My chest is heavy as if something unseen is pressing me into the bed. I try to sit up, but my limbs refuse to move—my breath scrapes in my throat, shallow and strained. The light is wrong—dim and flickering, with no clear source. It glints off the stone walls like moonlight reflected on black water. From somewhere far off, I hear a slow, steady dripping. Each drop lands with purpose, echoing louder than it should. The air smells like rust. Thick and damp, clinging to my skin.
Something brushes past behind me—a whisper of movement. I can't tell if it's fabric or flesh. I try to turn, but my body doesn't respond. For a moment, I feel suspended in the air. Then, as the air itself rejects me, I drop. The bed doesn't just catch me; it slams into me like punishment. My knees hit the bed hard. Pain shoots up my legs. I'm gasping, but there's no air—only the copper tang of blood.
A sound begins to rise—soft, fractured crying. Not loud. Not close. It carries from the shadows like it's been echoing for hours, maybe longer. I lower my gaze. Blood coats my hands, thick and dark and clinging. It trickles from my fingertips, slips down my wrists, and pools in the folds of my dress. It's warm. Steady. I don't know whose it is. But it's fresh.
Just ahead of me, a crown lies atop the bed. Not gold. Not steel. Glass. Thin, sharp-edged, and glinting with cracks. A single fracture splits it in half. From the break, blood seeps in a slow line, winding through the shattered veins like it's alive. I reach toward it, trying to make sense of it. Something curls around my arm—gentle at first, then tightening. Another sensation brushes my throat. Cold. Smooth and wrong. It isn't rushed, but it isn't kind. It feels inevitable. I can't move, and I can't scream. The bed tilts beneath me—or maybe I do. The blood on my hands is no longer warm.
I jolted upright, heart pounding like I'd been thrown from a cliff. The scream caught in my throat—silent, useless. My dress clung to me with cold sweat, and the air around me felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. There was warmth at my side. A heavy arm slid off my waist as I moved, slow and startled. I didn't look right away. I couldn't. The vision clung to me—blood on my hands, the broken crown, something curling around my throat. My skin remembered what my mind couldn't quite make sense of. I drew in a shaky breath, then another, anchoring myself to the dim morning light bleeding through the curtains. The nightmare didn't follow. But it hadn't left either. It lingered, heavy in my bones. When I finally turned my head, Alaric was already stirring. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and focused on me instantly. He sat up next to me. "You saw something," he said finally. I nodded, barely. "Yes."
"Do you need me?" I shook my head slowly. "Not yet." His eyes searched mine for a moment longer. "All right," he said.
"If you need me—"
"I'll call."
He held my gaze. "And I'll come." And then he was gone, just as silent as he came. I sat there for a long moment, letting the weight of the vision settle over me like ash. The air still felt too thick. My skin still prickled, like the cold fingers of that dream hadn't fully let go. I pressed my palms to my thighs. No blood. No crown. Just trembling hands and the dull ache of memory. The bed was rumpled where Alaric had been, the sheets still warm. I missed his presence the moment it was gone, but I didn't call him back.
Instead, I rose slowly, my body stiff from sleep and something more profound. My dress hung heavy with sweat, clinging to the back of my knees. I didn't bother to fix it. There was a knock at the door—soft but not hesitant. "Your Highness?" a gentle voice called. "Forgive me. The Queen asked us to check on you. You haven't eaten." I didn't answer right away. Another knock followed, this time lighter. "I can leave a tray if you prefer to be alone—"
"One moment," I said, my voice hoarse from sleep and salt. I crossed the room slowly, rubbing the last threads of the vision from my arms. When I opened the door, a young servant stood there with a silver tray in her hands. She looked barely older than Mireille. Her eyes widened slightly—not with fear, but something closer to concern. She dipped into a curtsy. "Apologies, Your Highness. I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," I murmured. She hesitated. "May I…?" I nodded and stepped aside. She entered like someone stepping into a church—quiet, reverent. She set the tray down on the small table near the window. Steam curled up from the shallow bowl of soup. There was bread, thickly sliced, and a wedge of cheese. Simple. Warm. She straightened. "If you need anything—"
"What's your name?"
"Tessa, Your Highness."
"Tessa," I repeated softly. "Thank you. For this." Her smile was small but real. "The Queen said you hadn't eaten. She didn't want it to become a problem." She hesitated, then added more softly, "But I thought… maybe you just didn't want to be alone." That cracked something in me—just a little. "Tessa," I said again, holding her gaze. "Thank you." Her expression warmed like she hadn't expected to be seen, not really.
Tessa hesitated near the tray after setting it down, her hands smoothing the edge of her apron. She didn't ask to stay—but she didn't leave either. "Will you sit with me?" I didn't know why I said it. She blinked, surprised. "Of course." She perched gently in a nearby chair, hands folded, as if she sat too heavily, the moment might break. I moved slowly, lowering myself onto the edge of the bed. My limbs still felt like they didn't quite belong to me. I reached for the bread and tore off a small piece. I wasn't hungry, not really, but it felt rude not to try. "You don't have to finish it," Tessa said gently, her voice soft as folded linen. "But you'll feel better if you eat something."
I nodded, chewing slowly, and stared at the tray as if it held answers. "Thank you." She didn't press me for more.
We sat like that for a while—quiet and still. Her presence was a thread of warmth in a palace that had none to spare. I didn't know how long we sat there. Long enough that my shoulders started to ease, the knot in my chest loosening just enough to breathe around it. Then I heard something. A sound, soft and barely there—but unmistakably wrong. Tessa's head tilted slightly. "Did you hear that?" I listened, the heart suddenly sharp and alert.
There was a faint shift, like something brushing against stone. A branch against the window could be used, but there were no trees that close. Tessa stood, frowning toward the glass. "Probably nothing." I didn't answer. My fingers curled tighter around the crust of bread. She stepped toward the window—just a step—and that's when it shattered.
Glass sprayed inward like stars. A masked figure burst through, dark-clad and fast. I barely had time to gasp before another followed. Tessa screamed, stumbling back as her tray crashed to the floor in a metallic clatter. Hands grabbed me. I fought, clawed, kicked, and bit. My elbow slammed into someone's ribs. Another hand snatched my wrist, twisting. Tessa tried to run, but she didn't make it far. They caught her by the arm, yanking her back with a muffled cry.
Something cold pressed against my neck. "Move again, and she dies." I froze. My breath hitched. Tessa was crying, her eyes wide and terrified, locked on mine. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak—not without damning us both. A cloth was pressed over my mouth—sharp and chemical. My limbs started to fail me. Tessa's scream dimmed. Everything began to fade, and darkness closed in.