That night,
Rhys dreamed.
Or maybe it wasn't a dream at all.
He was in the palace, but different—new, lived-in, torches burning in sconces. He wore a rough cotton dress, and his hair—her hair—was longer, pulled back with a ribbon.
Elara's memories.
"You're late," Valerian's voice said, but younger, warmer. The Valerian from before everything went wrong.
Rhys—Elara—turned. The prince stood in the doorway of what would one day be the library, but was now clearly his private study. He wore simple clothing, not the elaborate court dress. He looked... happy.
"I had to wait for my father to fall asleep,"
Elara's voice came from Rhys's throat, but he wasn't controlling it. He was a passenger in her memory. "If he knew I was sneaking out to meet a prince—"
"He'd lock you in your room." Valerian crossed to her, pulled her close. "I'd climb through your window anyway."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm in love." He kissed her, gentle and sweet. "Come, I finished the painting. I want you to see it."
He led her to an easel in the corner, draped with cloth. When he pulled it away, Rhys—watching through Elara's eyes—saw the portrait. The one that still hung in the master bedroom, unfinished.
"It's beautiful," Elara whispered.
"You're beautiful." Valerian stood behind her, arms around her waist. "When we're married, I'll paint you every day. Fill an entire gallery with nothing but you."
"We can't marry. You know that."
"We will." His arms tightened. "I'll abdicate if I have to. Give up the throne. We'll go somewhere no one knows us—France, maybe, or the Americas. Just you and me."
"You'd give up everything for me?"
"Elara." He turned her to face him. "You ARE everything."
The memory shifted, time jumping forward.
Now Elara was in the village square, and Valerian approached—but his expression was cold. Distant.
"It's over," he said without preamble.
Elara's heart—Rhys felt it break. "What?"
"This. Us. Whatever you thought we were." Valerian wouldn't meet her eyes. "I'm marrying Princess Luna. The engagement was announced this morning."
"But you said—you promised—"
"I lied." His voice was cruel in a way Rhys recognized. The cruelty of someone trying to push away what they love. "Did you really think I'd marry a peasant? You were amusing, Elara. A diversion. But I have responsibilities."
"Valerian—" She reached for him.
He jerked away. "Don't touch me. And don't come to the palace again. If you do, I'll have you arrested."
He walked away, leaving Elara standing in the square, tears streaming down her face.
The memory shifted again.
Festival. Music. Elara accepting a cup of wine from a handsome merchant who was being too friendly. She drank it, trying to numb the pain of Valerian's betrayal.
The world started to blur. The merchant's hand on her arm, too tight. Being led somewhere. A room. A bed.
Darkness.
Then—torchlight. Shouting. The door slamming open.
Valerian stood there, face twisted with rage, and beside him on the bed was the merchant, both of them naked though Elara didn't remember undressing, didn't remember anything after drinking the wine—
"You WHORE!" Valerian's voice was raw. "I loved you! I gave up everything for you!"
"I don't—I don't know what—" Elara's words were slurred, drugged. "Valerian, please, I don't remember—"
But he wasn't listening. Guards grabbed her, dragged her away while she screamed his name.
The memory shattered.
Rhys woke gasping, drenched in sweat.
It was still dark. 3 AM by his phone's display.
And Pryce sat at the foot of his bed, watching him with unreadable eyes.
"You saw it," Pryce said. Not a question.
"She loved you." Rhys's voice was hoarse. "She didn't betray you. She didn't even know what was happening—she was drugged, set up—"
"I know that now."
"But you didn't listen! She tried to tell you and you—" Rhys couldn't finish. The memory of what came after was too fresh. The cell. The whip. The forced...
"I know what I did," Pryce said quietly. "I've had three centuries to replay every moment. Every time I hurt her. Every time she begged me to listen and I refused."
"Then why do you keep doing it?" Rhys demanded. "Why do you keep hurting me, life after life? If you know the truth, if you regret what you did, why can't you just STOP?"
Pryce was silent for a long moment.
"Because," he finally said, "the curse doesn't care about truth or regret. It only knows obsession. When you love someone else, I become what I was in those final days—mad, jealous, violent. I lose myself and become only the curse."
"That's a convenient excuse—"
"It's not an excuse!" Pryce's eyes flashed black. "Do you think I wanted to kill Kai? Do you think I enjoyed watching you sob over his body? I HATE what I become! But I can't control it!"
"Everyone can control themselves—"
"Not when you're already dead!" Pryce stood, pacing. "I'm not alive, Rhys. I'm a ghost, a curse given form. I have no body, no heartbeat, no soul anymore. Just obsession. Just the need to possess you, to keep you, to make sure no one takes you away. That's all I am now."
"Then maybe you should stop existing."
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Pryce stopped pacing. Looked at Rhys with something like hurt.
"Is that what you want? For me to cease entirely?"
"I want to be free," Rhys said. "I want to love who I choose without them being murdered. I want to live a normal life. And if that means you have to... disappear...
then yes. That's what I want."
"Even knowing that Valerian genuinely loved Elara? That at one point, what we had was real?"
"That was three hundred years ago. You're not him anymore. You're just a ghost clinging to the memory of someone who doesn't exist."
Pryce flinched as if struck.
"Twenty-eight days left," he said coldly.
"Keep searching for your solution. But remember—every night, I'll be here.
Reminding you of what we were. What we could be again."
"I don't want—"
But Pryce vanished mid-sentence, leaving Rhys alone in the dark with Elara's memories still burning behind his eyes.