Awhoosh.
My eyes snap open. The drapes ripple, revealing a shape standing on the balcony.
Cold shoots down my spine. I reach for the pointed staff by the bed, grip it tight, and rise.
The silhouette shifts. The firelight from the hearth catches a familiar outline—broad shoulders, messy hair, eyes that gleam green even in the dark.
Rowan.
For a heartbeat, I forget to breathe. He looks radiant, almost otherworldly. It’s only been a few days since I last saw him at the border, but it feels like years have passed.
“Rowan?” My voice trembles with relief and confusion. “How—how are you here?”
I wrap my arms around myself, shyness suddenly taking over. The thin nightdress barely covers me, the fabric brushing my knees, leaving my arms bare. He’s watching me with a burning focus that makes my pulse race. I can’t look at him too long.
He takes a step forward, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. “I wanted to see you, Freya.”
My cheeks flush, but I force myself to focus on the world instead of my racing heart. “You can’t behere. The borders are sealed. The patrols—”
“I know,” he says, dipping his head. “I shouldn’t have come. But I couldn’t stop myself. When Noctra, my raven told me you wanted…” he trails off. Shaking his head, he begins again, “I had to—” He cuts himself off with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I should leave.”
“Wait.” I reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing air—only air. My hand passes straight through his arm.
I gasp and stumble back, staff raised, a shudder running through me. “W–What are you?”
He looks guilty. His outline flickers faintly, light shimmering through him. “I couldn’t actually come here,” he says quietly. “This is only a projection. ”
A projection. My throat dries. I stare at him, taking in every perfect detail—the shadow of stubble, the faint scar at his jaw, the way his hair falls into his eyes. He’s real and not real all at once.
He lifts his hand slowly, palm open. “It’s still me.”
I raise mine, hesitating, until our palms almost touch. The air between us buzzes, faint and electric. It prickles across my skin like static.
‘Magic,’ Nyx growls inside me.
I should pull back, but I don’t.
Rowan’s voice softens. “Not all magic is bad, Freya. It lets me see you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t feel how much you needed to know I was alright.” His throat works as he swallows, his gaze boring into mine. His fingers move closer to my face, but I feel no touch—only that strange, tingling warmth.
“I hate that I can’t feel you,” he murmurs.
My heart twists. He’s the Rogue King, a phantom in my room, and still, he looks at me like I’m something worth crossing worlds for.
“I shouldn’t be afraid of you,” I whisper. “But I am.”
He smiles faintly. “Be afraid of what I am, not of me.”
I think about the boy he was—the one who loved me before the world broke us. The one who was exiled because he refused to stop loving me.
I step closer. “You shouldn’t have risked this.”
“I’d risk worse for you,” he says without missing a beat.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say that.”
He doesn’t move, but his voice is low, almost pleading. “I hate that I can’t touch you. I hate that this—” He gestures between us, at the space we can’t cross. “—is all I can do.”
My breath trembles, desire flooding my body. “Rowan…”
