ARIELLE
The air lies thick and humid, a sweet and cloying heat that clings to my skin like finest dust. I stand in a place I know not, a space of shifting shadows and flickering candlelight that stretches endlessly about us. A sense of unease, both familiar and unsettling, prickles at the back of my neck.
Then, he is here.
The beast. Caith.
He wears not his formal court attire, but is stripped of all artifice. His intricate and chaotic skin-drawings seem to glow from within, like embers in a bed of ash. His presence is a palpable weight, a heat that consumes the very air. He is a creature of myth, raw and magnificent.
He begins to walk toward me, slow and deliberate, a predator stalking his prey. The space betwixt us feels charged with some wild and terrible energy. My heart hammers against my ribs, not in fear, but in a strange, breathless anticipation. I know I should flee, know I should turn away, yet I am rooted to the spot, a moth drawn to a deadly flame.
He reaches me, his gaze never leaving mine, those impossible blue-green eyes seeing through every wall I have ever built. He is close, so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. One hand comes up, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a touch so gentle, so unexpected, that a shiver, not of cold, but of a strange new awareness, traces a path down my spine.
He bends his head, his dark hair brushing my cheek, and the scent of burnt sugar and earth fills my senses. His lips, warm and impossibly soft, hover a mere hair's breadth from mine. I hold my breath as a wave of sensation, alien and overwhelming, crashes through me. I know not what it is. I know not what it portendeth.
It is a feeling that runs deeper than logic or reason. It is an awakening, a slow, hot blossom unfurling in the pit of my stomach, a thrilling, terrifying thrum of electricity that makes me weak. It is a sensation that hath no name in my world, a thing more powerful and more dangerous than any beast.
Then, just ere his lips can touch mine...
I wake with a gasp, my body slick with sweat. The memory of his warmth lingers upon my skin, and the strange, unnamed feeling remaineth a confusing, intoxicating thrum in my blood. And in the silent darkness of my chambers, I am more afraid than I have ever been.
What ungodly hour is this?
WEDDING DAY!
How utterly, irrevocably unhappy this day makes me! I rise and wait for my maids, but the room remains stubbornly empty. Clearly, everyone else is far too busy preparing for my impending nuptials to bother with the bride. I suppose I shall have to bathe, dress, and generally make myself presentable, entirely on my own. It seems my life as a pampered princess is already drawing to a close.
And yet, the phantom warmth of a touch lingers on my skin. The dream clings to me with more tenacity than the humid air of that unreal chamber. Caith.
His name is a secret in my mind, a key to a door I did not know existed. What monstrous logic of the sleeping mind conjures such a creature? To be stalked by a beast only to be undone by a whisper-soft thumb upon my jaw… it is an absurdity. It feels less a dream and more a verdict, delivered in the private court of my own slumber. But a verdict upon what crime? My ignorance? My impending marriage? A shiver that has nothing to do with the morning chill traces the same path down my spine as it did in the dream. I press my own fingers to my jaw, as if to erase the memory. It does not work.
I take the liberty of wandering down to the dining room, which is already crammed with a motley assortment of individuals who, I assume, are acclaimed as our esteemed guests. My gaze inevitably falls upon my future husband. He looks as though he'd rather be anywhere else, his expression unreadable and undeniably... cold. A stark, polar opposite to the consuming heat of my dream-beast. The comparison is involuntary and deeply irritating.
"Darling, you're up early?" my mother asks, her tone laced with a thinly veiled disapproval.
"I find I have no more sleep to unravel," I reply, my own tone as dry as the desert winds. "Perhaps I should simply begin practicing my wifely duties? Polishing the silverware, perhaps? I hear it builds character, if not happiness."
Mother's lips tighten. "Really, someone should assist her to her horse for a brisk ride. A distraction is clearly needed."
"Why?" I ask, my brow furrowing. A brisk ride sounds infinitely more appealing than forced pleasantries with distant relatives. Or confronting the lingering sensation of a dream that felt more real than this crowded hall.
"You are to rest for the entire day," Mother says sternly, "and then you are to be married at dusk."
"Why dusk? Is there some ancient prophecy I should know about? Will I turn into a pumpkin if I am joined before sunset? Or does my groom perhaps have a sensitivity to daylight? One must consider these things."
"Just do as I say from now on. If I call you, come right away. Understood?" Her tone brooks no argument.
"Yes, Mother," I say, masking a sigh. I do wonder why I am being treated with such barely disguised impatience. Is it the wedding, or is it me?
"Oh, wait! Please proceed upstairs to my room for your dress fitting. I completely forgot."
"Yes, Mother," I repeat, feeling more like a pawn in a game than a bride. A pawn that has been having disturbingly vivid dreams about the wrong player.
I am duly escorted to the Queenly chamber, where a lineup of dresses in various colors and shades awaits me. Azriel is already there, seated impatiently.
"Oh! You're here. Amazing. Let us get started," she says, her tone brisk and entirely lacking in enthusiasm.
"Why do I have to do this?" I ask, gesturing to the extravagant gowns. "Why can't I simply run away? It's far less intimidating than being joined to the Prince. One involves blisters and foraging, the other involves a lifetime of… whatever that is." I nod toward the window, where the world of men—and beasts who walk like men in dreams—lies in wait.
"You wouldn't attend your wedding in some random gown, would you? You are so damnably idiotic, Arielle."
"Why are you always so mean to me?" I retort, crossing my arms. "Is it a required qualification for being my sister, or merely a hobby you've cultivated to perfection?"
"There are a great many things you don't know about men. You are naive and shockingly ignorant."
"I know a lot," I protest, thinking of blue-green eyes in candlelight. The knowledge feels dangerous and illicit.
"Like?" Azriel raises a skeptical eyebrow.
"They are... like us," I venture, feeling rather foolish even as I say it. It is a pathetic summary of the seismic shift his presence represented in my dream.
"And?" she presses, clearly unimpressed. "Tell me, Arielle, enlighten me with your vast knowledge of the people you were calling creatures yesterday. Do you even know where babies come from? Or do you think the storks here are particularly enthusiastic about delivering royal heirs?"
I bristle. "Well, I know it involves…proximity. And probably some level of…enthusiasm." The word tastes strange, now imbued with the heat of a dream. "Though, frankly, judging from the Prince's expression this morning, enthusiasm is hardly the word I'd use to describe him. He looked as if he were attending his own tax audit."
Azriel throws her hands up. "Proximity! Enthusiasm! Good heavens, you are utterly hopeless. You're about to be married. You're about to be shipped off to some distant land with a man you've known for precisely five minutes, a man who, by the way, looks as though he'd rather be battling a hydra than exchanging vows with you. And you know nothing. Absolutely nothing!"
"Well, what's the point in knowing? It's not like I had a say in the matter. Mother decided, the council agreed, and suddenly I'm bartering myself for some strategic alliance or a particularly fetching set of tapestries, or whatever it is queens do these days." I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, though a knot of anxiety—and a confusing, dream-born curiosity—is tightening in my stomach.
"Exactly!" Azriel practically shouts, her face flushed. "You don't have a say! You're being treated like a broodmare, sent off to breed with some foreign stallion! And you, the most intelligent, the most capable woman on this island, are just going to stand there and let it happen?"
I sigh. "What else am I supposed to do? Stage a coup? Flee into the forest and become a hermit? Those sound terribly inconvenient, and, frankly, my hair isn't suited for outdoor living. Besides, hermitage seems a lonely business.
Even dreams provide better company." The last part slips out, soft and unintended.
Azriel stares at me, her expression shifting. "Oh, Arielle," she says, her voice softening slightly. "You're so much more than just a pretty face and a sharp wit. You could be ruling this island, making real changes, instead of being used as a political pawn."
"And you think the council would actually let me rule? They can barely tolerate my existence as it is. At least marrying the Prince gives me a vaguely legitimate reason to leave this gilded cage." I pause, then add, "Besides, what's all this really about, Azriel? I can't help but think you're more frustrated than the average bridesmaid should be. Are you perhaps harboring some secret ambition to marry the Prince yourself? I haven't noticed you swooning, but one never knows."
Azriel's gaze hardens again, but there is a pain in it now. "You really haven't got the faintest idea, do you? What do you think I'm mad about?"
"I don't know Azriel! I'm innocent."
"Innocent?" Azriel scoffs. "You're not innocent, Arielle, you're willfully ignorant. You've lived your entire life in this sheltered little bubble, oblivious to the realities of the world, and now you're being thrust into the deep end with no idea how to swim."
I frown. "The realities of the world being…men? Why did they come to Khavena, anyway? We were perfectly happy without them. Did Phanes just get bored and decide to add a new species to the mix? A rather tedious-looking species, if the breakfast table is any indication."
Azriel sighs, running a hand through her hair. "It's…complicated. Trade, alliances, power. The council decided it was in our best interest to integrate. Though, personally, I think they just wanted to get rid of you."
"So that's why I'm being aligned with a 'Prince' then?" I mimic the word. "Is that what this whole 'marriage' thing is about? What even is marriage, anyway? Is it like a trade deal, but with…emotions?" And dreams, I think silently. Does it come with dreams?
"And why do wives even exist? Are they just fancy pets with impeccable manners?"
"Oh, for the love of…" Azriel groans. "A wife is…a partner. A companion. Someone to share your life with."
"And what does this sharing entail? Endless embroidery and polite conversation? Because, frankly, I'd rather wrestle a sea serpent. It seems more honest."
"It involves… intimacy," Azriel says, her cheeks flushing slightly. "And children. Usually."
"Intimacy?" The dream flashes before me—the heat, the proximity, the terrifying, thrilling awareness. "Is that code for something unspeakable? And children? Why would I want miniature versions of myself running around, demanding attention and disrupting my reading schedule? I can barely manage my own schedule."
"A husband is the male version of a wife. A husband takes care of his wife and makes babies. And you will have a husband!"
"And they just expect me to…what? Lie back and think of Khavena? That seems remarkably unfair to both of us. Why am I being treated like some kind of…political receptacle?" My voice rises, the dream's confusion fuelling my waking frustration. "Are all men like this? Is Caith like this? Why is everyone being so hard on me? What happens in the land away?"
I pause, my breath coming short. The dream and the argument are tangling together. "Wait, why am I leaving? I'm good at ruling this island. I give good advice and I read the books on time and I'm brave."
I'm about to get angry and cry and shout. I want to understand the dream. I want to understand this marriage. I want to understand why my skin still remembers a touch that never happened.
"Just…stop," Azriel says, her voice strained with an emotion I cannot name. "This is all too much to explain in one sitting. Come with me."
She grabs my hand, her grip surprisingly firm, and pulls me towards the door. "Let's go for a walk in the gardens. We need some air, and frankly, I need a strong drink. And you… you need to hear things I should have told you long ago."