“I…”
“Oh…” he said as his eyes widened. “Shit. Really? I…I didn’t think there were any left.”
I forced a hard swallow around the lump in my throat. “To my knowledge, there is only one.” I managed as I pulled my hand free from his.
After several tense heartbeats, he spoke in a solemn tone. “The prince, the one who cast the spell, did he know?”
“Yes.” The word was bitter on my tongue. “He intended to weaponize my gift.”
“For what?”
“I know not.” My shoulders lifted in a brittle shrug. “Although it is safe to assume they were, at best, grasps for power and at worst, things far more nefarious than I could allow myself to consider.” I shook my head. “When he discovered I was a Twilight, he held my very life ransom for the acceptance of his proposal.”
“What an asshole,” Mav said. He winced before amending his statement. “…respectfully, I mean.”
“I am inclined to agree.” I breathed a halfhearted laugh. “I had no desire to spend my life in servitude or as an armament of war.” My voice hardened, but the ache beneath it remained. “Ironic, is it not? The spell he crafted caused me a similar fate? Bound me, not to him—but to this.” I gestured to the open space between Mav and myself, to the invisible bond linking us.
He did not argue the point.
I drew a soothing inhale. “Twilights were hunted after the fall of Kilstrand.”
Mav remained still, an encouragement for me to continue as he ignored the restless horses.
“For decades, while the kingdoms of Orteaux and Avilogne relied on trade and magical mastery, Kilstrand grew powerful through diplomacy and debt. King Eamon, a Tether, the reigning monarch of Kilstrand, ensured every contract was unbreakable through soul-level bindings. But power breeds resentment. When Orteaux sought freedom from Kilstrand’s limiting laws, and Avilogne hungered for control over the trade routes Kilstrand monopolized, a three-kingdom war was inevitable.” Adjusting my weight in the saddle, I went on. “The hunting of Twilights came because of the actions of one man.”
A frown shadowed his features. “Calvessar Enhorn. There’s a ballad about his story.”
“A ballad?” My brow arched in surprise. “You are not going to sing it, are you?”
Mav huffed a quiet laugh. “Not today.” He bit his bottom lip, as if sorting through the lyrics in his mind. “Calvessar wasn’t a monster—at least, not at first. He was a nobleman of Kilstrand, a Twilight of rare power. They say he could walk the dreamscape as easily as walking a garden. He served King Eamon as an advisor and diplomat, but the songs remember him for primarily one thing—loving Eamon’s youngest daughter.”
“Princess Evangeline.”
He nodded. “When Calvessar asked for her hand in marriage, the king refused him outright. And to ensure her obedience, Eamon bound Evangeline to another through a Tether contract—one sealed in both blood and soul.” His tone softened. “They say the princess’s cries could be heard from the coasts after she was separated from Calvessar. On the eve of thewedding ceremony, Evangeline took her own life, rather than live shackled to a man she didn’t love.”
The air around us stilled. I could imagine her pale hands stained red, her heart breaking.
“Calvessar’s grief,” Mav went on, “became something legend couldn’t contain. They say he swore that since Kilstrand had taken everything from him, he’d take everything from Kilstrand.”
I cast my eyes down, understanding merely a measure of such grief. “Calvessar walked the dreams of the Kilstrandian royalty, generals, their spouses, and children. He twisted loyalties, planted false visions, and made them doubt each other until the kingdom crumbled from within. Thousands were dead before the armies of Orteaux and Avilogne even reached their borders.”
Mav’s jaw set. “The song also claims King Eamon died by his own hand—compelled by Calvessar’s gift.” His eyes lifted to meet mine. “And now they think you’re all like him.”
“It transcends thought, Mav. By decree of the Avandrian Crown, my gifted kind are enemies of the realm. If I am discovered, there will be no trial—only irons long enough to escort me to the pyre.”
The fall of Kilstrand taught the kingdoms one lesson: a Twilight could unmake a nation faster than any army. Since then, Avandria has seen shadows where there were none—every failed harvest, every tax revolt was blamed on dreamwalkers. The decree and systematic execution of my gifted kind all stemmed from a singular root.
Fear.
Regarding Mav for a moment longer, I attempted to lighten the mood. “I am surprised you would remember a ballad centered around love. I did not take you for a hopeless romantic.”
“I’m hopeless, all right.” A close-lipped grin shaped his mouth. “As for the romantic bit—well, that assumption proves you don’t know me very well.”
“Yet,” I added before realizing the word had escaped my lips.
His hazel eyes searched mine for several heartbeats. “You’d like it to be a ‘yet’?”
The air became too thin and too thick all at once under the gravity of his attention.
