But Jakobav… This man’s words were cold, cut from granite, yet his actions had not been. He had kept her warm and hadn’t interrogated her or let her die on a blood-soaked floor. Even that first night, his words had been hard, but his hands had been steady.
And gods help her, he looked carved like a warrior-god dragged from old Fae songs, with that jaw, those forearms, and a growling voice that resonated down to her core.
She was delirious and needed to get it together before she started mapping Jakobav’s body like a battleground.
She was here for a reason. She was here to succeed. She was…
Ella’s vision ignited like an omen.
She stood in an orchid grove, white petals soft as silk beneath her bare feet, the breeze threading through her hair as if the whole world sighed with her.
Then everything shifted as the petals blackened, the sky bruised violet, and the perfume of orchids curdled into smoke.Flames bloomed like flowers, screams rang like bells, and she ran barefoot through ruin, calling out, crying for help, her voice breaking against the silence that answered with nothing at all.
Suddenly, she was in a familiar castle, standing in the throne room and the walls began to shake. The scent of burning silk filled her lungs. The silence of ruin pressed down on her as she reached for her magic and found nothing. Her hands glowed for a heartbeat, then dimmed. Her mark pulsed once, faint and fading, before it vanished entirely.
In the crumbling threshold of the throne room, a man stood, shadow-cloaked. There was something old about him but not aged, more like ancient, as though time itself curled around his bones. His face blurred in smoke and light, but flashes broke through. A distinct pendant hung against his chest. His hair was black as ink, eyes too green to be human, and ears tipped just barely to points. Not sharp, not dramatic, just enough to make her question whether this was real or some dream-warped memory. But the scent… Gods, the scent made it undeniable. Fresh rain. Jasmine. Impossible, yet familiar enough to pour dread deep into her lungs.
She blinked, and the view sharpened, clearer now. She looked down at a gown of strange fashion draped against her body, foreign and regal, then raised her gaze to him, ready to demand answers, but her throat gave no sound. The man only smiled, cruel yet familiar, which was impossible…and then the vision burned, swallowing everything.
Ella woke with a gasp, heart hammering against her ribs, skin slick with sweat. For one terrible moment, she couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to pause, her lungs seized, and then at last, air rushed back into her chest.
Jakobav was already there, crouched beside the bed, silent, watching.
“You’re burning up,” he said, voice low.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“You’re not.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but the fight drained away before she could summon the words. Her limbs ached. Her pulse raced unevenly.
“I’ll go get Bryn.”
“I don’t need?—”
The growl that escaped him silenced her, his glare lethal enough to cut through her protest.
Ella wanted to argue, gods she wanted to, because helplessness scraped at her like chains, and every part of her itched to claw back control, to sharpen her tongue into a razor that could strip that look off his face. But her head was pounding, and she wasn’t sure if the vision was born of fever or drug, and neither answer gave her comfort.
He seemed to read the war behind her eyes. His expression softened, his gaze cutting through armor and cruelty until only raw, quiet honesty remained, something unguarded.
“Ella,” he said.
She stiffened. The sound of it, soft and reverent, struck her deep.
It was the first time he’d spoken her name aloud, and she couldn’t breathe.
How did he—? She hadn’t said her name. Not out loud. Not to him. So how in the hell did he know it?
“You resist everything I tell you to do,” Jakobav continued, his voice firm but sincere, as though her spiraling thoughts didn’t exist. “So fight me if you must. But do not let this fever devour you. I won’t allow it.”
His concern hit harder than the drug. It felt…earnest.
She hesitated, jaw tight, breath unsteady, still reeling from the question she wasn’t sure she dared to ask.
“Might not be up to you, Prince.” The retort was deflection, a shield to buy herself time, to decide whether she would demand answers. She dragged in a breath. “I’ve managed to survive this long… like something didn’t want me to die.”
She met his eyes, steady and clear, despite the fever burning in her veins.
