Caelan's POV
The servant dropped the breakfast tray.
Caelan watched the plate shatter against the marble floor, food splattering everywhere. The young man—barely sixteen—fell to his knees, hands shaking as he tried to gather the broken pieces.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness," the boy whispered, terror making his voice crack. "I'm so sorry. Please, I didn't mean—"
"Leave it," Caelan said flatly.
The servant's head snapped up, eyes wide with fear. He probably expected punishment. A beating, maybe. Or worse. That's what servants expected from the hollow prince.
Caelan felt nothing about the boy's fear. No pity. No irritation. Not even mild annoyance at the mess.
"Get out," he said.
The servant scrambled backward, abandoning the broken dishes, and fled. The door slammed behind him.
Caelan stared at the ruined breakfast. He should be hungry—he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon. But hunger was a feeling, and feelings died seven years ago. His body needed food the way a machine needed oil, nothing more.
He stepped over the mess and walked to the window, the violet ribbon still clutched in his hand. Outside, the kingdom of Ashvyre spread before him like a painting. Beautiful and lifeless.
Just like him.
Thorne burst through the door without knocking. "The guards are mobilizing. We're starting with the palace staff, then moving to the noble houses, then the city. If she's here, we'll find her."
"Good." Caelan turned from the window. "What about dream magic users? Anyone registered with the old Dream Temples?"
"Most went underground after Kalista cursed you," Thorne said carefully. "People are afraid of dream magic now. But I've sent men to search the temple ruins. If anyone's hiding there—"
"Find them. Drag them here if you have to." Caelan's voice was ice. "I don't care if they're scared. I don't care if they run. Find anyone who knows about curses and dreams."
Thorne hesitated, and Caelan recognized that look. His captain wanted to say something but wasn't sure if it was safe.
"Speak," Caelan commanded.
"What if she doesn't want to be found?" Thorne asked quietly. "What if she's been hiding from you on purpose?"
The question should have hurt. It didn't.
"Then I'll make her understand she has no choice," Caelan said. "She's the key to breaking my curse. Her wants don't matter."
Thorne's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "As you command, Your Highness."
After Thorne left, Caelan sat at his desk and forced himself to remember. He hated remembering—it was like watching someone else's life, someone he used to be but couldn't recognize anymore.
Seven years ago, he'd been different. Happy. Stupid.
The memory came anyway, sharp and clear.
"You'll marry Lady Seraphine," his father the King had said, maps spread across the war table. "Her father controls the eastern provinces. This alliance will secure our borders and prevent invasion."
Caelan—young, idealistic Caelan who still believed in things like love and choice—had shaken his head. "I won't marry someone I don't know. Someone I don't love."
"Love?" His father had laughed bitterly. "Love is a luxury princes can't afford. You marry for the kingdom, not for yourself."
"Then maybe I shouldn't be prince," Caelan had shot back, his heart pounding with righteous anger that felt so real back then. "Maybe someone else should rule if ruling means selling myself to strangers."
That night, the Dream Weaver Kalista had come to his chambers. She'd arranged the marriage, brokered the deal. And he'd just destroyed it.
"Foolish boy," she'd hissed, her ancient eyes glowing with fury. "You think you're too good for political marriage? Too pure? Then let's see how you handle true isolation."
Her magic had wrapped around his chest, cold and suffocating.
"I curse you to feel nothing while awake. No joy, no sorrow, no love, no hate. Nothing. You'll live as a hollow shell, making decisions without heart, ruling without compassion. Only in dreams will you remember what it means to be human."
Caelan had tried to fight, tried to scream, but the magic had already taken hold.
"And here's the cruel twist," Kalista had smiled, showing too many teeth. "In exactly seven years, you'll have one day to find your dream heart—the one person who appears in your dreams and holds the key to breaking the curse. Find her and claim her before dawn, or die. Your choice, prince. Your precious free will."
The curse had settled into his bones like frost, and everything he'd felt—the anger, the fear, the stubborn hope—had simply... stopped.
Caelan blinked, back in the present. The memory felt distant, like a story about someone else. That passionate young man who'd believed in love? Dead. The curse had killed him more surely than a sword.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," he called.
A different servant came in, this one older and more controlled. She kept her eyes down as she spoke. "Your Highness, the morning council has been waiting for an hour. Lord Brennan is asking—"
"Tell them I'm not coming."
The servant's hands twisted together. "But Your Highness, they need your approval on the new tax—"
"Figure it out themselves," Caelan said dismissively. "They're advisors. Let them advise each other."
"But protocol requires—"
"I don't care about protocol." Caelan stood, towering over the trembling woman. "I have more important things to do than listen to old men argue about money. Now leave before I have you removed."
She fled.
Caelan knew what they said about him in the halls. The hollow prince. The ice king. The tyrant who ruled without mercy. They were right. Without feelings to guide him, all he had left was cold logic and brutal efficiency.
It made him a terrible ruler. It also made him an effective one.
He ruled because someone had to. He made decisions because decisions needed to be made. But he didn't care about his people. Couldn't care. They were just problems to solve, equations to balance.
The kingdom was dying because of it. He knew that. Everyone knew that.
A kingdom needed a ruler with a heart.
The door burst open again—no knock this time. Thorne rushed in, his face pale.
"Your Highness, we found something."
Caelan's pulse didn't quicken, but his mind sharpened. "What?"
"One of the kitchen servants had a violet ribbon. She claims she lost it yesterday. The description matches the one you're holding exactly."
Finally. A lead.
"Bring her to me," Caelan commanded.
"There's more," Thorne said, hesitating. "Your Highness... it's Elira Ashenwild."
The name hit Caelan like a physical blow—not emotionally, but mentally. His brain supplied the details instantly: convicted traitor, sentenced to servitude three years ago, evidence of treason overwhelming and undeniable.
He'd signed her conviction himself. Reviewed the case with cold thoroughness and found her guilty beyond doubt.
"The traitor?" Caelan asked, needing confirmation even though he already knew.
"Yes." Thorne's expression was unreadable. "The woman you condemned is wearing the same violet ribbon that appeared on your pillow this morning."
Caelan's mind raced through the implications. If Elira was his dream woman, then he'd been falling in love with a convicted criminal for seven years. A traitor who'd sold kingdom secrets to enemies.
It was impossible. It was perfect. It was exactly the kind of cruel twist the Dream Weaver would design.
"Bring her to the throne room," Caelan said, his voice steady despite the revelation. "Immediately. I'll question her publicly."
"Your Highness—"
"Now, Thorne."
As his captain left, Caelan stood alone with the ribbon. Somewhere in his palace, scrubbing floors and hiding from guards, was the woman who might be his salvation.
She was also the woman he'd destroyed.
And in less than twenty-four hours, he'd have to convince her to save the life of the man who'd ruined hers.
The irony would have been funny if he could still feel amusement.
Instead, Caelan tucked the ribbon into his pocket and headed for the throne room. Time to face his dream woman.
Time to face his victim.