Chapter 16 #3
"Perhaps." He turned his gaze back to the stars. "Or perhaps forgetting means never learning from what came before."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with questions neither could answer.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.
"I used to take Ally stargazing. Back when.
.. before. She never had patience for it.
Always wanted to be doing something." A smile tugged at her lips.
"She'd make up her own constellations. That one was the Great Pickle.
That was her math teacher, Mrs. Henderson. "
Arion’s laugh was soft and genuine. "The Great Pickle?"
Briar couldn’t help but smile. "It really did look like one. She had this whole story about how it was the guardian of all foods that shouldn't exist. Pickle-flavored candy canes and such."
"Do they exist?"
"Unfortunately." And then she was laughing too, the sound surprising her. When had she last laughed? Really laughed? She couldn’t remember.
He smiled at the sound, and it transformed his face. Made him look younger. Made him look...
The warmth in her chest pulsed. Not the thorns marking her arm, that stayed quiet. This was different. Softer. Recognition without understanding.
"There," he said. "That's better than tears."
"I should probably do less of both. Crying and laughing. Very undignified for a..." She gestured vaguely at herself. "Whatever I am."
"Human," he said firmly. "Marked, perhaps. Claimed, legally. But human. And humans need to feel."
They stayed until the air grew genuinely cold, talking about nothing important. He showed her more constellations. She told him about Ally's terrible jokes. Normal conversation that asked nothing, demanded nothing, just... was.
"We should return," he said finally. "You need sleep. Real sleep, in a bed."
"Can we..." She hesitated. It was such a simple want yet she struggled with the words. "Come back tomorrow?"
"If you'd like."
If she'd like. When had anyone in this place asked what she would like?
Walking back, arm in arm because the stairs were steep and the hour was late, she realized in that moment what she would like. It wasn't to escape, or to go home. Not even to be free.
It was to see stars again with someone kind.
They reached her door, and Arion carefully slipped his arm from hers. An awkward moment stretched between them, too intimate for strangers, too strange for friends.
"Thank you," she said. "For the stars. For... everything."
"You should rest." He shifted his weight, looking like he wanted to say more but couldn't find the words. "Tomorrow we'll search for more answers."
"Of course. Answers." She reached for the door handle, paused. "Arion?"
"Yes?"
"Do you dream of it every night? The dark forests?"
His expression grew more guarded. "Not every night. Sometimes I dream of dawn instead. Of light breaking through." He stepped back. "Goodnight, Briar."
"Goodnight."
She closed the door and leaned against it, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall.
The room felt too quiet after his company, too empty.
She moved through the motions of preparing for bed, washing her face in the basin and carefully hanging the golden dress in the wardrobe before braiding her hair to keep it from tangling.
Perhaps it was something in the air, or the food, or both, but it felt as though her hair had grown inches practically overnight.
The nightshift someone had left for her was soft white linen, nothing like the red silk Eliam often chose. She pulled it on, trying not to think about the differences, about which kindness felt more dangerous.
When she finally slipped between the covers, the bed was too soft after nights on Eliam's firm mattress, the pillows too numerous. She pushed half of them onto the floor and curled on her side, watching moonlight play across the ceiling.
Sleep did not come quickly, her mind churning over golden flowers and gentle kindness and the mark that lay quiet as a held breath on her arm.
When she finally drifted off, she dreamed of stars.
Then the stars went out.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Cold dread flooded through her as she spun in the darkness, not the complete black of the oubliette but something worse. A darkness that moved, that breathed, that had eyes the color of winter forests.
Eliam stood three feet away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hurt.
"Just a dream," she whispered.
"Is it?" He circled her slowly, and she felt it, the weight of his presence, the cold that radiated from him. "Dreams are doors, little thief. And you left so many open when you ran away."
"I wasn’t trying to run away, something was down there—."
"Semantics." He stopped in front of her, beautiful and terrible in the not-light of the dream. "Tell me, how does my cousin's hospitality compare? Does his bread taste better without the fear? Do his stars shine brighter without bars?"
She backed away, but in dreams, distance meant nothing. He was always exactly three feet away. Always just out of reach. Always too close.
"Savor each moment," he continued, his voice soft and dangerous. "The taste of that bread. The warmth of that tea. The kindness of strangers who think they're saving you." His smile was cruel perfection. "You'll need those memories later if you’re going to survive."
"To survive what?"
"Oh, little thief." He laughed, and the sound hurt. "If I told you, you'd never sleep again. And you need your rest and your strength. For when you return."
"If I return."
"When." No room for argument in the word.
"The law is the law. Three nights to settle your soul, and then you're mine again.
Forever and always, but now..." He tilted his head, studying her.
"Now you'll know what you're missing. Now you'll have tasted freedom just long enough to make captivity burn. "
"You're a monster."
"Yes. Your monster." He reached out, fingers extending toward her face. "Shall I show you what I've planned? Just a taste? A preview of coming attractions?"
Terror locked her muscles as she tried to jerk back, but dream logic held her still. His fingers were inches from her skin, and she could feel cold radiating from them, could sense the cruelty coiled behind his beautiful face.
"Briar!"
She gasped awake, thrashing against hands that held her shoulders. Real hands. Warm hands.
"It's me," Arion said, features resolving in the moonlight streaming through her window. "You were crying out. I heard you from the hall."
She was shaking. Sweat cooled on her skin, making her shiver. The mark on her arm pulsed hot and angry, no longer quiet. No longer patient.
"Just a dream," she managed.
"Was it?"
She looked at him sharply. He knew. Of course he knew. Dreams were doors, and fae understood doors better than humans ever could.
"He can't actually reach me here. Can he?"
Arion's hesitation was answer enough.
"He can't hurt you," he said finally. "Not physically. Not across my borders. But dreams..." He released her shoulders, sitting back. "Dreams are neutral territory. He can speak. Threaten. Show you things."
"Wonderful." She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. "So I can't even sleep safely."
"I could ward them, your dreams. It would help."
"What's the cost?"
Genuine hurt flickered across his face. "No cost. Just help."
"There's always a cost." Eliam had taught her that, had all but burned it into her bones. "What's yours?"
"The cost is I might see them too. The wards would connect us, briefly. You'd have to trust me that far."
Trust. Such a simple word. Such an impossible thing.
But the thought of closing her eyes and finding Eliam waiting again with his threats and promises...
"Do it."
He nodded, moving closer. "Give me your hand. The unmarked one."
She extended her right hand. He took it carefully, his touch light but steady. With his free hand, he traced symbols in the air that glowed faintly silver.
"Think of something peaceful," he instructed. "Something that makes you feel safe."
Stars, she thought. Allegra's laughter. Bread that was just bread.
The symbols flared brighter, then sank into her skin. Where they touched, she felt... quiet. Protected. The sensation of being wrapped in moonlight.
"There. He can still speak to you if you dream of him, but he can't force his way in and he can't make you dream of him."
"Thank you." The words felt inadequate.
"Try to sleep. Dawn's still hours away."
He rose to leave, but she caught his sleeve. "Stay? Just... just until I fall asleep?"
She expected him to refuse. To set boundaries and remind her that she belonged to another.
Instead, he settled into the chair by her bed. "Of course."
She lay back, pulling blankets to her chin. The mark still pulsed angry on her arm, but the silver protection made it distant. Manageable.
"Tell me about the stars again," she said into the darkness. "The happy ones."
So he did. Quiet stories of constellations that danced, that laughed, that loved. His voice followed her down into sleep, and this time she dreamed of nothing at all.
Which was its own kind of blessing.
One day left.