If they ever learned how much that reminded me of home, I thought they might hate me more for it.
And for all the Winter Court’s coldness, what Kael had told me about the other Courts had me curious. Did they feel as bound by duty as this one did?Did their kings and queens wake in the night wondering if their walls would hold another season?
Kael spoke of them like rival siblings—each convinced theirs was the truest reflection of the fae. But every story of his said more about him than them. When he described Summer, I could hear longing under his grin; when he spoke of Autumn, I heard wariness. Of Spring, respect. Of the Dream Court, silence.
And then there was the way his tone changed when he mentioned Winter.He never insulted his brother. But he didn’t praise him either. “Kaeliththinks control is salvation,” he’d said once. “He doesn’t understand that it’s just another form of fear.”
I’d almost told him that fear wasn’t weakness, that it kept mortals alive. But I’d stopped myself. Here, fear was luxury. They didn’t need it.
The longer I stayed in this place, the more I saw how the Courts defined themselves by what they envied.Winter envied warmth.Summer envied stillness.Autumn envied trust.Spring envied time.And maybe Dream envied waking.
If that was true, maybe envy was what bound them—what made them more like mortals than they cared to admit.
I wondered what they thought of us, really. Not the stories they told about foolish humans who prayed to stars or struck bargains for power they didn’t understand, but what they truly thought. Did they ever envy us for dying? For changing? For feeling things that didn’t last and meaning them anyway?
The thought startled me—that immortality could be lonelier than any mortal life.
Maybe that was why Kael laughed so easily … and why Kaelith didn’t laugh at all.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep when I returned to my room.
The evening had been long, and my thoughts wouldn’t quiet. The walls felt too close, the silence too thick—like the whole castle was holding its breath.
When I finally drifted off, it wasn’t rest that found me.
The air in the dream was twilight-colored, neither day nor night. I stood in a field that shimmered faintly, as if the grass itself remembered light even after the sun was gone. Mist curled low across the ground, cool and soft against my bare ankles.
If it were anywhere else, it would have been beautiful. But the silence was wrong. Too deep, too perfect.
Then came the humming.
A low, distant tune—familiar and impossible. My mother’s lullaby. The one she used to hum when I was small enough to believe nightmares stayed outside locked doors.
I turned, searching for her voice, but saw only a shape in the mist—tall, indistinct, and watching.
“Who’s there?”
The figure didn’t answer. It just tilted its head, as if curious.
Something in my chest tightened. “This isn’t real,” I said aloud—because that was the only weapon I had left.
The figure smiled—or maybe it didn’t. The mist shifted enough to suggest one. Then, softly, a voice:
“Not yet.”
The field shuddered. The ground beneath my feet rippled like water, and for a moment, I saw something beneath the surface: light, pulsing faintly blue, like a heartbeat buried in stone.
Then everything broke.
I woke to cold air against my skin and the faint sound of dripping water. My room was dark except for the thin line of moonlight cutting across the floor.
And on the mirror above my washstand, words had formed in faint, crystalline script.
The Dreamstone stirs.
My breath hitched. I blinked once, twice, but the letters stayed. Frost, not fog.
I reached out before I could stop myself. My fingertips brushed the glass, and warmth bloomed there. The mirror rippled like water touched by wind, and I stumbled back, heart hammering. When I looked again, the message was gone.
