This time the dream is warm. Soft-edged. Golden.
There are garlands hanging from the stone arches. Ribbons dancing in the breeze. The scent of sweetwine and crushed petals fills the air. Everything glows.
I'm in white. Not temple white. Not death shroud white. Something better—thin silk trimmed with little gold shells. The fabric clings in all the right places and flutters in all the others. My hair is braided with jasmine. My feet are bare, but clean, oiled, and kissed by the sun.
The prince is beautiful.
Tall, sun-browned, sharp jaw and kind eyes. He smiles at me like I'm the whole story, not just the scandalous footnote. He takes my hand like it's sacred. He doesn't grip. He holds.
People cheer. Musicians play something soft and strange on flutes. Someone throws cherry blossoms. Someone else weeps into her veil.
We walk through the little streets of our new castle-town. It's not some grand imperial thing, no towering spires or peacock chariots. Just a stone fortress over a green hill, with ivy on the walls and goats in the garden. It smells like thyme and roast lamb and clean hay.
Every window has a candle. Every child waves. No one looks afraid of us. No one looks like they want something.
At the top of the steps, he kisses me. Just once. Slow.
Then he opens the door to our chamber.
It's small. Cozy. The bed is wood, not gold. The sheets are simple but soft. There are wildflowers in a jar, and a cat sleeping on the windowsill. I laugh when I see it. He laughs too.
He closes the door.
And we fall into bed together, with no rush. No tricks. No edge of danger. Just skin on skin, warm breath, arms that don't hold too tight. For once, nothing has to be earned or stolen.
He whispers something, something about forever. And I almost believe it.
The dream shifts.
I don't notice it at first—just a flicker in the torchlight, a strange stillness in the air. The warmth seeps out of the stone walls like someone wrung the castle dry.
It's night now.
The bed is empty. Cold. The covers pulled tight and smooth, like no one ever lay there at all.
I step into the hallway. No sounds. No breeze. The candles have all burned down to stubs, and the shadows feel… thicker. Watching.
I walk barefoot down the corridor. The flowers are wilted. The cat is gone.
Then I see it—a crack in the stone where there shouldn't be one. A sliver of a door, small, hidden, behind the hanging tapestry. My hand moves before I tell it to. I press against the stone. It gives.
The door creaks open.
A stairwell descends into darkness. Damp and narrow. Smelling of rust and old meat.
I go down.
The air gets colder with every step. I can hear something now—dripping, whispering, the soft wet sounds of something alive but trying not to be heard.
At the bottom, a chamber.
And there—by the light of a flickering oil lamp—is him. My prince. Still beautiful. Still smiling.
He's kneeling beside a row of bodies. Women. Laid out neatly. Hands folded. Throats slit. Dresses still soaked in dried red.
Each one looks a little like me.
He's humming.
There's a ledger open on a stone table. Dates. Names. Measurements.
Saya is written at the bottom of the page.
He turns toward me slowly. Still smiling. His hands are red to the elbows. He opens his arms like he's welcoming me home.
And I scream.
I bolt upright in the dark, breath caught in my throat, sweat pouring down my back. The campfire is out. The Dragon jolts awake beside me, tail twitching.
"Gods, what now?" he mutters.
I'm shaking. Clutching the blanket like it can protect me. "He killed them," I whisper. "All of them. He—he was smiling."
The Dragon blinks. "Let me guess. Tall, handsome, royal bastard. Smelled like myrrh. Stabbed his wives."
I nod, unable to speak.
He groans, flops back down. "I told you not to trust men with symmetrical faces."
I don't answer. I'm still trying to breathe. Still trying to forget the way he looked at me. Like I was next. Like I belonged down there.
Like he'd saved a spot.
I don't sleep again that night.