Though Kael slept peacefully on the thin mat, warmth and comfort brushing against long-forgotten edges of his heart, and though the quiet hush of night veiled the palace in stillness, not all within Velmoria's grand walls found rest.
In the East Wing, nestled behind towering ivory doors inlaid with obsidian vines and dragon-bone handles, a chamber gleamed with opulence. The air smelled of parchment, steel, and faint citrus from imported oils burned to soothe restless minds. Heavy curtains of royal sapphire velvet framed the arched windows. A carved fireplace, crackling low, bathed the marble floor in flickering amber light. Books lined the walls like silent sentinels, and an open bottle of spiced wine sat untouched on a polished desk.
Here, Prince Darian tossed under silk sheets of deep storm gray, his golden hair tangled against the pillows, sweat clinging to his brow. His jaw clenched, breath erratic.
He dreamed.
But this time, the dream was not of wind-swept meadows or misty forests.
It was here.
Somewhere within the palace.
He knew it instinctively, in the way dreamers sometimes know things without evidence. The air carried the scent of aged wood and warm stone. The light filtering in was unmistakably moonlight pouring through the long windows of imperial corridors. But he couldn't place the exact room—its shape both familiar and elusive.
Not that he could think straight.
Because she was there again.
The woman.
She stood before the tall arched window, her back to him, bathed in silver. The moonlight kissed every inch of her body, casting her in a radiant, ghostly glow. She was naked, completely unashamed, utterly ethereal. Her arms lifted gracefully as she gathered her long hair into a makeshift bun, though she held no comb, no pins.
Darian's mouth ran dry.
The curve of her spine, the delicate lines of her waist dipping into full, soft hips—he could see everything. Her bare ass, round and smooth, looked maddeningly pinchable, sculpted by some god with too much time and temptation. His gaze dropped helplessly, greedily.
And then—
She bent forward slightly, resting her elbows on the windowsill, gazing up at the moon with reverence. The motion shifted her body just enough, and Darian caught the glisten of her arousal between her thighs. A silent, devious promise of heat, of softness, of nectar he ached to taste.
It was like being ensnared in a spell—his body no longer his own. Hunger and reverence clashed in his chest.
Then, her voice.
Soft. Feminine. Soothing. She said his name like she'd always known him.
"Darian…"
His heart stopped.
"What…?" he rasped, taking a step forward.
She turned her head, just slightly, enough for her voice to float to him again.
"I said—" she began.
But the rest vanished—like wind scattered her words before they could reach him.
"Say it again," he pleaded, voice hoarse.
She opened her mouth.
And then—
Gone.
The room. The woman. The light.
Darian's eyes flew open. He lay in his bed, drenched in sweat, chest heaving. The room around him was still the same—but something had shifted.
He pinched the space between his brows, groaning. The same sharp throb behind his eyes.
"Damn this bloodline," he muttered. "Can't even sleep without it poisoning my mind."
For weeks, she had haunted his dreams. Was it a curse-born delusion? A vision of prophecy? Or something far more twisted—an echo of desires he didn't understand?
He sat up—and stopped.
His gaze dropped.
"…What the hell," he whispered.
His cock strained painfully against the sheets, the head wet with precum, throbbing with a need that startled even him. He was no boy. Wet dreams hadn't plagued him in years.
He exhaled slowly.
No point trying to sleep now.
He threw off the covers, dressed, and stalked into his study. Maybe paperwork would anchor his mind. The ledgers were stacked high with estate records and border movement scrolls. He picked up a brush, inked it, and began to write—
But the hand didn't obey.
Instead of numbers and figures, his brush curved into the shape of a spine, then the swoop of a hip. The slope of a breast, the gentle tilt of a head. The strands of moonlit hair.
He didn't stop until the image was complete.
The woman stood again before the window, nude, bathed in light, her arms raised in that same delicate movement. His hand dropped the brush.
He stared at the image.
She was perfect.
And yet he had no idea who she was.
---
The sun rose lazily over Velmoria.
A warm beam slipped through the slats of Kael's small window, landing on his face. He groaned, shifting. The mat underneath him had not softened overnight—his back could attest to that.
He sat up slowly and stretched, glancing toward the bed.
Aera was still there, tangled in his blanket like a cat, her hair splayed over the pillow. Her mouth twitched as if dreaming, and her hand was curled protectively around the pouch of coins.
Kael smiled faintly.
Company.
He hadn't realized how lonely he'd been.
He stood, washed quickly using the cold water in the basin, and dressed in fresh servant's clothes—simple gray with patched elbows. He ran a hand through his hair to tame the mess and turned—
Aera blinked awake, groggy at first, then grinned like a child on festival morning. She sat up, stretched with a yawn, and held the coin pouch above her head dramatically.
"I wasn't dreaming," she said. "Still rich."
Kael chuckled. "I doubt that counts as 'rich'."
She ignored him, clutching it to her chest. "I'm going to eat real meat tonight. Maybe even honeyed buns. Three of them."
Kael rolled his eyes. "Live a little, why don't you."
"Don't tempt me," she teased, eyes sparkling. "I might just buy you a new mat."
Kael laughed. "Now that's a real gift."
As light spilled into the room and servants stirred across the palace, Kael felt the tiniest bloom of something unfamiliar.
A sliver of peace.
Even if it wouldn't last.