Chapter Ten : Between Dreams and Memories
The study was far too quiet after Aurelia left.
Lysander sat motionless behind his desk, staring at the teacup ring she'd left behind, a small, perfect circle marking where she'd been. He should've been reading, or at least pretending to. Instead, his mind replayed her expression when he'd reached out to touch her cheek, the hesitation, the soft catch in her breath, the way her eyes darted away like she was afraid of what he might see in them.
It wasn't supposed to matter. She wasn't supposed to matter.
And yet… she did.
He leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to smother the rising ache in his chest. "You've completely lost it," he muttered to himself. "She's your student, not your-"
He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
The rain tapped against the windows, soft but relentless. He turned off the lamp, surrendering to the darkness. Maybe sleep would dull this madness. Maybe it would silence her voice echoing in his head.
He slumped onto the couch near the window, the faint scent of parchment and candle smoke following him into the dark. The moment his eyes closed, the world shifted.
And the past began again.
Warmth. Light. The faint murmur of voices.
Lysander stirred, eyes fluttering open to find himself lying beneath a canopy of white drapes. The air smelled faintly of herbs and lavender. He blinked, disoriented, heavy until the blurred outline of a girl came into focus. She was tending to glass vials, her back turned, her dark hair catching the sunlight like gold dust.
She turned when he groaned softly.
"You're awake," she said, relief softening her tone. "You shouldn't be moving."
Her face, calm, determined... stirred something deep within him. That voice. That composure. It was her.
"You… healed me," he rasped.
"I kept you from dying," she corrected gently. "The guards did the heavy work."
He managed a faint smirk. "Then I'll thank them after you."
She tried to hide the smile tugging at her lips. "Rest. That's an order."
But before he could reply, hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Aurelia's head snapped toward the sound. "Please, don't speak," she whispered, straightening quickly. The door opened.
Two figures swept in like a gust of unwanted wind.
The first, regal and proud, moved as if the air itself parted for her. Her gown shimmered with excess, every jewel a statement of authority. Her eyes flicked around the healer's wing with thinly veiled disdain.
"Your Majesty," Aurelia murmured, bowing her head.
"Queen Zera," Lysander thought bitterly. He didn't need to ask; arrogance always introduced itself.
Zera's lips curved into a cold smile. "You've done well, child. Though I can't imagine why the prince was brought here of all places. The smell of medicine lingers."
Lysander forced his tone calm. "My apologies, Your Majesty. Next time I'll try to bleed somewhere more...perfumed."
Aurelia's eyes widened, horror and stifled laughter mingling in them. Zera's expression faltered for half a heartbeat, before stiffening again. "Spirited, aren't we?" she murmured, turning away.
Trailing behind her was another woman younger, prettier, and painfully aware of it. Every move was deliberate, designed to be seen. She smiled too brightly, tilted her head too often, and let her gaze linger far longer than courtesy allowed.
"I'm Princess Lyra," she said, her voice lilting like a melody she'd practiced in the mirror. "It's an honor to have you among us, Prince Lysander."
He inclined his head. "The honor is mutual, Princess."
She giggled softly, purposefully. "You flatter me already."
Zera sighed impatiently. "Lyra, we're leaving. The Council awaits. The prince needs rest, not your chatter."
As they turned to go, Lyra glanced over her shoulder. "Perhaps we'll speak more… privately, my lord."
"Perhaps," he said smoothly, though his expression never changed.
The moment they left, the silence returned thick, charged.
Aurelia exhaled, visibly relieved. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "They shouldn't have interrupted your recovery."
"They didn't interrupt anything," he replied dryly. "Though I'm starting to understand why your queen has so many wars."
Aurelia gave him a sharp look, half disapproval, half amusement. "You shouldn't mock royalty."
"I wasn't mocking," he said, his voice low. "Just observing."
Her lips twitched, but she looked away, busying herself with herbs again. Yet he could feel it, the strange, quiet energy between them. The way her presence calmed something restless in him, even as it made his pulse unsteady.
She excused herself moments later, leaving him alone with the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air, the same scent that followed him when the world began to fade.
He woke with a jolt.
The rain had stopped. His study was bathed in pale light.
For a long moment, he just sat there breathing hard, staring at his hands, half expecting to see blood. Everything had felt real. The queen, the princess, the lavender… her.
He rubbed his temples, whispering, "What the hell was that…"
Just a dream, he told himself. But his heart wouldn't believe it. Every word, every look, every detail was carved into his mind like something remembered, not imagined.
And worst of all
The features of the girl from that dream looked exactly like the one who'd stood in this very room just hours ago.
He shut his eyes, whispering her name like a confession.
"Aurelia."
The name stuck in his mind, heavy and impossible to ignore. He tried to push it away, tried to force the images from his head, but they came anyway. He saw her, not as the calm, brilliant student but pressed against him, breathless, heart racing, every part of her too close, too real. It made his chest tighten, and a heat spread through him he couldn't control. Every thought felt wrong, every impulse forbidden, but he couldn't stop it.
Guilt stabbed him. He was her teacher. A man of reason. And here he was, imagining her like that. He pressed his palms to his face, trying to push it away, but the image stayed, sharper than any memory. Even her quiet look earlier the curiosity in her eyes, the way she had watched him, played in his mind, twisted into something irresistible and dangerous.
He hated himself for it. Every logical explanation, her brilliance, the stress of the day, the intensity of their work felt like a weak excuse. It didn't matter. Desire had taken root, raw and urgent, and he couldn't deny it.
He stood, pacing the study, trying to shake the fire that raced through him. Her name left his lips again and again, a whispered warning to himself, a confession he couldn't fully own. He knew he had to stay in control. Had to stay proper. Had to resist.
But even as he tried, the faint scent of lavender lingered in his mind. Her scent. Not in the room, not in reality, but in him. Every nerve burned. Every heartbeat screamed.
Her name wasn't just a word anymore. It was weight, it was heat, it was impossible to ignore. And he realized he was trapped. Caught between reason and desire, teacher and man, control and temptation. He couldn't escape it. He wouldn't. And somehow, that terrified him as much as it drew him in.