Rosilines Pov:
Warmth.
That was the first thing I felt. Not the blistering heat of fire, or the sickening warmth of blood drying on my hands—but a soft, flickering warmth like the golden light of a hearth in winter. Like arms that would never harm me.
I wasn't dead.
I knew that because death, surely, couldn't smell like lavender and old books.
My lashes fluttered open.
The ceiling above me was carved from black stone, veined with silver like frost beneath moonlight. It was impossibly high, arched like a cathedral. Curtains of deep violet velvet framed tall, arched windows. The sky beyond them was the color of amethyst twilight, neither dawn nor dusk—eternal in-between.
Everything glowed faintly. Not from firelight or sun, but from magic woven into the very bones of this place. It hummed beneath the floorboards, danced in the seams of the tapestries, curled through the carved bedposts like invisible ivy.
A room meant for someone touched by power.
But not for me.
I sat up too quickly.
Pain lanced through my side, sharp and breathless, and I let out a soft, broken cry. My fingers clutched the thick coverlet beneath me, and for a moment, I could only focus on breathing.
Then memory hit like a flood breaking a dam.
The chapel.
The scent of roses and smoke.
Thayer's scream.
The fall.
His body crumpling beneath mine—motionless. Cold.
Blood on my hands.
My father's crown shattered on the marble floor.
My mother's lifeless eyes.
My people screaming.
Gone.
All of it—gone.
A sob rose in my throat, ragged and thick. I pressed my hands to my face, fingers trembling against my lips as I choked on grief too vast to name. My whole world had been ripped away, torn root from soil. I had nothing. No one.
Not even my name felt like it belonged to me anymore.
But I wasn't in Elarith. That much was certain. This wasn't home.
This was somewhere older. Wilder. Darker.
The air here didn't smell of jasmine and parchment and beeswax polish. It smelled of pine smoke, wild herbs, and something more ancient—like rain on stone in a forgotten forest, or the moment before lightning splits the sky.
A place that was still deciding whether or not to eat me whole.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood, unsteady. The stone floor was cold beneath my bare feet, but it grounded me. Kept me from unraveling.
The gown I wore—what was left of it—was torn, crusted with blood and ash. Someone had wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, thick and fur-lined. I hadn't noticed until that moment. It slipped as I stood.
The door across the chamber loomed.
I expected it to be locked. Expected guards. Expected chains or dark enchantments. Some punishment for surviving.
But it opened when I touched it. Smooth. Effortless.
No resistance. No warning.
Beyond was a corridor of high stone and flickering sconces suspended in midair, flames held aloft by magic rather than metal. The walls were etched with unfamiliar runes. Blackwood paneling stretched between the columns, carved with vines, stars, and strange beasts whose eyes gleamed like jewels.
The air was still. Not dead—just… waiting.
My steps echoed as I walked, careful not to breathe too loudly. Shadows pooled in corners where light should have touched. Yet none of it felt overtly hostile. Just cautious. Curious.
Blackbriar Keep.
The stories flooded back in whispers.
Children's tales. Warnings told around hearths in hushed tones. A castle where the Midnight King lived, cursed to walk its halls alone. Where the bones of the unworthy fed the trees. Where queens went mad and magic turned on its masters.
But those had been bedtime stories. Ghost stories.
And yet here I was, walking their halls.
I passed a library with glass-paned doors left ajar—rows upon rows of leather-bound tomes, some glowing faintly, others chained to the shelves. Further on, a spiral staircase descended into darkness, while another twisted upward into a tower lost in shadow. Doors marked with gold filigree and unfamiliar sigils lined the walls.
No guards.
No chains.
No closed rooms.
Only silence.
And then—I saw him.
He stood at the far end of the corridor like something born of shadow and starlight, the firelight kissing the edges of his broad shoulders. His cloak hung from one arm, the other resting loosely on the hilt of a sword he clearly didn't need.
Dark hair framed a face carved in severity and mystery, but there was no cruelty in it. Just quiet. Stillness. As if he was trying not to scare me.
My breath caught.
"You're awake," he said, voice quiet as a spell. It wasn't a question. It was a realization. A breath of relief.
"You—" My voice cracked. "You took me."
"Yes."
He didn't lie. He didn't flinch.
"But you were dying."
I blinked. "You should have let me."
His gaze darkened—not with anger, but something heavier.
"And lose my only chance to keep this kingdom from falling apart entirely?"
My brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
He looked at me as if weighing something fragile in his hands. Then he spoke, words chosen carefully.
"I need a bride. The lords of Thornreach are circling like vultures. They need to see strength beside me. A queen. A future." A pause. "And you… need time to grieve. Time to breathe. Time to survive."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. The weight in my chest made it hard to even hold myself upright.
He stepped forward, slowly. Not a predator—but not a coward either. Like a man accustomed to war, but unfamiliar with grief.
"You're not a prisoner," he said again, gentler this time. "You may leave, if you wish. But I will not send you back to a world that's hunting both of us."
I should've run. Screamed. Fought him.
But I didn't.
I stood there like a ghost in a shell of velvet and blood, heart barely beating beneath the noise of my grief. Because something about him—something about this cursed place—felt less like danger and more like silence after the storm.
A flicker of safety.
Of space.
Of breath.
Just enough to keep me standing.
Just enough… to live.