Caelan's POV
The guards dragged Elira away screaming, and Caelan felt nothing.
He should feel something. A woman who might be his only chance at survival had just called him a monster to his face, and all he could do was stand there like a statue made of ice.
The throne room erupted in whispers the moment the dungeon doors slammed shut. Nobles pressed closer, desperate for gossip. Isolde glided toward him with that perfect, practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes.
"Your Highness, surely you don't believe that criminal's lies
"Leave me." Caelan's voice cut through the noise like a blade.
The room went silent.
"Everyone. Out. Now."
They scrambled to obey. Even Isolde, though her smile tightened at the corners. Within seconds, the vast throne room stood empty except for Caelan and Thorne, who waited by the door like a loyal shadow.
Caelan stared at his hand—the one that had touched Elira's wrist. For those few heartbeats of contact, he'd felt everything. Joy. Terror. Guilt so crushing it had nearly brought him to his knees. And beneath it all, love so fierce and desperate it had burned.
Then she'd pulled away, and the emptiness had swallowed him whole again.
"Thorne," Caelan said quietly. "Bring her back."
"Your Highness, the dungeons are where you ordered—"
"I know where I sent her!" The words came out sharper than intended. Caelan closed his eyes, forcing calm. "I made a mistake. Bring her to my private study. No guards. No witnesses. Just... bring her."
Thorne hesitated. "The court will talk."
"Let them talk. I'm dying at dawn. Their opinions won't matter then."
That got Thorne moving. He bowed and vanished through a side door, leaving Caelan alone in the cavernous room.
Alone with the violet ribbon still clutched in his fist.
Seven years of dreams. Seven years of touching a woman who made him feel human again, who laughed at his terrible jokes and held him when nightmares turned the dream landscape dark. Seven years of falling in love with someone whose face he could never quite see clearly.
And now he knew why. Because if he'd seen her face—if he'd recognized her as the woman he'd condemned—the curse would have twisted that knowledge into something unbearable.
Kalista, the Dream Weaver who'd cursed him, had always been brilliant at crafting maximum cruelty.
Twenty minutes later, Elira stood in his study, flanked by two guards who'd brought her up from the dungeons. Her wrists bore fresh bruises from iron shackles. Blood stained her servant's dress where rough stone had scraped her knees.
Caelan waved the guards out. They exchanged uncertain glances but obeyed.
The door clicked shut.
Silence stretched between them like a chasm. Elira stared at the floor, shoulders rigid with rage she couldn't hide. Caelan sat behind his desk, the violet ribbon laid out between them like evidence at a trial.
"Sit," he said.
"I'll stand."
"That wasn't a request."
Her violet eyes snapped up, blazing with fury. "You've taken everything from me. My title. My freedom. Three years of my life. Don't pretend you care about my comfort now."
Fair point.
"Fine. Stand if you want." Caelan leaned forward. "But answer my question. What do you dream about?"
"I already told you—"
"The truth this time." His voice dropped lower. "Not what you think I want to hear. Not what's safe. The truth."
Elira's jaw clenched. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then: "Why does it matter? You'll just throw me back in the dungeons anyway."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'll die at dawn and none of this will matter." Caelan held up the ribbon. "This appeared on my pillow this morning after I dreamed of untying it from someone's hair. Someone with dark curls and a laugh that sounds like bells. Someone who makes me feel human."
He watched her face carefully. Saw her eyes widen. Saw her take an involuntary step back.
"That's impossible," she whispered.
"Yet here we are." He stood, slowly, keeping the desk between them. "I've been cursed for seven years. Stripped of all emotion except in dreams. And every single night, I dream of the same woman. A woman I've loved for longer than I've known her name."
Elira's hands started shaking. "Stop."
"A woman who won't tell me who she is. Who keeps her face just blurry enough that I can't quite see—"
"STOP!" Her voice cracked. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to stand there and talk about love when you're the monster who destroyed my life!"
"I know what I did to you—"
"Do you?" Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and angry. "Do you know what it's like to be beaten every day for crimes you didn't commit? To scrub floors until your hands bleed? To be so hungry you'd eat scraps from the trash? You signed that paper without even caring if I was guilty!"
The words should have hurt. Would have hurt, if he could feel them.
"You're right," Caelan said simply. "I didn't care. I couldn't. The curse made me hollow. I reviewed evidence and made decisions based on logic alone because logic was all I had left."
"That's not an excuse—"
"I'm not making excuses." He moved around the desk, slowly, watching her tense. "I'm explaining why a cursed prince and a convicted traitor might both be trapped in the same nightmare. Why Kalista would bind us together in dreams while making sure we'd hate each other in reality."
Elira backed toward the door. "You're insane."
"Touch me."
"What?"
"Touch my hand." Caelan held it out. "If I'm wrong—if you're not my dream heart—nothing will happen. But if I'm right..."
"I'm not touching you."
"Because you're afraid I'm right." Caelan took another step closer. "Because you've been dreaming too, haven't you? Dreaming of someone who makes you feel loved. Someone whose face you can never quite see."
Her back hit the door.
"Someone," Caelan continued softly, "who sounds exactly like me."
"No." But her voice wavered.
"Tell me about your dreams, Elira."
"They're none of your—"
"Do you dream of a garden?" The words spilled out faster now, pieces clicking into place. "With flowers that change color when you touch them? A lake that reflects stars even in daylight? A stone bench where we sit and talk for hours?"
Elira's face went white.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Caelan pressed. "Tell me you don't dream of those things. Tell me you don't wake up every morning with your heart breaking because the person you love isn't real."
"He's not you." The words came out desperate, broken. "He can't be you. He's kind and warm and human—"
"And I'm a monster. I know." Caelan was close enough now to see the flecks of silver in her violet eyes. "But what if we're both right? What if the curse split me in two? The hollow shell who condemned you, and the dreaming heart who loves you?"
Elira's breath hitched.
"Touch me," Caelan said again. "Just once. If I'm wrong, I'll set you free. I'll die at dawn and you'll never see me again. But if I'm right—if you're my dream heart—then we both deserve to know the truth."
Her hand trembled as she raised it. Hesitated. Their fingers were inches apart.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"I know."
"If you're really him—if you're my dream lover—I'll hate you even more for being the same person who destroyed me."
"I know that too."
Elira's fingertips brushed his palm.
The world exploded.
Emotion crashed through Caelan like a tidal wave. Seven years of feeling compressed into a single instant. Love and guilt and longing and shame and terror and joy, all of it flooding into him at once. His knees buckled. His vision blurred.
And through it all, one truth burned brighter than everything else:
She was real. His dream heart was real.
He gasped, clutching her hand like a lifeline. Colors seemed brighter. Sounds sharper. The warmth of her skin against his was the most beautiful agony he'd ever known.
Elira felt it too. Her eyes went wide with shock and recognition and something that looked like horror.
"It's you," she breathed. "Oh gods, it's really you."
Then the study door exploded inward.
Isolde stood in the doorway, face twisted with rage. Behind her, twelve guards with drawn swords.
"Arrest her," Isolde commanded, pointing at Elira. "She's using dark magic to manipulate the prince. I have three witnesses who'll testify she's been practicing forbidden dream sorcery."
Caelan tried to speak, but the moment Elira's hand left his, the emotions vanished. The hollow emptiness slammed back into place, leaving him gasping and disoriented.
The guards surged forward.
And Elira's eyes began to glow violet—bright, burning, furious violet—as power she didn't know she possessed exploded from her skin in waves of pure dream magic.
"Nobody," she said, her voice echoing with otherworldly resonance, "touches me again."