The dreams always began the same way.
Not with fire. Not with blood. Not with the scream of my mother’s name being erased from the ledger in silver ink.
With silence.
A stillness so complete it pressed against my eardrums like a physical weight. The kind of quiet that only comes after destruction. After loss. After the world has burned and no one is left to mourn it.
I stood in the throne room of the Obsidian Spire, but it wasn’t the throne room I knew. The stone was cracked, the sigils on the walls flickering like dying embers. The twin thrones were shattered, their black diamond and silver bone reduced to rubble. The air smelled of ash and iron, thick with the residue of broken magic. And in the center—
Kael.
On his knees. His coat torn. His face pale. His crimson eyes dim, almost human in their emptiness. Blood ran from a wound at his temple, trailing down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His hands were bound behind his back with chains forged from fae-glass—transparent, sharp, humming with stolen power.
And I couldn’t move.
Not forward. Not back. Not toward him. Not away. Just stood there, rooted in place, my breath shallow, my heart a locked vault—except it wasn’t. It was breaking. Shattering. Falling apart with every second I watched him suffer.
“Crimson,” he whispered, his voice raw, guttural. “You were supposed to save me.”
My mouth opened. But no sound came out.
“You said you wouldn’t let me die,” he said, lifting his head. “You said you’d fight for me. That you’d burn the world to keep me alive.”
I tried to scream. To run. To break the chains. But my body wasn’t mine. It was frozen, trapped in the silence, in the weight of my own failure.
And then—
He collapsed.
Not slowly. Not dramatically.
Like a puppet with its strings cut.
His body hit the stone with a sickening thud. The blood spread beneath him, dark and thick, pooling around his chest like a halo. His eyes—once so sharp, so alive—stared at nothing. Empty.
And then—
I woke.
Not with a gasp. Not with a cry.
With a hand over my mouth, stifling the scream that had built in my throat, my body drenched in sweat, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The room was dark. The torches had burned low. The city outside was silent, wrapped in the velvet hush of pre-dawn.
Kael lay beside me, his breathing steady, his body warm against mine. His arm was slung over my waist, his fingers curled loosely around my hip. The bond pulsed between us—slow, deep, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
He was alive.
And yet, the image of him dead—of him *gone*—clung to me like a second skin.
I didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, my breath shallow, my fingers pressing into my own lips to keep the tremors at bay. The dream had felt too real. Too *final.* Not like a nightmare. Like a warning.
Because I’d failed him.
Not in battle. Not in war.
In love.
And if I wasn’t careful, it wouldn’t stay a dream.
—
He woke before I did.
Not with a start. Not with a flinch.
With a shift.
His arm tightened around me. His breath warmed my neck. And then—his voice, low, rough with sleep. “You were dreaming.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a fact.
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice flat.
“You’re lying,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “I can taste it. Your fear. Your guilt. It’s sharp. Metallic. Like blood on my tongue.”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned in his arms, my storm-colored eyes locking onto his crimson ones. He looked at me—really looked—and I saw it then. The way his jaw tightened. The way his thumb brushed my cheek, slow, deliberate, *certain.* The way his breath hitched, just a fraction, just enough.
He knew.
Not the dream. Not the details.
But the truth.
That I was afraid. Not of enemies. Not of war.
Of losing him.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb tracing my jawline, his voice rough. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My core clenched. My skin burned. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
But I didn’t pull away.
Just stayed there, pressed against him, my breath mingling with his, my body aching for more.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to love him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
—
We didn’t speak of it again.
Not at breakfast. Not during the council briefing. Not when Elias presented the new security protocols for the Human Liaison office. We moved through the day like we always did—side by side, hand in hand, the bond pulsing between us like a live wire.
But I could feel it.
The distance.
Not in space. Not in silence.
In *fear.*
Every time he stepped into a room ahead of me. Every time he turned his back to a shadowed corner. Every time his hand brushed the hilt of his dagger.
I watched.
Not like a queen. Not like a mate.
Like a hunter.
Because if the world wanted to take him, it would have to go through me.
And I would burn it down before I let that happen.
—
The night came too fast.
Not with a storm. Not with a warning.
With stillness.
Again.
I dreamed of the war room—our war room, where we’d argued over border policy, where I’d caught him shirtless in the armory, where we’d nearly kissed before Riven interrupted. But it wasn’t the same. The maps were burned. The tables overturned. The torches extinguished.
And in the center—
Kael.
On the floor. His body twisted at an unnatural angle. His fangs bared. His hands clawing at his chest, as if something were tearing him apart from the inside. Blood seeped from his mouth, his nose, the corners of his eyes. And his voice—
“You were supposed to protect me,” he gasped. “You were supposed to *love* me.”
“I do,” I said, but my voice was too quiet. Too far away. “I *do.*”
“Then why did you let them in?” he asked, his eyes locking onto mine. “Why did you trust them? Why did you *fail* me?”
“I didn’t—”
But the words died in my throat.
Because I saw it then.
The door. Open.
Riven standing in the threshold, his claws extended, his amber eyes glowing with something I couldn’t name—regret? Loyalty? *Betrayal?*
And behind him—
Elias.
Human. Cane. Salt-and-pepper hair.
But his eyes—
Not human.
Black. Bottomless. *Fae.*
And then—
I woke.
This time, I did scream.
Not loud. Not long.
Just a sharp, ragged sound that tore from my throat as I bolted upright, my hands flying to my chest, my breath coming in gasps. The room was dark. The torches burned low. The city outside was silent.
Kael was already sitting up, his body a wall at my back, his hand on my shoulder, warm, steady, *certain.*
“Again?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. Just nodded, my fingers pressing into my lips, my heart pounding like a war drum.
He didn’t press. Didn’t demand. Just shifted, pulling me into his lap, my back to his chest, his arms tight around my waist. His breath warmed my neck. His heartbeat steadied beneath my palm.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low.
And gods help me, I did.
I told him about the silence. About the throne room. About him on his knees, bleeding, dying, *gone.* I told him about Riven. About Elias. About the black eyes, the open door, the betrayal.
And when I was done, he didn’t laugh. Didn’t dismiss it. Just held me tighter, his voice a rumble in his chest. “You think I don’t dream of you dying?”
I turned in his arms, my storm-colored eyes locking onto his crimson ones. “You do?”
“Every night,” he said. “You’re in the pyre. Your name burning in silver ink. And I can’t reach you. Can’t save you. Can’t even *speak.* Just stand there, helpless, as the fire takes you.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t look away. “I don’t tell you because I don’t want you to carry my fear. Just like you don’t want me to carry yours.”
“And yet,” I said, my voice breaking, “we do. We carry it. Every day. In the way we watch each other. In the way we move. In the way we *breathe.*”
He didn’t answer. Just pressed a kiss to my temple, slow, deliberate, *reverent.* “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My core clenched. My skin burned. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
But I didn’t pull away.
Just stayed there, pressed against him, my breath mingling with his, my body aching for more.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to love him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
—
He didn’t let me sleep alone.
Not that night. Not the next.
Every time I closed my eyes, he was there—holding me, touching me, whispering my name like a prayer. And when the dreams came, he woke with me, his body a shield, his voice a anchor.
“I’m here,” he’d murmur, pressing his palm to my chest, where the bond pulsed beneath my skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And slowly—so slowly I didn’t notice at first—the dreams changed.
Not the silence. Not the stillness.
But the end.
Instead of him dying, I was there. Fighting. Protecting. *Saving.* And when I woke, his arms were still around me, his breath warm against my neck, his heartbeat steady beneath my palm.
And then—
One night, I didn’t dream at all.
Just slept.
Deep. Unbroken. *Peaceful.*
And when I woke, he was watching me, his crimson eyes burning, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You were quiet,” he said. “No nightmares. No fear. Just… stillness.”
“I was safe,” I said.
He didn’t smile. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine. “You always are.”
“And you?” I asked. “Did you dream?”
He hesitated. Then nodded. “You were in the pyre. But this time—”
“I burned it down,” I said, finishing for him.
He exhaled, slow, and pulled me closer, his arms tight around my waist. “You always do.”
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I stood at the balcony, barefoot on cold obsidian, my gown gone, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The city below was alive—lights flickering in the undercity, voices rising in song, the scent of burning blood and fae dreams replaced by something sweeter. Something *clean.*
Kael came up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. “You’re thinking,” he said.
“I’m always thinking,” I replied.
“Not like this,” he said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to peace.”
I leaned into him, my body a furnace against his. “Then let’s make it last.”
He didn’t answer.
Just held me, his arms tight around my waist, his breath warm against my skin.
And for the first time since I’d entered the Obsidian Spire, I didn’t feel the need to run.
Because I wasn’t alone.
I had him.
I had the truth.
And I had my mother’s name.
And that—more than any blade, more than any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.