Her sister’s eyes were open. Wide. Reflecting the dim glow of the dying hearth. But she wasn’t looking at Thessa. Wasn’t looking at anything in the room at all.
Her heart lurched against her ribs.
The soot lines on the wall sharpened into circles and lines, a pattern Thessa didn’t understand but knew was wrong.
“Sera, stop!” Thessa hissed, reaching out.
But her mother was already there, quick as if she’d been waiting for it. Aerenne caught her younger daughter’s wrist and wiped the marks away with the hem of her apron.
Sera blinked once, twice—and went slack again, lips parting on another breathless hum.
“Go back to sleep,” Aerenne murmured.
The words landed like an answer to a question Thessa hadn’t asked. But her mother’s jaw was tight, her knuckles pale.
Thessa lay back down slowly, her body trembling in ways she tried to still. Her toes pressed into the too-thin blanket, searching for warmth that wasn’t there.
But warmth wasn’t the problem.
She glanced at the sleeping sister.
Dreamers die twice, her mother had said.
So what in the gods’ names was that?
Chapter 11
There were nights when even the mirror seemed tired of pretending. Evelyne sat before it, hands resting lightly on the edge of the vanity, her nightgown still clinging to skin warm from the bath. Isildeth had left only moments ago, the scent of lavender water lingering after the quiet rhythm of her nightly ritual.
She wasn’t admiring her reflection. She simply was, sitting there like a ghost who hadn’t figured out where to go yet. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, thick and frizzy from steam, untouched by pins. It made her look softer. As if she dared herself to believe she could be more than composure and duty.
But it was a vain effort.
Especially when your last wedding ended in red.
The words never left her mouth, but they pressed against her teeth.
What if it happened again?
What if she packed every inch of herself into polished boxes and parchment-thin smiles—only for it to all collapse again? What if she had to drag herself back home, scraping blood and shame off her heels, rebuilding her composure brick by trembling brick?
Her fingers shook, and this time she allowed herself to smooth her nightgown.
The chamber felt emptier than usual. She let her gaze wander before she noticed the absences. Books smuggled by Isildeth that had always lined the shelves, canvases that had once leaned against the far wall. They were already packing her belongings for departure.
It felt so final. As though she was being erased from this place before she had even left.
She pressed her lips together, willing the thought away. Self-pity was useless. Other women lost more than books and paint—some lost their homes entirely, or their children. She had no right to sit here mourning furniture and walls.
Her gaze drifted to the small wrapping on her bedside table. The engagement gift. Unopened.
It had been a long time since she’d lost her footing in public. The worst part wasn’t even the fear. It was the shame that followed. That her body remembered things she’d tried so hard to forget. She thought she was past this. But today proved otherwise.
Blood. Sigil. Touch.
She could feel it again—the ripple in her chest, the weight behind her ribs, the way her pulse picked up with no visible cause. But—
In and out. In and out. The breath of a trained performer.
