Page 73 of Whisper of Nightmares

None of her pleading had ever soothed the pain.

But there is something about it coming from someone else that does. Not a complete healing of a wound—this pain is too festering for that. But a comforting caress. A cleaning before the bandage is wrapped, giving the new skin a chance to mend.

“It is not your fault no more than it was mine.” Kelda’s words drip with barely contained emotion.

And perhaps it’s for that reason that Euphemia feels inclined to be vulnerable.

To be honest.

“You’re wrong though.” Euphemia stands from the settee, fists clenched. “It was my fault. Wholly. Completely. My fault. And there is nothing I can do to change that.”

Euphemia starts to march from the room, and Asvald steps in her path.

“Let her go,” Kelda says. “It has been a long day.”

Asvald moves, and Euphemia tries her best not to run but to only walk briskly from the sitting room. As she does, she hears Kelda shifting the conversation to Percival, and for a moment, she almost turns back. Not only is she eager to hear what news Asvald might share about him, but Euphemia also remembers she meant to question Kelda about the leather bundle Maryam had provided. Perhaps those questions will be better answered tomorrow though, after she’s able to rest her weary head.

As Euphemia retreats to her bedchamber, she remembers the sorry state of her linens. Sighing to herself, she realizes she’ll need to head back down to the washroom before she can isolate herself fully.

But as she enters the bedchamber, Euphemia finds a fresh set of linens already resting atop her mattress.

“But—how?” Euphemia asks the empty room, but she knows only Asvald could have done such a thing. She’ll add it to the growing list of things she needs to thank him for, whenever she has the chance.

For the time being, she hastily makes her bed before collapsing atop it.

She should not be so tired already; it’s hardly the middle of the afternoon, and she slept for most of the carriage ride back.

But weariness has settled into her bones ever since she arrived at Thorfell. Perhaps it’s the altitude. Perhaps it’s the chill in the air. Whatever the reason, Euphemia sinks into sleep, wondering if Ash and the nightmare will be waiting for her on the other side of slumber.

This time, sleep is surrender.

An utter and complete loss of control.

And as she descends into an uncontrollable darkness, the purplish light emerges once more. The meadow. The babbling brook. The familiar horse.

With an unknowing smile on her face, Euphemia spins around, eager to greet the mysterious man of her dreaming world.

Only, he is not there.

A cloud of dense fog creeps beneath the purple sky.

Euphemia opens her mouth to call out to him. But she hesitates. There are creatures in this place that even he is fearful of. The last thing Euphemia wants is to draw them to her, especially while her protective dream champion is not with her.

Still, she can’t help but worry.

What does it mean for him that he is not here?

Perhaps she has merely eroded from his mind. Perhaps he is traversing the expansive lands, lost to her forever now.

A gust of wind blows through the fog, an eerily crisp path emerging.

Beyond it, spires of bone jut through the clearing.

The bone palace presents itself to her.

Náströnd, he had called it.

A place so dreadful, even Ash would not enter.