And he supposed it would be foolish not to, because Arawn was the one there every night, bursting through Kinlear’s door when he woke up screaming, drenched in a cold sweat...tearing the fabric from his chest, if only so he could make sure his skin wasn’t split through from two horrible hands tipped in claws.
Princeling,he heard the memory hiss from the fringes of his mind.Die a beautiful death.
“You’re just scared,” Arawn said. “Stop giving the monster attention. You only dream of what frightens you in the daytime, right? Well. Maybe you’re afraid of the war.”
“I’m notscared,” Kinlear said.
“Kinny.” Arawn lifted a pale brow. “Don’t lie. Not to me.”
“Fine,” Kinlear huffed. “I’m alittlescared.”
Anyone would be, if they’d died as many times as he had. If they felt the emptiness he felt, the terror in his veins as he ran alone through a wood that positively refused to set him free.
He was a prisoner to his own mind.
He was a prisoner to his own body, too, but he’d always heard that themindwas stronger. It had power even when the body gave out.
“So why don’t you kill it?” Arawn asked.
“The monster?” Kinlear hated how his voice squeaked.
Arawn nodded. “It’s your dream. Find a weapon...slay it. Be the hero.” He lifted his chin proudly. “That’s what Sacred are meant to do.”
Kinlear set down his charcoal. “I suppose I’d need to fashion a blade somehow. Perhaps from a tree branch. I can’t take anything with me when I go there.”
He’d tried.
Countless times, he’d tried to pack kitchen knives –he paid penance for getting caught– or some of the Citadel’s golden candlesticks –he’d been chased from the temple by Izill, afurious servant girl who scared him more than his monster– and he’d even tried to bring a bundle of Arawn’s favorite cinnamon rolls for a snack, by holding them until he fell fast asleep.
He’d only succeeded in pissing off Izill, who made him wash his own sheets to remove all the melted icing.
Whatever he tried...nothingtransferred to his dream forest.
Arawn considered. “Well, if you do manage a blade...target the beast’s throat.” A shrug of his large shoulders. “Father says youalwaysgo for the throat. Even better, if you can remove their head.”
“As if I’d be strong enough,” Kinlear said with a sad laugh.
“You’re strong,” Arawn said. “Stop saying you aren’t.”
“I’m not.”
Arawn’s hands balled into fists. “Youarestrong, and?—”
Kinlear chuckled. “I’m only teasing, Arawn.”
But he wasn’t. Still, it was best to settle on humor when he wasn’t certain if the rest of him would measure up.
It was silent again, as he focused back on his sketch.
“If mother sees that...” Arawn said.
“She won’t,” Kinlear told him. “I always burn them.”
He winced as the penance mark on his hand stretched a bit, from the position of his wrist.
“How many have you gotten lately?” Arawn asked. “Your marks.”
The Crown Prince had so few of them.
