Chapter 21 - CHAPTER TWENTY

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The dream began in blood.

Always in blood.

The sky burned red above the black towers of Caldrith Vale and beneath it—screams. Damon knelt, chained in the courtyard of his uncle's manor, knees cut and bleeding against the stones, wrists raw beneath the iron manacles. Snow fell, thick and silent, but it could not muffle the horror that filled the air.

His head throbbed from the blow they'd given him. His breath steamed. Around him stood his brothers—princes draped in crimson and shadow. Their eyes held nothing.

No mercy. No humanity. No love.

And then—

"No!" Damon shouted, thrashing in the chains. "Don't—don't touch them!"

They were dragged into the courtyard. His uncle, tall and strong once, now old, trembling, bloodied from the beatings. His aunt's lip was split. Her gown torn at the hem. Still, she held her chin high.

Damon had never loved two people more.

"Damon…" his aunt's voice trembled. "Close your eyes."

"Let them go!" he screamed, struggling against the chains. "Please—please, take me! Just take me!"

The second prince stepped forward.

Dark-haired. Cold-eyed. Always sneering.

"I believe we will," he said.

And then he slit his aunt's throat.

The scream that tore from Damon's lungs wasn't human. It rang through the courtyard like a wounded beast's cry. His chains rattled violently. His knees buckled. He choked as if the blade had torn his own flesh.

His uncle roared—but it was cut short.

Another flash of steel. Another spray of red across the white snow.

Both of them crumpled.

Still. Gone.

"No…" Damon gasped, chest heaving. "No—no—no…"

The second prince turned to him, smiling.

"You'll remember this, little brother," he said softly. "Until the day you die."

—

Damon awoke with a start.

His body jerked upright, drenched in sweat. His hand reached instinctively for the weapon always kept by his side—but found only the softness of furs and linens.

No blade. No axe.

Only—

Neriah.

She lay beside him, still deep in sleep. One hand curled near her cheek. Her hair like fire across the pillow. She was turned slightly toward him, breathing slow and steady. Untroubled.

Damon stared.

For a moment, his heart still thundered in his chest. The shadows of the past clung to him like a curse. But they melted—slowly—at the sight of her.

He raked a hand through his damp hair, swallowing hard. He hadn't screamed. Not this time. But gods, he had wanted to. The pain had returned too vivid, too real. The scent of blood still lingered in his mind.

But then…

There she was.

Peaceful. Soft. Whole.

A warmth curled in his chest. Not desire—not yet. Something quieter. Heavier.

Safety.

A word he'd never thought he'd associate with another person.

She was so small compared to him. So delicate. Yet somehow, she anchored him better than any chain ever had.

And then he noticed—

She'd crossed the line.

The imaginary one she had drawn earlier with such self-righteous fire. Her hand now lay against his side, limp and unconscious. One leg had flung itself across the border, her knee brushing the sheet near his thigh.

A corner of his mouth twitched upward.

So much for her rules.

He watched her in silence for a long moment. She looked so serene it was almost unfair. Her lips quirked faintly in her sleep, like she was smiling. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she dreamed of gardens. Of books. Of laughter.

He hoped she did.

He leaned back slowly into the pillow, careful not to wake her. The pain in his chest had dulled. The ghosts would return. They always did.

But not now. Not with her beside him.

Not tonight.

Damon let out a breath, deep and slow, and for the first time in weeks—maybe months—he closed his eyes again.

And let sleep take him.

*****************

Warmth.

That was the first thing Neriah felt.

Not the crisp cold of early autumn slipping through stone walls. Not the familiar softness of her fur blanket or the linen pillow pressed against her cheek.

No.

Heat. Solid. Steady.

And breathing.

Her eyes fluttered open—slowly, reluctantly—and were met not with the glow of her bedside candle or the glimmer of dawn through the tall windows.

But fabric.

White, slightly wrinkled. And warm. And…

She blinked.

Gods.

Her cheek was resting against Damon's chest.

Damon's bare chest.

Neriah sat up abruptly—far too abruptly—and immediately felt the heat rush to her face. She scrambled backward, dragging the furs with her, until her back hit the carved headboard with a soft thump.

It wasn't just that she'd been pressed to him in her sleep.

Her entire body had betrayed her.

Her leg had been curled over his. Her arm was flung across his abdomen. And her cheek—

Her cheek had been nestled comfortably against his heartbeat like some enchanted maiden in one of Gwen's ridiculous romance scrolls.

She clutched the blanket to her chest and glared at the traitorous part of the bed she'd just vacated.

"You drew the line," she muttered under her breath. "You literally said, 'this side is mine'—what happened to that, Neriah?"

A deep, familiar voice answered.

"You crossed it."

Her head snapped up.

Damon was already awake—of course he was. His dark hair was a tousled mess, his head still resting against the pillows, but his eyes were wide open… and fixed on her.

And gods help her, he was smiling.

Not the polite sort of smile. Not the regal tilt he gave to court petitioners.

No.

This was smug. Amused. Thoroughly entertained.

"I—I didn't mean to," she stammered, cheeks burning. "I was asleep. You can't blame me for what I do in my sleep."

"Of course not." His tone was too innocent. "Though I admit I was rather charmed by the way you used my ribs as your pillow."

She groaned and pulled the blanket over her head. "You weren't supposed to notice that."

"I notice everything you do, Riah."

The nickname made her peek out from under the fur again. Damon had shifted onto his side now, propped on one elbow, the morning light catching in his eyes. He looked far too pleased with himself.

And far too unfairly handsome.

His voice dropped to something softer. "I take it you slept well?"

Neriah hesitated.

Then, grudgingly, "Yes."

Damon reached for a stray wisp of her hair that had fallen over her cheek. He tucked it behind her ear gently, the backs of his fingers brushing her skin as he did so.

"Better," he said.

Her throat felt dry. "Did… did you sleep well?"

His expression flickered—just for a moment—and she saw something deeper in his eyes. Something haunted. But then it was gone, replaced again by warmth.

"I did," he replied simply. "Eventually."

She stared at him a second longer, then lowered her gaze. "Right."

A silence settled, soft and unthreatening. Damon made no move to rise. Neither did she.

And then—

"I don't usually cuddle people in my sleep," Neriah said quickly, rushing to fill the quiet. "It's not a habit. I don't do it often. In fact, I don't think I've ever done it. You must've… seduced me in my dreams or something."

Damon let out a laugh—a real one, low and rich. "Ah, so it was my fault, then?"

"Clearly."

He smirked. "I'll be sure to seduce you more often in your dreams, if that's the result."

Neriah huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. She was red as tomatoes.

***********

DUSKWOOD, CALDRITH VALE

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls of Duskwood Keep. Outside, mist slithered through the black pines, veiling the ancient halls of Lord Cederic's estate in silence.

Inside his solar, Lord Cederic of the Duskwood sat alone, brooding.

A goblet of dark wine dangled from his hand as he leaned back into the great bear-pelt chair. A servant stood a few paces away, waiting silently beside a raven perched on its iron ring—Cederic's favored courier.

Cederic's face, rugged and sharp with cold cruelty, was twisted in displeasure as he scrawled ink across parchment. His eyes skimmed the message once more, words scratching against his pride.

To Lord Travis from Stonecrest,

I have received your request.

But circumstances have shifted.

There is talk of eyes in the wind—royal eyes. His Majesty is stirring, nosing through the dark corners of his Bannerlands like a wolf who smells blood. I've no interest in being the scent he follows.

Whatever shipments you intended to ferry through Duskwood, call them off. I shall not be availing you the passage. Not now.

Should the King's inquiry quiet, we may speak again. But I will not suffer the wrath of the Storm Lord to pad your purse.

Burn this letter when you are done. Or do not. I care not.

— Lord Cederic of Duskwood

He folded the letter sharply and handed it to the servant, who tied it securely to the raven's leg. With a sharp nod, Cederic ordered, "Send it. Now."

The raven launched into the night sky with a beat of wings, vanishing into the mist beyond the towers.

Cederic drained the goblet in one swallow. His lip curled.

He hated this.

He hated being cautious.

But he hated fear more—and there was something about Damon, the Storm Lord, that tasted like death when spoken too freely. Cederic had seen what became of lords who drew Damon Dragarth ire. He did not intend to be counted among them.

The slave coin was sweet, yes. But not sweeter than his own head.

He stood and growling under his breath. "Damn that King. Damn his honor."

But still, the passage was closed.

Let Travis scramble to find another hole.

Let someone else be the fool.