Chapter 127 Seductive Dreams, Chilling Reality

Chapter 127 Seductive Dreams, Chilling Reality
That night, the bed that usually served as a sanctuary after an exhausting day felt foreign.
Lyla lay on her back, eyes wide open, staring at the dark ceiling of the room. Beside her, Lysander was deep in sleep—his breathing heavy and rhythmic, his brow furrowed even in slumber, as if the burden he carried never truly let go even when his eyes were closed.
Lyla gazed at her husband’s profile. The sharp jawline, the thin lips that rarely smiled, and his silver hair that was beginning to grow long. This man was everything to her. Everything.
But why did it feel as though an invisible wall had risen between them?
She bit her lip, suppressing the turmoil in her chest. Disappointment. That was what she felt. Disappointed because, all this time, she thought they had shared everything—soul, body, past, and future. But they hadn't. Lysander was still keeping secrets. Secrets about the prophecy, about Mordred, and about herself.
"Am I not trusted enough?" she whispered in her heart, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the night wind entering through a crack in the window.
She knew Lysander loved her. She knew he would sacrifice his life for her. But love without trust is a house without a foundation. And when Lysander chose silence, he was indirectly saying: "You aren't ready. You aren't strong enough. I don't trust you to bear this."
Lyla closed her eyes, and hot tears pooled in the corners of her lids.
She didn't cry out loud. No. She simply let the tears fall in silence, soaking into the pillow until they dried on their own. Beside her, Lysander shifted slightly, his hand reflexively searching for Lyla’s body—a habit he always displayed while asleep.
But Lyla did not welcome it. She let his hand grasp the empty air.
The bed that was once always warm with embraces and whispers felt cold tonight. Terribly cold.
Lyla didn't know exactly when she fell asleep.
All she remembered was suddenly standing in the middle of a vast meadow illuminated by moonlight. It wasn't an ordinary meadow—the grass was silver, shimmering as if covered in frost. In the distance stood a massive tree with dark blue-black leaves, and beneath that tree, a man was standing.
His black cloak billowed gently in the wind. Long black hair draped over his shoulders. And his eyes... pale blue like a frozen lake.
Mordred.
Lyla wanted to run, wanted to scream Lysander’s name, but her body wouldn't move. Her feet were rooted to the ground, her mouth locked tight. She could only stand there, watching the man approach with slow, graceful steps.
"You are dreaming," Mordred whispered, his voice soft as velvet. "But not an ordinary dream. This is a place where the boundary between the conscious and unconscious becomes blurred. Here, you can be honest. Here, you can feel what you have been suppressing."
Lyla wanted to say, "I don't need to be honest with you." But no sound came out.
Mordred smiled. That same smile—gentle and warm, yet cold at its core.
"You are disappointed in Lysander," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You feel betrayed. All this time you thought you were one, but it turns out he still keeps a wall between you. He doesn't trust you, Lyla. He considers you too fragile to know the truth."
No. That’s not true. Lysander only wants to protect me.
"Is protection through hiding the truth a form of love? Or a form of mistrust?"
Lyla was shaken. That voice... that voice was her own. But it wasn't the voice she usually heard. This was the voice of her inner self, the one she had been suppressing, the one she had been ignoring.
Mordred drew closer. Now he was only an arm's length away. His pale hand rose, touching her cheek gently.
"You are tired, Lyla. Tired of being strong. Tired of being a healer. Tired of being a queen who must smile before everyone while your heart is breaking." His finger brushed away a tear that had never fallen in the real world. "You may rest here. With me."
Lyla wanted to slap his hand away. But her body remained frozen. And strangely, that touch... wasn't cold. It was warm. So warm. Like an embrace she hadn't felt in a long time. Like the warmth she used to seek from her mother but never received.
"Let me go," she was finally able to whisper, though her voice was weak.
"You don't want me to let you go," Mordred replied. "You’re just afraid to admit it."
He pulled Lyla into an embrace. And Lyla... did not resist.
The embrace was strange. It wasn't like Lysander’s firm, protective hold. Mordred’s embrace was more like... a warm emptiness. Like being swallowed by a darkness that wasn't terrifying, but rather soothing.
"What are you doing to me?" Lyla whispered, her face buried in Mordred’s chest.
"I am doing nothing. I am only letting you be who you truly are. Without the mask. Without the duty. Without the guilt."
Mordred pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes. In his pale blue irises, Lyla saw her own reflection—weary, fragile, and desperately lonely.
"I won't take your blood tonight," he whispered. "Tonight, I only want you to remember what it feels like to be loved unconditionally. Unconditionally, Lyla. Not because you’re a healer, not because you’re a queen, not because you’re the wielder of the Blazing Tides. But because you are you."
He kissed Lyla’s forehead. Softly. Lingering.
Lyla closed her eyes.
And when she opened them again, they were no longer standing in the silver meadow. They were lying on a bed of soft black feathers, in a place Lyla did not recognize. Above her, Mordred gazed at her with eyes that were no longer cold—but warm, full of desire, and deeply seductive.
"What are you—" Lyla’s words were cut short as Mordred’s lips met hers.
It wasn't an ordinary kiss. The kiss was deep, filled with emotion, like someone thirsting for warmth after thousands of years of cold. And Lyla... Lyla responded.
Her hands reached for Mordred’s neck, pulling him closer. Her fingers brushed through his soft, long black hair. Her chest heaved, her breath hitched, and for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like a queen, or a healer, or the wielder of the Blazing Tides.
She was just Lyla. A tired woman. A woman thirsty for affection.
Mordred broke the kiss, staring at her with eyes darkened by lust. "You are beautiful," he whispered. "You are so beautiful, Lyla. And you don't deserve to suffer alone."
He kissed Lyla’s neck, then her shoulder, then moved down to her racing heart. Lyla arched her back, closing her eyes, letting herself drift in a sensation she had long forgotten.
Here, in the dream world, there was no Lysander. No dragon clan. No eggs to be protected. No wounds to be healed.
Just her and Mordred. And the warmth she had been longing for.
Lyla woke up with sweat soaking her entire body.
Her breath came in gasps, her heart was pounding, and between her thighs felt damp—not with water, but with something else. She sat bolt upright, hands clutching her chest, trying to steady herself.
Beside her, Lysander was still asleep. His brow was furrowed, his lips slightly parted, and one hand was still stretched toward her side of the bed—searching for a wife who was no longer there.
Lyla stared at him with a piercing sense of guilt.
It was just a dream. Just a dream.
But her body had responded. Her heart still thrashed from the memory of Mordred’s touch. Her lips still felt warm from a kiss that never happened in the real world.
Lyla stood up, walking to the bathroom with unsteady steps. She let cold water flow over her face, her neck, and her chest that still felt tight.
"What should I do?" she whispered to her own reflection in the mirror.
Her reflection did not answer. Her puffy eyes, her slightly reddened lips, and her still-shivering body—everything reminded her of that dream. Of a betrayal she hadn't committed, yet felt so real.
Returning to the bed, Lyla lay on the extreme edge, keeping her distance from Lysander. Her body was still cold, but not because of the night air.
She stared at the ceiling, thinking of the secrets Lysander kept, thinking of the dream that should never have happened, thinking of Mordred who was somewhere out there now—perhaps smiling, because he had succeeded in poisoning her mind.
"Lyla..." Lysander murmured in his sleep, his hand reaching out again, searching.
Lyla did not respond. She let his hand grasp the empty air.
That night, the bed that once shared warmth turned into a cold sea separating the two of them. Lyla drowned on one side, and Lysander slept on the other, unaware that his wife had just survived the most dangerous betrayal—a betrayal of herself.
In the distance, Mordred lay on his throne of shadows and bone, smiling with satisfaction. He didn't need to take Lyla tonight. Simply poisoning her dreams and making her doubt her love for Lysander was enough.
The crack would widen. And when the time came, Lyla would come to him willingly.
Not because she wanted to. But because she had no other choice.