My last conscious thought was of the prince. Not as the beasts I’d known them as, but as the men they must have been before the curse. Men with amber eyes like mine, with laughter and dreams and futures stolen by a witch’s spite. Men I would save, somehow, if it took every drop of goddess-blood in my veins to do it… even if I didn’t know my true lineage yet.
As consciousness fled, I felt the bond between us stretch, thin but unbroken. I poured every ounce of remaining strength into it, a wordless message of love and determination that I prayed would reach them in whatever hell they endured.
I would not break. I would not fade. I would find a way back to them, my princes, my beasts, my loves.
Even if it took forever.
thirty-two
Alain
The amber-eyed woman haunted my dreams again, her silhouette barely visible against a backdrop of darkness so complete it seemed to swallow all hope. Her whimpers sliced through my unconscious mind, each sound dropping into the void like pebbles into a still pond.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice thread-thin with exhaustion, “I’m not strong enough anymore.”
The clink of chains followed her plea, metal against stone, a rhythm as steady as my own heartbeat. I reached for her through the dream-fog, my fingers stretching toward that singular point of color in the darkness, toward those amber eyes that somehow matched the exact shade of my missing sister’s.
I woke with a strangled gasp, my body slick with sweat despite the biting cold that had settled over our camp during the night. The canvas ceiling of my tent rippled in the pre-dawn breeze, shadows dancing across its surface like specters. Three months of these visions, each one more vivid than the last, each one pulling me toward something I couldn’t name but felt in my marrow.
My hand trembled as I pushed damp hair from my forehead. The dream lingered like the scent of smoke after a fire dies, impossible to shake off. I’d spent my entire life being taught that magic was corruption, that it twisted and destroyed everything it touched. My grandfather had purged it from our lands with ruthless efficiency, and my father continued his legacy with unflinching dedication.
Magic users were exiled or executed. Magical creatures hunted to extinction if within the city, but in the wild, everyone knew to leave them be from the old magic aiding them. Even speaking of the old ways was enough to earn suspicious glances and whispered accusations.
And yet here I was, Prince Alain Legrand, heir to the throne of Durand, dreaming of a woman who called to me with power that felt like ancient trees stretching their roots into my soul. If anyone discovered these dreams, the scandal would rock the kingdom.
The prince, tainted by magic’s touch. The future king, susceptible to supernatural influence. The court would demand purification rituals, public penance, maybe even reconsideration of my inheritance.
I dressed with mechanical precision, my fingers finding familiar paths through laces and buckles without requiring conscious thought. The weight of my hunting leathers settled onto my shoulders like armor against more than just the winter chill.
Outside my tent, the eastern sky had begun its reluctant surrender to morning. A thin line of gray pressed against the black, neither light nor true darkness, the hour where night creatures retreated and day creatures had yet to stir. Perfect for secrets. Perfect for decisions that might change the course of a kingdom.
Most of my men had already gathered around the central fire, steam rising from their cups as they passed a loaf of bread between them. Their voices were low, conversations meant for this liminal time before the day’s duties fully took hold. I spotted Thibaut at the edge of the circle, his weathered face turned toward the flame, his portion of bread nearly gone.
I approached with measured steps, careful to project the confidence expected of a prince even as uncertainty churned in my gut.
“Thibaut,” I said, keeping my voice low, “walk with me.”
He rose immediately, wiping crumbs from his beard with a quick swipe of his hand. No questions, no hesitation. The mark of a loyal man.
We walked until the murmur of conversation faded, until we stood at the edge of our camp with nothing but forest before us and the gradual awakening of day above. I could feel the weight of his patience, his willingness to wait for me to find the words I needed.
“I’ve been having dreams,” I finally said, the admission scraping my throat raw. “Visions, perhaps. Of a woman imprisoned somewhere in these woods.”
Thibaut’s expression remained carefully neutral, but I caught the subtle tightening around his eyes. “Dreams, Your Highness?”
“I know how it sounds.” I turned away from him, fixing my gaze on the distant, dead trees. “Believe me, I know. But these aren’t ordinary dreams. They’re... persistent. Specific. Always the same woman I cannot fully see, always in chains, always calling out with a voice that feels like it’s pulling something from deep inside me.”
“Magic,” he said, not a question but a statement loaded with generations of fear.
“Yes.” No point denying what we both recognized. “Magic of some kind. But not...” I struggled to find the right words. “Not corrupt. Not like what we’ve been taught. It doesn’t feel twisted or wrong. It feels like something ancient waking up. Like remembering something I never knew I’d forgotten.”
Thibaut shifted his weight, snow crunching beneath his boots. “Your father—”
“Would have me exorcised,” I finished for him. “Would think me compromised or bewitched. I know. That’s why I’m telling only you.”
The silence between us stretched, filled only with the sound of our breath clouding in the cold air. When Thibaut spoke again, his voice had dropped lower, as if the trees themselves might report our treason. “What doth thou intend to do about these dreams, sire?”
I met his gaze directly. “I need to follow them. To find her.”
