Celine smiled and let herself be swept inside.
It was not her mother’s bedchamber as she remembered, but a forest. The trees were tangled and lush, the sunlight filtering through the dense green canopy. The air buzzed with the scent of moss and rain.
She looked back, hoping to see Rhys or the safety of the hallway, but found nothing—only endless forest, stretching in every direction.
The music faded, replaced by the howling of the wind and the distant thunder.
Celine called out, uncertain whether she meant to summon her mother or Rhys. “Where am I?”
No one answered.
She turned in a slow circle, searching for any path out. The forest deepened, shadows crowding closer, until it was impossible to tell which direction she had come from.
She began to walk, forcing herself forward, though every instinct screamed for her to hide.
Somewhere far away, her mother called, “Celine! Come here, darling.”
Celine ran, her skirts catching on thorns, branches clawing at her arms. “Mama!” she cried, trying to follow the voice.
“Celine,” her mother called again, but this time her voice was wrong, contorted by pain and fear.
The trees thickened. The green faded to black. There was only the sound of her own breathing and the brittle snap of twigs beneath her shoes.
“Where are you?” Celine whispered.
“I’m here, darling. Don’t go.”
She wanted to turn back, but the path had vanished. Panic rose in her chest. She tried to run, but the trees pressed in, blocking every step.
And then, suddenly, her mother’s voice changed. Not a song anymore, but a cry. Then a scream, raw and jagged, echoing the memory that had haunted her sleep since childhood—the night her mother died, the night her brother was lost before he could draw breath.
She clapped her hands over her ears, but it did nothing. The screams were inside her, old and endless.
“Please,” she sobbed, crumpling to her knees on the cold ground. “Please stop. I can’t?—”
Above her, the trees seemed to loom closer, their trunks shifting into the shapes of a hundred watchful eyes.
She looked up and saw her mother’s face, pale and distant, floating just beyond reach.
“Don’t go,” Celine begged. “Please don’t?—”
The world stilled, as if holding its breath.
Then, she heard Rhys, clear as day, his voice slicing through her terror. “Celine, come back to me.”
She opened her eyes, and the forest vanished, replaced by the soft dark of her bedroom and the sensation of arms—real, solid arms—wrapped around her, holding her so tightly that she could barely move.
She was soaked through, her hair plastered to her scalp, her chest heaving with sobs she could not contain.
“It’s all right,” Rhys murmured into her ear. “You’re safe.”
She wanted to answer, but the words lodged in her throat. He pulled her closer, if that was possible, and rocked her gently, murmuring nonsense—her name, fragments of old nursery rhymes, things she had not heard since she was a girl. His heart thumped steadily against her temple, slow and strong.
She let the sound anchor her. She gripped his shirt with both hands and gasped for breath.
“Was it a nightmare?” he asked, his chin rough against her hair.
She managed a nod. “I… I thought I’d lost you.”
