“I hope for my sake that’s true,ael’sura,” he said quietly. “Because I couldn’t stand to see you hurt.”
Araya’s breath caught, her defiance faltering as she met his eyes. Loren could hear her heart beating in her chest, its tempo racing as the bond twisted between them. She felt it too—Loren could see it in the way her fingers curled against her arms, the bob of her throat as she swallowed, unable to pull her eyes away from him.
She was fighting it. Just like he was. And they were both losing.
“I’m fairly certain this place once had beautiful gardens.” Loren tore his gaze from hers, forcing himself to stare out the frosted window. “Would you like to see them?”
“It’s winter,” she said, watching him warily.
“And this is a dream.” Loren held out his arm, holding his breath as she hesitated, bracing for her refusal. But then her fingertips brushed his sleeve, her hand slipping into the crook of his arm as Loren fought the urge to close his eyes and lean into it—to let himself believe, just for a moment, that she could choosehim.
Instead, he led them forward, offering his own memories of this place. The dream reshaped itself around them, the rigid lines of human design giving way to the organic curves of fae craftsmanship. The tapestries rippled, their grisly images replaced by woven depictions of starlit forests and iridescent rivers.
Above them, the lights dimmed, warming to cast the room in a golden, flickering glow. The stiff murmur of human conversation faded, unraveling like a thread pulled from a loom. In its place, voices rose in a low, musical cadence, each word flowing into the next as laughter rang through the space, soft and light.
Even the music changed—the grand piano melting away to reveal a slender, curved harp as he pushed open the door that led to the terrace, leading them down the steps to the garden.
The cold night faded into a warm caress, the frost clinging to the garden path melting as dewy grass sprang up beneath their feet. The stark, neatly trimmed hedges unfurled into wild, untamed vines, spilling blossoms of deep violet and silver along the stone pathways.
Somewhere in the distance, a fountain stirred to life, its song of rushing water filling the space as the scent of jasmine and rain drifted through the air. Fireflies flickered between the flowering trees, their golden glow mirroring the golden aetherlights still hovering within the ballroom behind them.
“This is how you remember it,” Araya said, her silver eyes wide as she tracked the transformation. She leaned down, cupping one of the silver flowers in her palm as she inhaled deeply, savoring the perfume of a garden in full spring bloom. “How are you doing this without magic?”
“I’m merely providing the memories,” Loren said. He reached out, tapping the flower she cradled gently, sending a soft shimmer into the air. “It’s your dream,ael’sura. Your magic.”
After that, Araya practically dragged him forward, eager to see it all. But Loren barely noticed the garden. His attention was consumed by her—the way her fingers curled around his arm, the steady rhythm of her breath and the excited tempo of her heartbeat. The bond pulsed between them, relentless, pulling him toward her even as he fought to hold himself back.
“You’ve called me that before,” she said at last, breaking the fragile silence. “Ael’sura—” she pronounced the word slowly, deliberately. “What does it mean?”
Loren faltered mid-step, the edges of the dream softening as he lost his grip on his memories. “It’s…” He started, but the word caught in his throat. The bond was there again, fierce and relentless, winding tight in his chest like a snare. Each breath dragged him closer to the edge as her silver eyes met his, searching and open.
Loren stepped toward her. She didn’t pull away.
The space between them vanished, filled only by the sound of his unsteady breathing and the quiet pulse of the bond in his chest. Thewords he had sworn to never speak to her hovered on the tip of his tongue, desperate to escape—but Loren couldn’t let them. Not when it might endanger her in ways he could never control from a prison cell.
“Some things are better left unspoken,” he said instead, his voice ragged.
Araya’s brows knit, her expression clouded with something that hovered between confusion and hurt. She didn’t press him, but the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it hung between them, heavy and unfinished. Around them, the dream began to unravel. The lush garden dimmed as the air turned brittle and cold, the blossoms wilting, their petals collapsing into ash that scattered on an invisible wind.
Her silver eyes—wide, uncertain, full of questions he couldn’t bear to answer—were the last thing he saw before the dream broke apart like glass, and darkness claimed him again.
“Dreaming of something pleasant, Your Majesty?”
Loren’s breath hitched as he woke, every nerve alight with dread. The bond still pulsed faintly in his chest, and the scent of flowers lingered, their sweetness turning to bitter fear as his gaze fell on the man standing in front of him, just out of reach of his chains.
Darian Hale. The Arcanum’s High Inquisitor, and Loren’s personal torturer. How long had he been standing there, watching him?
A sick knot twisted in Loren’s stomach. Had he spoken her name in his sleep? Goddess, if he had and Hale had heard?—
“I’ve always found dreams to be such… revealing things,” Hale said, stepping closer. His lip curled as he ran his gaze over Loren. “They show us what we want. Who we care for.”
Loren forced himself to sit up, ignoring the twinge of healing injuries. He didn’t answer, keeping his gaze locked on a point beyondHale’s shoulder. He couldn’t let Hale see the panic twisting inside him.
“I wonder,” Hale mused, tapping an iron dagger thoughtfully against his lips. “Who were you dreaming of, Your Majesty?”
Loren clenched his jaw, refusing to take the bait. He hadn’t spoken to Hale in years—not one word, not even under the lash. That silence had become his shield, a final act of defiance he’d held onto long after everything else had been stripped away.
“Still holding on to that?” Hale’s smile slipped. “All these years, and not a single word—but the guard told me you speak toher.”
