The air was heavy.
In the darkness of her chambers, Lilian stirred restlessly. Sweat slicked her brow despite the chill in the early morning. Her fingers clutched the sheets, her breath coming fast. The darkness behind her eyelids pulsed, shifting with shadows that breathed and whispered like they knew her name.
Figures stood in a circle beneath dead, towering trees—cloaked in black, their faces lost in shadow. They held candles, their flames steady despite the windless night. No one spoke, but the silence pressed like a scream.
Then came the chanting—low, ancient, crawling beneath her skin. The earth trembled. From between their feet, a black mist rose, coiling like smoke, wrapping around them as though summoned by their voices.
The mist thickened and took form—a woman shaped from darkness, her mouth stretched open in a silent wail, eyes hollow and endless.
A pyre roared somewhere else, and in its heart stood a woman engulfed in flame—laughing. It was the same woman. Her face melted as she laughed, voice shrill and victorious, echoing the words: Mother of Ruin.
Blood. Screams. Black birds spiraling through a smoke-choked sky. Fire consuming everything.
Lilian gasped, tearing awake in her bed—sweat clinging to her skin, her breath sharp and uneven, as though she had truly been running.
A dream. Just a dream.
But the woman's voice still echoed in her bones.
She rose quietly, careful not to wake the servants beyond the chamber doors. Pulling on a plain cloak, she stepped into the garden court and made her way to the stables. Something within her urged her to move, to ride, to flee the haunting images.
But when she approached the chestnut mare, the horse reared back with a loud, panicked whinny.
"Easy," she whispered, reaching out.
The mare jerked again, nearly breaking the reins. Then Lilian saw them—birds. Dozens of them. Perched on the stable roof, on branches nearby. All black. All still. All watching.
Fear climbed up her spine like ice.
She turned and ran.
---
Breakfast was silent until the Elarion Queen spoke. "It is our custom that new brides offer alms to the poor," she said, tearing bread with precise fingers. "You will go to the market today. Let them see your generosity."
Lilian nodded obediently. Her hands still shook slightly beneath the table.
---
The market was bustling, chaotic. Lilian, now dressed in soft grey robes trimmed in gold, moved slowly among the crowd, flanked by two guards.
Children bowed. Women whispered.
She offered bread and silver with a gentle smile, playing the good daughter-in-law, the obedient royal.
Until she reached the hunched old woman.
The woman took her coin—then seized her wrist.
Lilian stiffened.
The woman's grip was like iron, her nails dark with soil. Her lips twisted in a cracked smile.
"She is not dead," the woman rasped. "She dreams in your womb, girl. She dreams and stirs."
Lilian tried to pull back. The woman laughed—high and horrible.
"The Queen returns!"
The guards acted fast. One yanked Lilian free, the other raised his sword—but before he struck, a sigil glowed on the old woman's chest, burning through her ragged clothes.
"Witch!" someone screamed.
Flames erupted. Someone had set her ablaze.
And yet the old woman kept laughing, even as fire devoured her.
"MY QUEEN WILL RETURN!"
Lilian's vision swam. The laughter. The fire. The dream. The whispers.
Everything crashed into her all at once.
She fainted.
---
Strong arms caught her.
Asher.
His face was the last thing she saw before everything went dark.
And even then, somewhere deep inside, a whisper followed her into the black.
"Mother of Ruin."
---
He carried her through the crowd like she was made of glass, ignoring the noise, the fear, the fire. A healer was summoned. Urgently. Quietly. The whispers were spreading, and he needed answers.
But most of all, he needed to protect her.
Even from herself.
Even from the truth.