeling settled deep in Annemarie’s bones, a cold certainty that gnawed at her with every mile. The further they rode, the less the visions felt like mere glimpses. They were sharpening, crystallizing into something more tangible, more insistent. The trees around them— normal, living things— began to feel like echoes of something darker. A warning, a threshold they had yet to cross.

  Callista’s thoughts weren’t just impressions anymore. They carried weight, intent. I will not fall. The words rang through Annemarie’s mind, unbidden. It wasn’t Callista speaking to her, not exactly. But it was something close.

  She inhaled sharply, trying to push back against the sensation, trying to remember where she was: on horseback, in Aleria, with Melissa and Brandon beside her. But the weight of the visions didn’t care about reality. They pressed forward.

  More images. More thoughts.

  A flash of steel catching dim, unnatural light. The taste of blood on her tongue, sharp and metallic. The scent of damp earth, thick with rot.

  And a presence. Not seen, not fully known, but felt. Something ancient, patient. Waiting.

  Annemarie clenched her jaw, focusing on the rhythmic pounding of hooves against the dirt road. She forced herself to stay present, but the connection was impossible to sever.

  Callista’s breathless exhaustion. The sting of sweat and grime in her eyes. The unyielding determination in her stance as she faced down the creeping darkness at the edge of her vision.

  The line she held— was it physical? A boundary? A city wall? Or was it something more ephemeral?

  Annemarie didn’t know. But she knew one thing:

  If Callista fell, there would be nothing to stop whatever was coming.

  The road through Lolinglas was long, winding westward through dense forests and rolling hills, the scent of damp earth and pine thick in the air. It was quiet, save for the occasional distant chatter of birds or the rustling of unseen animals moving through the underbrush.

  They had been traveling for two days now, their pace steady but cautious. The land here was largely untouched, the few homes they had passed rural and self-sustaining. And yet, there was an underlying tension beneath the peace— a sense that, somewhere ahead, the world was not as it should be.

  Annemarie could feel it.

  She rode at the front of the group, her posture relaxed but her body constantly adjusting. Her hands lightly gripped the reins as if she were responding to a rhythm that no one else could hear. The pull westward hadn’t weakened; if anything, it had grown stronger.

  She had stopped fighting it.

  The trees loomed larger as they progressed, their branches thick and tangled, casting dappled shadows across the worn dirt path. The undergrowth had grown denser, shifting from the familiar greens and browns of early spring to something wilder, untamed. The light filtered through the canopy in uneven patterns, playing tricks on the eyes, making movement difficult to track. More than once, Annemarie caught the flicker of something at the edges of her vision— a trick of the light, perhaps, or something else.

  Melissa yawned loudly behind her. “This is boring.”

  “We’re traveling through open roads,” Julia said, rolling her eyes. “What exactly were you expecting? Bandits? Highwaymen? Random murder?”

  “Gorgoloth is bored, too,” Melissa muttered. Her giant spider companion had hissed at Annemarie when they first met.

  Brandon shook his head. “You say that now. Give it another day— something will go wrong.”

  “Optimism,” Brenna said, taking a slow drag from her pipe as she rode beside them. “Love to see it.”

  Julia shot her a look. “You don’t seem very concerned.”

  Brenna exhaled smoke, shrugging one shoulder. “Not my first long journey. This part’s the easy bit— just wait until we cross the mountains.”

  “Yeah?” Melissa asked. “Why’s that?”

  “Because,” Brenna said simply, “we’re about to leave civilization behind.”

  A gust of wind stirred the treetops, carrying with it the faint smell of something distant. Something foreign. The road ahead stretched into the unknown, the hills growing steeper, the forests denser. There were no milestones, no waymarkers, only the endless path winding toward whatever lay beyond.

  The inn sat at the base of the mountain, tucked between dense trees and the winding road that led upward into the peaks. It was small, old, but well-maintained. Its wooden beams were darkened with time and its windows glowed warmly against the deepening twilight. The scent of pine and damp earth lingered in the crisp evening air, mingling with the faintest trace of woodsmoke curling from the stone chimney. A simple wooden sign, worn smooth by years of wind and rain, swung gently from iron brackets above the door. The lettering was barely legible in the fading light.

  Inside, the air smelled of hearth smoke and fresh bread, a welcome change from the damp chill of the road. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, the fire within casting flickering gold across the low-beamed ceiling. The wooden floor was scuffed and uneven, softened by woven rugs that had seen years of use. A handful of sturdy tables sat empty, their surfaces polished to a dull sheen, and the chairs— each mismatched in style— had been carefully arranged as if in anticipation of company. Along one wall, a narrow counter displayed a few bottles of locally brewed ale and a basket of fresh mushrooms.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The innkeepers— a kind, elderly couple named Garet and Linde— were nearly beside themselves with joy at the arrival of guests. They fussed over the group immediately, ushering them inside with delighted murmurs about how rare travelers were this time of year. Linde, her gray-streaked hair tucked into a neat bun, clapped her hands together as she took them in. Her eyes were alight with genuine excitement.

  “Oh, bless the Saints, it's been weeks since we’ve had proper company!” she exclaimed, reaching up instinctively to brush a bit of dust from Julia’s shoulder. “Come in, come in, you must be chilled through— Garet, stoke the fire!”

  Her husband, a broad-shouldered man with thinning white hair, gave an obliging grunt and tossed another log into the hearth. Sparks snapped into the air. “Poor weather we’ve had lately— the cold just won’t let up this year.” His voice was a rumble, thick with the accent of the mountain folk. “Lucky you’re making the trip now. A couple o’ weeks back, the pass was still snowed over.”

  Linde nodded fervently, already bustling toward the counter. “And you must be starving. We’ve got fish from the river— just caught this morning! And fresh greens, too— oh, you’ll need beds, too, I hope?”

  There was no need to ask. The warmth of the inn, the scent of roasting herbs already wafting from the kitchen, and the simple, unquestioning hospitality of the couple made the decision for them.

  Dinner was simple but satisfying: roasted whole fish, seasoned lightly with herbs. Tender spring vegetables and thick slices of rustic bread. The fish flaked apart easily beneath her fork, its skin crisp and golden, the delicate aroma of rosemary and thyme rising with the steam. The vegetables— baby carrots, wild greens, roasted mushrooms, and small, buttery potatoes— had been cooked just enough to retain their freshness. Their natural flavors were enhanced with little more than salt and a drizzle of oil. The bread was dense and warm, the kind that took effort to tear apart. Its crust crackled under Annemarie’s fingers before giving way to a soft, pillowy center.

  It was a far cry from the hurried meals of dried rations on the road, and Annemarie savored every bite. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, filling the dining hall with a gentle, steady heat. Around her, the others ate in comfortable silence, the kind that only came when hunger and exhaustion had worn away any need for conversation. Even Melissa and Brenna, who always seemed to have a quip at the ready, was content to simply eat, her eyes half-lidded with drowsy satisfaction.

  Garet and Linde watched them with pleased expressions, clearly delighted to have guests again. Linde occasionally bustled over to refill their cups with fresh springwater or press another hunk of bread into their hands, her joy as tangible as the warmth of the fire. They even set out a few fish for Gorgoloth, hardly blinking as the giant spider tore into the meat with hearty satisfaction.

  By the time the plates were empty and stomachs full, weariness had settled deep in Annemarie’s bones. A slow, creeping heaviness that made every movement feel sluggish.

  They took three rooms for the night— one for Julia and Melissa, one for Brenna, and one for Annemarie and Brandon. As they climbed the narrow wooden staircase to their room, she could feel the exhaustion creeping up now that they had stopped moving. The steps creaked beneath their feet, the sound softened by the thick, handwoven runner stretched along the hallway. The scent of the meal still clung to the air, mingling with the faint traces of lavender and beeswax.

  The room itself was small but clean, the furniture simple and sturdy. The bed, covered in crisp, starched sheets, looked impossibly soft. Its quilt, thick and worn with age, was embroidered with a repeating pattern of curling vines. A modest wooden dresser stood against the far wall, its surface bare except for a small ceramic washbasin and a neatly folded cloth.

  A single oil lamp on the bedside table cast flickering shadows against the walls, lending the space an almost dreamlike quality. The flame wavered slightly in the draft from the window, its glow painting long, golden streaks across the floor. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, rustling the branches just beyond the glass.

  It was quiet here. A stillness that felt safe.

  For the first time since they’d arrived in Aleria, Annemarie let herself breathe.

  Brandon set his pack down, stretching his arms above his head. “Feels weird, huh?”

  Annemarie looked over at him, brow quirked. “What does?”

  “Being somewhere... comfortable.” He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “Not worrying about what to eat, what to say, somebody almost dying.”

  She let out a quiet laugh, crossing the room to sit on the bed. “Yeah. Sorry about that, by the way.”

  Brandon exhaled, running a hand through his hair, coming to sit next to her. “I don’t blame you. Or anyone, honestly, not anymore.” He leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek. “But I missed you. When was the last time we had any time to just... be us?”

  That caught her off-guard. He was right.

  They had spent every moment in Aleria focused on survival, figuring out where to go next, how to navigate this strange world. Or unconscious. But before that— before Aleria— they had been a couple. A regular, stupid couple who went on dates, who stayed up too late talking about nothing. Who had the freedom to be close without the weight of an entire world pressing down on them.

  Annemarie shifted, moving her knees to rest on either side of Brandon’s hips, pushing him back further onto the bed. “I missed you, too,” she admitted softly. “I miss us.”

  Brandon met her gaze, something flickering in his expression. “Annemarie, I—”

  He apparently decided against whatever he was going to say and lifted his chin, lips meeting with the tug of, for all intents and purposes, weeks apart. His mouth opened easily under hers, tongue slipping into her mouth, and she sighed into him.

  They had been together for years. but it could have just as easily been their first kiss.

  Things grew heated slowly, easily, comfortably, like slipping into a warm bath. Annemarie moved her hips over his, pressing him down onto the quilt, kiss never breaking. She moaned as she felt him harden, grinding atop him more insistently.

  “You sure you’re good for this?” Brandon gasped, throwing his head back as she sucked at a pulse point.

  Annemarie let go with a smacking sound. “I know my own limits.” She sat up, untucking his shirt and slipping her hands beneath the fabric. Finding his nipples with unhurried precision, she traced them lightly with her fingertips before pinching a bud.

  Brandon surged up to kiss her again, unlacing her top to free her breasts, breaking the kiss to bend and take one heavy tip into his mouth. She writhed in his lap, moving her hips in a way that made him ache.

  Once her tits were pink with young bruises, she tore away from him and stood. Yanking the blouse over her head and shoving every part of her skirt and undergarments down, she knelt at the side of the bed between Brandon’s knees. “Scoot forward, love,” she said, voice thick. “Let me suck your cock.”

  Brandon actually whimpered. Unlacing his trousers with trembling fingers, he pulled himself out and watched with breathless anticipation as Annemarie licked a stripe up his dick. She lavished the base with attention, fingering his balls before lifting to take the tip into her mouth.

  They had come together maybe hundreds of times over the years, and by now Annemarie knew just how to play his body like an instrument. She could coax the most exquisite sounds from his throat, bringing him nearly to the precipice before backing off.

  By the time she was finished with him, her throat was raw, her jaw sore, but he was absolutely wrecked. Hair mussed and cheeks flushed, she thought it a damn sight better than the utter terror and dark circles that had been present all too often lately. He’d cared for her. He’d stayed, though the visions and fever were all she could offer in return.

  She pushed the thought from her mind.

  “I need to be inside of you,” Brandon begged, voice ragged. “Please, love. I’ve been good.”

  “So good,” she replied, crawling up his body to press a kiss to his throat. “A good boy like you deserves a reward.”

  He cried out as she positioned him and sheathed him inside her with one stroke. She paused— letting him adjust to the feeling, a little bit of mercy lest he spend himself too quickly— then began to move. Slowly, at first, just little rocks back and forth, then faster.

  Even still, he didn’t last long. With a shout he came, pulsing deep against her walls. But before she could move, he rolled them over, pulled out, and set his mouth to work.

  The tables turned, and before she fully realized what had happened, she was a soaked mess. Licking up the juices, two fingers fucking deep within her, he grinned as she gripped the quilt with white-knuckled pleasure. She came with a last gush of fluid against his face, and he swallowed greedily.

  Later, wrapped in the quiet of the night, Annemarie rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers traced idle patterns against her back, his breathing slow and even.

  “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured, voice drowsy but certain. “Whatever happens.”

  She closed her eyes, letting herself believe it, just for tonight. “Yeah,” she whispered. “We will.”

  definitely shouldn't have been writing Branmarie smut. I can promise you two things: I'm definitely an adult, and there will definitely be more.