“You deserve to wake up,” he continued softly, his voice breaking just slightly. “…even if I never do.”
His hand loosened, just enough. The light surged forward—and he let go, allowing the portal to take me back to the real world…leaving him behind.
CHAPTER 21
It felt as though I had awakened from a very long, very deep sleep. My body didn’t seem to belong to me at first. Every limb was stiff and heavy, as though time itself had settled into my bones. My throat burned with dryness, each breath unfamiliar, my chest rising and falling as if relearning the motion.
When my eyes finally opened, the world did not rush back to meet me, but silently waited. I didn’t find myself in the garden as I had every other time I had come to this place, not standing beneath silvered light, or walking beneath budding branches.
Instead I found myself in a bedroom, one I recognized as the gilded prison from the palace within the dream. Only now, the opulent splendor I remembered had fallen into quiet decay. The curtains were drawn, the air thick with dust that dulled the light before it could fully enter. Even so, I felt the weight of reality that the pristine dream world could never match.
Quietly, I turned my head to take in my surroundings. I lay atop the bed adorned in my usual thief attire; a single blanket had been carefully placed over me, tucked around me with a tenderness I recognized. I slowly pushed myself upright, groaning. Every inch of my body ached, stiff from the lengthysleep. My body protested, as though it had been still for far longer than it should have been—whether it had been mere months or several years, I wasn’t sure.
The room gradually came into clearer focus. My gaze fell on the fireplace in the corner, its mantle thick with dust. A crumbling log lay in the cold ashes, as though it had lain dormant along with me all this time.
A vase sat on the nearby table, where a single dried rose resided, its petals curled inward, brittle with age. Beneath it another stem, long since withered, with the faintest trace of others beneath that. Replaced again and again, the only measurement of the passage of time—whether it had been mere months or several years, I had no idea.
Though it was far too faded to ascertain its original color, I instinctively knew that it had been a deep, velvety red…just like the one that had followed me back to the dream world, my first clue that this was the true reality.
My breath caught. I reached for the rose, lifting it carefully, as though it might crumble beneath my touch. It felt impossibly fragile yet warm, as if someone had placed it moments before. Certainty settled over me—he had been here, visiting my bedside while I slept.
I cradled the flower against my palm, feeling the quiet meaning pressed into every brittle petal. No matter our distance and forgotten memories, he had not left me, not truly. My throat tightened, but I forced the feeling down before it could take hold.
The ever-present haze and the subtle drowsiness that had once dulled every sensation had entirely disappeared, leaving my thoughts sharp and awareness clear, as though something that had long muted the world had finally been stripped away. I had thought with my last visit that the world had grown vivid and musical, but that paled in comparison to what I saw and heard now, even in this darkened bedroom.
I was not merely visiting, but truly awake.
I swung my legs slowly over the side of the bed, lowering my feet to the floor. Cold, dusty stone met my skin. I hesitated, testing my weight. My legs trembled, but they held.
I rose carefully, steadying myself as the room tilted—not from weakness, but from the strangeness of movement after so long without it. Each step felt uncertain, as though my body had forgotten what it meant to move through the world. When I didn’t stumble, I made my way to the window and drew back the curtains.
Light spilled in, pale and filtered, illuminating the dust suspended in the air. Beyond the glass, morning stretched quietly across the landscape. For a moment, it looked almost ordinary.
The grounds lay untouched, the pathways empty, the distant gardens stilled as though time had faltered and never quite resumed.
A thorny, overgrown hedge wound its way along the edges of the royal grounds. Somewhere beyond it drifted the soft, distant sound of birdsong, faint but unmistakable. My breath caught. The memory of the spell we had cast together rose within me, no longer dreamlike, as if the barrier that had once blocked my memories had at last been removed.
The awakening spell had worked…at least in part, with one notable exception.
Evander…I turned instinctively, my gaze sweeping the room as though I might find him there, just beyond my line of sight. Every time I’d crossed into this world, he’d been here, waiting for me.
I had never questioned it or asked why. There was were so many things I should have asked him: Why I alone could cross between worlds. Why I could see him when no one else could. Why the portal had required me. Why only one of us could passthrough. But I hadn’t, because I had believed there would be time.
Regret rose, searing and consuming, but I hastily suppressed the emotion before it could take root. My fingers tightened around the dried rose, the motion anchoring me.
If this was the real world, then he belonged to it. He had always been awake here, even while the rest of the kingdom slept. I had seen him, spoken to him. Unless when he’d sacrificed himself to send me through the portal…I smothered the thought before it could fully take shape.
“Evander?” I called softly, my voice rusty from long disuse. His name seemed to echo in the silence, too loud for the stillness it met. No answer came. “He’s here,” I whispered, more to myself than to the empty room. “Hehasto be.” But even as I said it, something in me already knew I wouldn’t find him.
His voice filled my memory, somber and certain:You deserve to wake up…even if I never do.
My breath hitched.No. I shook my head sharply, as though I could dislodge the thought before it fully formed. No, I refused to accept the idea, however much evidence mounted to support it.
I couldn’t accept his absence.
The silence of the castle pressed too heavily against me, too absolute to be anything but wrong. Though I had spent my life navigating absence—slipping through places unseen, unnoticed, and untouched—this felt different. This wasn’t the absence of people, of memory, or even of life.
It was the absence ofhim.
