Page 19

Chapter

Eighteen

For the first time in twenty-five years, Loren opened his eyes to something other than stone and darkness.

A grand foyer stretched before him, dark polished wood gleaming under the golden light of the aether-lit chandeliers hanging from the soaring ceilings. Loren inhaled deeply, relishing a breath that didn’t smell of moldy straw and iron.

Fragments of laughter and music teased the edges of his mind—snippets of memory hovering just out of reach, dissolving before he could grasp them. But Loren knew that if he started walking, he would find a ballroom at the end of this hall—and beyond it, sprawling gardens alive with dancing lights and the sweet scent of flowers.

But other details... Loren reached out, brushing his fingers across one of the heavy tapestries. The woven image depicted a battle scene, human figures crushing fae beneath their boots rendered in exquisite detail. That wasn’t part of his memory.

He was dreaming—but he wasn’t the one shaping it. She was.

Loren hadn’t dreamed of her in weeks. She still visited his cell to check on his healing, but the warmth between them was gone— replaced by a mask of cold indifference she never let waver, not since he’d sneered in her face and called her a whore for what she’d done to survive.

And who could blame her? That was what he’d wanted—to drive her away.

She was safer that way.

But it didn’t make it hurt any less that he could smell Jaxon Shaw all over her. The reek of his sweet, cloying soap clung to her skin, her hair, her clothes?—

Loren shuddered, choking back a growl. He should do the right thing and bow quietly out of her dream—no sense in torturing them both. But he couldn’t. Instead, he took a step forward, letting the faint pull of music draw him down the corridor.

He finally found her in the ballroom.

She stood at the far side, silhouetted against the frosted window—small and solitary amid the cold grandeur of the empty space. Her dark gown hugged her torso before flaring out at her waist, layers of floating chiffon surrounding her like shadows. Her loose hair cascaded down her bare back, its deep burgundy and violet a spot of color in the cold lifelessness of the room.

“Not exactly what I expected to find in your dreams,” Loren said, his voice carrying across the empty floor as he strode toward her.

Araya turned sharply, her silver eyes widening. But the flicker of emotion vanished almost as quickly as it came, her polished mask snapping back into place.

"Loren,” she said without warmth. She studied him, her brow furrowing slightly. "What are you wearing?"

Loren glanced down, taking in the deep green silk and elegant cut of his jacket, both too familiar and completely alien all at the same time. A white sash stretched across his chest, and Loren didn’t need to look closely to know it bore his family crest. He’d worn variations of this outfit to every formal event he had ever attended as crown prince.

“It’s your dream,” he muttered. “You tell me. ”

“My dream—” understanding dawned across her face as she gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth, “My tea.”

Loren frowned. “Tea?”

“For dreamless sleep.” She crossed her arms, glaring at him like it was his fault they were here.

Loren reeled back, indignation flaring hot in his gut. She’d been drugging herself just to avoid him? Part of him admired her for finding a way to keep him out, carving a boundary between them that he hadn’t even known was possible. But another part of him—a selfish part—raged at the idea. It wanted to reach for her. To pull her into his arms and bury his face in her hair. It didn’t care that she was safer without him.

But she’d given her name to Jaxon. Not him.

So Loren shoved that part down, swallowing back his ire until he was able to force his voice into something neutral. “Where are we?”

Araya’s gaze flicked around the ballroom, as though seeing it properly for the first time. "This…we’re at Garrick’s house. For his birthday. We stayed here, so I didn’t have my tea…” she trailed off, watching him warily.

“Garrick’s birthday,” Loren repeated, the words settling bitter on his tongue. He swept his gaze around the grand room, taking in the opulence with new eyes. He laughed, soft and bitter. “They really have taken everything, haven’t they?”

The Garrick he’d known had lived in one of the hastily built neighborhoods meant to house the ever-growing human population. Cramped rows of identical, flimsy homes, built for function, not comfort.

But this? This wasn’t the home of a man merely surviving. These were the spoils of a war that had taken everything from Loren—and handed Garrick everything he’d ever wanted.

Araya opened her mouth, but Loren plunged on before she could speak. “And I suppose by we , you mean Jaxon.” Loren’s lip curled, his voice dripping with venom. “Are you sleeping next to him in a feather bed right now? ”

Araya stiffened, her pale skin flushing, anger staining her cheeks as red as her hair.

“He’s my bond,” she said, her voice cutting. “So yes, I sleep beside him every night. And I won’t apologize to you for it.”

Loren scoffed. “And what, exactly, has Jaxon ever done to earn that kind of loyalty?”

Araya’s silver eyes flashed, her fury dark and unrelenting. “What has he done?” she repeated, disbelief tightening her voice. “You mean besides saving my life? Besides being the only one who saw me—who believed in me?”

Loren opened his mouth, but she talked over him, her voice rising. “Do you think the Arcanum wanted me? Do you think they looked at the little halfblood orphan and thought yes, let’s change the rules for her?”

She laughed in his face, shaking her head. “If Jaxon hadn’t stuck his neck out to sponsor me, I’d be rotting in the slums with the other breeding-age females.”

“And you think he did that for you?” Loren demanded, his bitterness twisting his voice into something cruel. “Jaxon didn’t see you as worth saving—he saw you as worth owning . And one day, when it serves him, he’ll remind you of that.” Loren held her gaze, green meeting silver. “I only hope he doesn’t break you when he does.”

“Hate him all you want, Loren.” She shook her head, turning away from him. “Gods know, he deserves it. But Jaxon would never hurt me.”

She believed it. Goddess help him, she believed—truly believed—that she was safe with Jaxon Shaw. Loren’s jaw tightened, the anger in him threatening to boil over. But what good did his anger do her? What had he ever done to protect her?

Not nearly as much as Jaxon Shaw had.

The thought sat unpleasantly in his mind, ugly and undeniable. She’d had to survive without him, carve out a place for herself in a world that would have happily destroyed her. And it wasn’t over— she would have to keep surviving, while he rotted in his cell for the next two hundred years, doing nothing to help her.

Loren sighed deeply. How could he judge her for what she did to keep herself safe?

“I hope for my sake that’s true, ael’sura ,” he said quietly. “Because I couldn’t stand to see you hurt.”

Araya’s breath caught, her defiance faltering as she met his eyes. Loren could hear her heart beating in her chest, its tempo racing as the bond twisted between them. She felt it too—Loren could see it in the way her fingers curled against her arms, the bob of her throat as she swallowed, unable to pull her eyes away from him.

She was fighting it. Just like he was. And they were both losing.

“I’m fairly certain this place once had beautiful gardens.” Loren tore his gaze from hers, forcing himself to stare out the frosted window. “Would you like to see them?”

“It’s winter,” she said, watching him warily.

“And this is a dream.” Loren held out his arm, holding his breath as she hesitated, bracing for her refusal. But then her fingertips brushed his sleeve, her hand slipping into the crook of his arm as Loren fought the urge to close his eyes and lean into it—to let himself believe, just for a moment, that she could choose him .

Instead, he led them forward, offering his own memories of this place. The dream reshaped itself around them, the rigid lines of human design giving way to the organic curves of fae craftsmanship. The tapestries rippled, their grisly images replaced by woven depictions of starlit forests and iridescent rivers.

Above them, the lights dimmed, warming to cast the room in a golden, flickering glow. The stiff murmur of human conversation faded, unraveling like a thread pulled from a loom. In its place, voices rose in a low, musical cadence, each word flowing into the next as laughter rang through the space, soft and light.

Even the music changed—the grand piano melting away to reveal a slender, curved harp as he pushed open the door that led to the terrace, leading them down the steps to the garden .

The cold night faded into a warm caress, the frost clinging to the garden path melting as dewy grass sprang up beneath their feet. The stark, neatly trimmed hedges unfurled into wild, untamed vines, spilling blossoms of deep violet and silver along the stone pathways.

Somewhere in the distance, a fountain stirred to life, its song of rushing water filling the space as the scent of jasmine and rain drifted through the air. Fireflies flickered between the flowering trees, their golden glow mirroring the golden aetherlights still hovering within the ballroom behind them.

“This is how you remember it,” Araya said, her silver eyes wide as she tracked the transformation. She leaned down, cupping one of the silver flowers in her palm as she inhaled deeply, savoring the perfume of a garden in full spring bloom. “How are you doing this without magic?”

“I’m merely providing the memories,” Loren said. He reached out, tapping the flower she cradled gently, sending a soft shimmer into the air. “It’s your dream, ael’sura . Your magic.”

After that, Araya practically dragged him forward, eager to see it all. But Loren barely noticed the garden. His attention was consumed by her—the way her fingers curled around his arm, the steady rhythm of her breath and the excited tempo of her heartbeat. The bond pulsed between them, relentless, pulling him toward her even as he fought to hold himself back.

“You’ve called me that before,” she said at last, breaking the fragile silence. “ Ael’sura —” she pronounced the word slowly, deliberately. “What does it mean?”

Loren faltered mid-step, the edges of the dream softening as he lost his grip on his memories. “It’s…” He started, but the word caught in his throat. The bond was there again, fierce and relentless, winding tight in his chest like a snare. Each breath dragged him closer to the edge as her silver eyes met his, searching and open.

Loren stepped toward her. She didn’t pull away.

The space between them vanished, filled only by the sound of his unsteady breathing and the quiet pulse of the bond in his chest. The words he had sworn to never speak to her hovered on the tip of his tongue, desperate to escape—but Loren couldn’t let them. Not when it might endanger her in ways he could never control from a prison cell.

“Some things are better left unspoken,” he said instead, his voice ragged.

Araya’s brows knit, her expression clouded with something that hovered between confusion and hurt. She didn’t press him, but the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it hung between them, heavy and unfinished. Around them, the dream began to unravel. The lush garden dimmed as the air turned brittle and cold, the blossoms wilting, their petals collapsing into ash that scattered on an invisible wind.

Her silver eyes—wide, uncertain, full of questions he couldn’t bear to answer—were the last thing he saw before the dream broke apart like glass, and darkness claimed him again.

“Dreaming of something pleasant, Your Majesty?”

Loren’s breath hitched as he woke, every nerve alight with dread. The bond still pulsed faintly in his chest, and the scent of flowers lingered, their sweetness turning to bitter fear as his gaze fell on the man standing in front of him, just out of reach of his chains.

Darian Hale. The Arcanum’s High Inquisitor, and Loren’s personal torturer. How long had he been standing there, watching him?

A sick knot twisted in Loren’s stomach. Had he spoken her name in his sleep? Goddess, if he had and Hale had heard?—

“I’ve always found dreams to be such… revealing things,” Hale said, stepping closer. His lip curled as he ran his gaze over Loren. “They show us what we want. Who we care for.”

Loren forced himself to sit up, ignoring the twinge of healing injuries. He didn’t answer, keeping his gaze locked on a point beyond Hale’s shoulder. He couldn’t let Hale see the panic twisting inside him.

“I wonder,” Hale mused, tapping an iron dagger thoughtfully against his lips. “Who were you dreaming of, Your Majesty?”

Loren clenched his jaw, refusing to take the bait. He hadn’t spoken to Hale in years—not one word, not even under the lash. That silence had become his shield, a final act of defiance he’d held onto long after everything else had been stripped away.

“Still holding on to that?” Hale’s smile slipped. “All these years, and not a single word—but the guard told me you speak to her .”

Loren flinched and Hale’s smile widened, sharp and cruel. “What makes her so special? Is it the comforts she demanded for you?” He cast a disgusted look at Loren’s warmer clothes, the raised cot and the blanket he’d been given. “Or did she do something else to earn your voice?”

He waited a moment, sighing when Loren didn’t answer.

“Very well.” He rose slowly, twirling the iron dagger between his fingers. “If you won’t speak, then I suppose I’ll have to make you scream.”

The chains snapped taut. Loren gasped, biting back a curse as his back slammed into the cold stone, the iron manacles tearing into his raw wrist. He wouldn’t give Hale the satisfaction—not when Araya’s safety was at stake.

Hale just watched him for a moment, tilting his head like a collector studying a rare specimen. “Amazing, really,” he mused. “How quickly even a king can be reduced to…this.” He stepped forward, the blade gleaming dully in his hand. “Make this easy, Your Majesty. Tell me why she’s so important to you, and I’ll consider being…merciful.”

Loren said nothing.

“I didn’t think so.” Hale’s smile widened. “I suppose we’re going to find out how much pain you’re willing to take for her.”