He hadn't moved.
Not in an hour. Maybe longer.
The gallery was cold now. The coals in the fireplace had long since dimmed, leaving shadows that clung to the pillars like parasites. Outside the arched windows, the moon was sliding into dawn. The stars faded, one by one.
And he still stood there, hands clenched behind his back, staring at the door she'd vanished through.
Elowen.
He rolled her name across his tongue silently, like a word he didn't trust aloud.
She was gone. The room still smelled like her.
That disturbed him more than it should have.
He had planned to leave right after. After taking her. After reclaiming what was his. After punishing her defiance with possession.
That had always worked.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he had touched her—really touched her—and come away marked.
The last time he'd looked into her eyes, she had been on her knees, covered in blood, her mouth open in shock, her last breath rasping out across white marble.
That was three weeks ago.
It wasn't.
He knew it couldn't have been. The timelines didn't match. The reality didn't fit. But the memory did. Too vivid to be fantasy. Too painful to forget.
She had died.
He had killed her.
He remembered the way her body crumpled, the heat of the blood on his hand, the stillness that followed. The echo in the Great Hall.
He had dreamed of that moment ever since.
But now… that dream had walked back into his arms and kissed him like she owned his lungs.
Something was wrong.
Something was very wrong.
He should've summoned the high mages. Called the Blackguard. Ripped through the palace until he found an answer.
Instead, he had just… stood here.
Frozen.
Burning.
He still felt the imprint of her lips on his. Still felt the scratch of her nails across his chest. He had wanted to punish her—but he couldn't tell who'd been punished.
His skin still tingled.
His pulse was still off.
He'd taken hundreds of women in his life. Broken dozens. Used twice that many.
But this?
This had felt like being stripped open.
He hated it.
He wanted more.
He didn't understand either feeling.
The door creaked behind him.
He didn't turn.
"Speak," he said.
A voice answered, too careful.
"Your Majesty. It's almost dawn."
"Is it."
"A missive arrived. Sealed in red wax. No sender."
"Who brought it?"
"One of the kitchen girls. Said it was left on the eastern gate."
"Touched?"
"No, Majesty. Unopened."
He extended a hand.
The guard approached carefully and placed the letter in his palm. Then he bowed and left without another word.
Caelum stared at the seal.
It wasn't red wax.
It was blood.
Still wet.
He pressed his thumb into it. The blood was real, but cold. Whoever had sealed it had done so recently.
He unfolded the letter.
No name.
Just a sentence.
"The dead remember everything."
His heart stopped.
No signature. No symbol. No clue.
But he knew.
This wasn't a threat.
It was a reminder.
He turned the page over, once, twice. No hidden mark.
Still, he couldn't stop staring at the words.
The dead remember everything.
So why didn't he?
He finally left the gallery when the sun broke the edge of the horizon.
His boots echoed through the marble halls, but he didn't hear them. His mind was somewhere else. Not in the past—he wasn't that sentimental. Not in the future—he had stopped planning past tomorrow.
He was still with her.
Still back in that moment, with her eyes locked on his, her hands tangled in his hair, her voice a breathless dare: "Punish me properly, then."
She had been defiant. But not angry. Not scared.
Excited.
As if she had wanted to be caught.
As if the whole night had been her design.
He entered his chambers without ceremony. The guards outside bowed. No one spoke.
Inside, the windows were already open. The bed was untouched. The room was cold.
He sat.
Not on the bed.
On the edge of the bath.
He needed to wash her off.
He didn't move.
A knock came. He didn't answer.
It opened anyway.
Only one person in the entire empire dared that.
"Your Majesty," said Lord Myron, the High Chancellor.
Caelum didn't respond.
"You missed the council."
"I wasn't interested in listening to generals bicker over borders we already own."
"They're spooked."
"Let them be."
Myron stepped closer.
"They say the Lady Elowen looked… different last night."
"She did."
"Stronger."
A pause.
"Smarter."
"She always was."
"Until now, she hid it."
Now Caelum turned.
Myron raised an eyebrow. "Did something happen?"
"Do you believe in ghosts, Chancellor?"
A long silence.
"I believe in memory," Myron said carefully. "And in women who learn to weaponize it."
Caelum's lips twitched. "You think I've lost control?"
"I think control isn't the question anymore."
He stood.
The High Chancellor took a step back. Just barely.
Caelum noticed.
He liked that.
"I'll remind you who I am," he said.
"No need," Myron replied. "She already did."
He didn't sleep.
Not that night. Not the next.
Elowen was everywhere now.
In the air.
In the corridors.
In his blood.
Her scent lingered in the folds of his cloak. Her voice echoed in the marble.
She had touched something inside him, something brittle and buried.
He wanted to crush it.
He wanted to crawl inside it.
He didn't understand the difference.