The realization sat heavy in her chest.
This place wasn't just dangerous.
It felt… familiar.
Maya lay back slowly, staring up at the dark canopy above the bed. The fabric shifted slightly with the air, shadows moving like something alive. Her mind refused to settle, drifting instead into half-formed thoughts and fractured images.
Stone corridors she hadn't walked.
A woman's voice whispering urgently.
Running—always running.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Stop," she murmured to herself.
Sleep came anyway, slow and unwilling, dragging her under before she could fight it.
She was standing in a forest.
Not the palace grounds. Not the modern world.
This one was older—trees twisted thick and tall, their branches tangled overhead, blocking out the sky. The air smelled damp and sharp. Her breath came out fast, white in the cold.
She was small.
A child's hands—Elowen's—clutched the edge of a dark cloak.
"Stay close," a woman said, low and urgent. "No matter what you hear."
Boots crunched somewhere behind them.
Maya's heart pounded painfully as fear curled tight in her chest.
Then—
Metal clashed. A shout. The woman spun, pushing Maya back hard.
"Run."
She ran.
Branches tore at her arms. Her feet burned. She didn't look back. She couldn't.
The forest swallowed her whole—
Maya jolted awake, gasping.
Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The fire crackled softly nearby. Shadows danced across the walls.
She was in Darcien's palace.
She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing slowly until the panic eased.
That wasn't a dream.
It felt too sharp. Too real.
And worse—
She had never remembered any of this before.
"Why now…?" she whispered.
A knock sounded at the door.
She flinched.
"Princess Elowen," a servant's voice called softly. "His Highness requests your presence in the lower hall."
Maya rubbed her face and stood, smoothing her clothes with shaking hands. "I'll come."
The lower hall was dimmer than the rest of the palace, lit by wall torches that cast long, dramatic shadows. Darcien stood near a large stone table, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid.
He turned as she approached.
"You slept," he observed.
"Eventually," she said.
There was a pause.
"You are calmer," he added.
She shrugged lightly. "I talk when I'm nervous. Guess I ran out of things to say."
He studied her for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced.
They began walking.
The silence stretched.
"So," Maya said suddenly, forcing cheer into her voice, "do you guys have libraries here? Like—huge ones with ladders and forbidden sections?"
"Yes."
Her eyes lit up. "Of course you do."
She kept talking as they walked—about the palace, the servants, the food from earlier, even the way Alaric walked like he was carved from stone. Her words tumbled out unevenly, lighter than she felt.
Darcien listened.
He didn't respond.
Not once.
Yet he didn't tell her to stop either.
Somewhere between one corridor and the next, her voice slowed. Her steps dragged. The weight of exhaustion crept back in, heavy and sudden.
She yawned mid-sentence.
"…and then I thought maybe gothic means—" her words slurred, "—dark and dramatic and…"
Her head tipped sideways.
Before she could correct herself, it landed against Darcien's shoulder.
He froze.
Her weight shifted closer, warm through the layers of fabric. Her breathing evened out almost instantly.
One hand slid unconsciously around his arm.
Darcien did not move.
Not a muscle.
His jaw tightened as he stared straight ahead, every instinct screaming that this was wrong. Improper. Unacceptable.
Princesses did not do this.
Peasants did not do this.
No one did.
She murmured something incoherent against his shoulder, fingers curling slightly as if seeking reassurance.
He remained still, stiff as stone, walking slower now so as not to wake her.
What kind of girl falls asleep on a crown prince?
And why, of all things, did he let her?
As they continued down the corridor, Darcien found himself thinking something he had not allowed in a very long time.
Princess Elowen was either the most dangerous disturbance to enter his life—
Or the most unguarded one.