A chill passes through me, one that has nothing to do with the stone walls or the thin morning light. I bought myself time. But only one week.
I can feel it already—the pressure of it ticking down. A choice cloaked in duty. A command masked as an invitation.
There’s no safety here, not really. Only space to breathe before the next cage closes in around us.
Sleep evades me. Even with the ache in my limbs and the soft lull of the keep settling into slumber, my thoughts won’t still. They circle like wolves, snapping at the shadows of my mind and dragging the lake, the vision, the dragon, andhimback to the surface of my mind.
I need to breathe. I need… chocolate.
The craving hits like clockwork once a month. Chocolate—and blueberries, if I’m lucky. My body’s infallible warning system, alerting me to my imminent physical combustion.
Ridiculous, maybe. But it’s also grounding. Proof that I’m still me in a world where everything else is being rewritten.
I slip from bed, careful not to wake Mariel or Cassy, who’ve fallen asleep by the fire in a tangle of blankets and books we’ve managed to borrow from the library. Books that thankfully came without teeth this time. I glance down at them and smile. Then, pulling a shawl tight around my shoulders, I step into the hall.
Past the shuttered library. Past the rose garden doors. Down the winding staircase to the kitchen’s back entrance—thank the stars, still unlocked.
For the past three nights, I’ve come here. And every night, a plate of chocolate muffins has been waiting on the counter beside a single glass of creamy milk. No note, no explanation, as if the kitchen knows what I need before I do.
The kitchen is warm from the hearth, perfumed with the fragrance of cinnamon and stone. Moonlight spills through the tall, arched windows, silvering the countertops and floors. It reminds me of the kitchen at home—of how I would throw open the windows on cool fall nights, savoring the brisk chill in the air after a long, hot summer. How the aroma of harvest and hay would drift in on the breeze, reminding me that we had an abundance of food and feed stored away to wait out the winter.
I cross the tile, my bare feet kissing the cool, intricately designed floor, the quiet pressing close. Sure enough, the plate is there. Still warm. Still perfect.
I murmur a silent blessing to the bakers—or the ghosts, or the magic, or whoever keeps leaving these offerings. I sink onto one of the stools with a sigh. I bite into the rich chocolate muffin, savoring its sweetness, laced with a touch of sea salt.
Pure heaven.
For a few precious minutes, I just sit there, breathing. Letting the stillness hold me. Letting the armor of the day slip from my shoulders.
Tomorrow is Sunday, and the king will choose one of us.
The thought turns my stomach. I try not to picture Seraphina in his chambers—the wine, the whispered laughter. I try not to care. But some feral, aching part of me does.
I reach for another muffin, hoping to eat my frustration away.
“So, you’re the muffin thief.”
I spin around, nearly knocking over my glass of milk. King Keiren leans in the doorway, arms crossed, half-shadowed in moonlight. His dark hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends.
“What are you doing here?!”
He steps into the glow of the kitchen hearth. He’s wearing a loose black tunic and trousers, relaxed, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shrugs, looking around the room, then back at me.It’s only then that I realize I just questioned what the king of the castle was doing in his own kitchen.Stars help me.
“I’ve been coming for my usual midnight snack these past few nights,” he continues, “butsomeone’sbeen beating me to it.”
“I didn’t know they were yours,” I say, sounding not entirely apologetic. “They kind of just appeared a few nights ago.”
He smiles and nods.
“The kitchen is old magic,” he replies. “It’s responsive. Some nights, it gives me what I ask for. Others…” His eyes flick to the plate. “It prefers you, apparently.”
I lift the muffin in a mock toast. “Clearly it has great judgment of character,” I say, taking a bite.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Now who’s thinking highly of themselves?” he says, throwing my earlier retort back at me as he steps closer—his movements slow and deliberate—until he’s leaning a hip against the counter beside me.
I take another bite, avoiding eye contact. His gaze flicks down to my lips and lingers, and I become all too aware of the fact that I’m in my nightgown, crumbs no doubt lining my mouth. He then looks down at the plate, where the last small muffin sits. I quickly grab it and pop it into my mouth before he can steal it.
“Cruel,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d at least save me a crumb.”
