She glanced around, taking in the rough stones and broken weapons. “You were a knight.”
“Yes,” I replied, a knot already forming in my stomach.
“Why are you no longer?”
The question rooted me to the barren ground. The old weight of expectation and disappointment pressed down until the specter of chainmail and armor rested on my shoulders. I let out a strangled breath.
“I broke my oath.”
Quinn tilted her head, a shadow of sorrow in her gaze. “What manner of circumstance would cause you to do so?”
The ache in my chest deepened. I shook my head once, hard. “It’s not a story I want to tell.”
She didn’t press, but the following silence carried its own demand.
A strange and sudden gust of wind whistled through the courtyard, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. My eyes flicked to the space between Quinn and me as tiny beads of light sparked and arranged themselves into shape. A shimmering thread, no wider than a strand of hair, stretched from her chest to mine. Its golden glow was bright enough to burn against the dark.
Shock traveled over my skin. “You see it too?”
Her fingers floated above the taut string. “The one which binds us.”
The urge to step back and sever the tie rose within me before it could bind me to something I had no chance of keeping. Instead, I stood there, staring at the line connecting us. A horn sounded, distant but growing nearer. The stones began to blur beneath my boots.
Quinn’s eyes never left mine.
And then she was gone.
I woke with a jolt.
The air was colder than it had been. My spine ached against the floor. I lifted my gaze. Quinn was still here. I could almost see the shimmer of the connection between us, even in waking. The scents of the sycamore and stone lingered in my nostrils. My mouth was dry, my hands unsteady from the way she’d looked at me in the dream, as though she’d found every piece of truth I’d buried and hadn’t found the courage to name.
A small crease cut between her brows. Her fingers shifted against the blanket, reaching for something beyond her grasp. For the briefest moment, I wondered if she was reaching out for me. Part of me wished I could step back into the dream and learn the answer.
TWELVE DAYS REMAINING
4
QUINN
Muted silver light diffused through clouds and warped glass. Not belonging wholly to morning or night, but to that fragile hour between them. I lay still, eyes half-lidded, listening.
A splash of water against porcelain. A muffled exhale. The muted rustle of cloth drawn over skin.
He had awoken.
I turned my head upon the narrow bed, its frame groaning softly beneath the shift of my weight. The washroom door did not meet its frame. Through the narrow gap, I glimpsed him: sleeves rolled to the elbow, shirt half-buttoned, droplets still tracing the line of his jaw where he had dashed water over his face.
The magic connection stirred between us—a faint, steady pulse beneath my skin, not painful nor urgent, but insistent. It tugged with the quiet certainty of the tide, reminding me that even my waking did not belong wholly to myself.
I rose with care, smoothing the silver gown that had become the uniform of my exile. I pressed my palms along its length, asthough I might coax it into its former grace, knowing the effort would fail.
He moved with the nonchalance of one accustomed to his own company. There was no vanity in him, only purpose: rinsing the basin, running his fingers through his damp hair, fastening a misaligned button before undoing it without impatience and beginning again.
I had expected…something different from the man bound to me by a curse. Something sharper, perhaps. More theatrical. Not this quiet, rumpled practicality that felt far too intimate.
He spoke without turning. “Sleep well, princess?”
The sound of his voice startled me more than the words. I had not realized he knew I was awake.
