Elira's POV
Elira's knees hit the marble floor hard enough to bruise.
The guards shoved her down in front of the throne, and she barely caught herself with her burned hands. Pain shot through her palms, but she bit back the cry. Showing weakness in front of the court meant inviting more cruelty.
She kept her head down, staring at the polished floor. At her own reflection looking back—a thin, broken girl in rags who used to be someone important.
The throne room was packed with nobles. Elira could feel their eyes on her, hear their whispers echoing off the high ceiling.
"Is that the Ashenwild traitor?"
"What's she doing here?"
"She looks half-dead already."
Three years. Three years since she'd been dragged into this room in chains and condemned. Three years since she'd stood before that throne and begged for mercy that never came.
And now she was back.
Elira's hands shook. Her heart hammered so loud she was sure everyone could hear it. She wanted to run, to disappear, to be anywhere but here.
"Stand up."
The voice was cold, emotionless, terrifyingly familiar.
Prince Caelan.
Elira forced herself to her feet, though her legs felt like water. She still couldn't look up. Couldn't face those dead eyes that had watched her world burn without feeling a thing.
"Look at me."
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
Slowly, Elira raised her head.
Prince Caelan sat on his throne like a king carved from ice. Beautiful and terrible and completely hollow. His dark hair framed a face that should have been handsome but instead looked like a corpse dressed in royal clothes.
But his eyes—those ice-blue eyes that had haunted her nightmares for three years—were staring right at her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
Something about those eyes felt wrong. Or maybe right. Familiar in a way that made her skin crawl.
"You're Elira Ashenwild," Caelan said. Not a question. A statement.
"Yes, Your Highness." Elira's voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Convicted traitor. Sentenced to lifetime servitude three years ago."
Each word was a knife. "Yes."
"And you lost a violet ribbon."
Elira's heart skipped. "I... yes. My mother's ribbon. It was stolen."
Caelan stood, and the court went silent. He descended the throne steps slowly, each footfall echoing like a death sentence. When he reached the bottom, he pulled something from his pocket.
Elira's mother's ribbon dangled from his fingers.
She gasped before she could stop herself. "How do you have that?"
"It appeared on my pillow this morning," Caelan said, still approaching. "After I spent the night dreaming about untying it from someone's hair."
The court erupted in whispers. Elira's mind spun.
Dreams? His pillow? That was impossible. The ribbon had been in her hiding spot. Dreams didn't make things real. Dreams didn't—
Caelan stopped directly in front of her. So close she could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the too-pale color of his skin. He looked sick. Dying, even.
"Tell me about your dreams," he commanded.
Elira's throat went dry. "My dreams are none of your concern, Your Highness."
"Everything in my kingdom is my concern." His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "And right now, you are the most important thing in it. So answer the question. What do you dream about?"
How did he know she dreamed at all? How could he possibly know that?
"I dream of freedom," Elira said carefully. "Of a life that was stolen from me."
"Do you dream of a prince?"
The question hit her like a physical blow. Elira took an involuntary step back, but the guards behind her blocked any escape.
"I dream of many things," she managed.
"That's not an answer." Caelan leaned closer, studying her face like she was a puzzle he needed to solve. "Have you ever dreamed of me?"
Yes, Elira's traitorous mind screamed. Every single night for three years. But not you—not this monster. I dream of someone kind and warm and gentle. Someone who could never be you.
"I have nightmares about you," she said instead, meeting his dead eyes with all the defiance she had left. "About the day you condemned me for crimes I didn't commit. About how you signed my death warrant without even caring if I was innocent."
The court gasped. Speaking to the prince like this was suicide.
But Caelan didn't react with anger. He couldn't. He just stared at her with those empty eyes, processing her words like mathematical equations.
"You claim you were innocent," he said flatly.
"I was innocent!" Elira's voice broke. "I am innocent! But you didn't care about truth. You only cared about what the evidence said on paper. You never even asked if I actually did it!"
"The evidence was overwhelming."
"The evidence was fake!" Tears burned in Elira's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "I was framed. Someone wanted me destroyed, and you helped them do it. You're the reason I've spent three years in hell."
Caelan's jaw tightened—the first real reaction she'd seen from him. But still no emotion in those terrible eyes.
"Your Highness!" A beautiful woman stepped forward from the crowd. Elira recognized her instantly—Isolde. Her stepsister. The one who'd stolen everything.
Isolde looked perfect as always, dripping in jewels that had once belonged to Elira's mother.
"Your Highness, this is clearly a trick," Isolde said, her voice dripping with false concern. "This woman is a convicted traitor. She's probably using dark magic to manipulate you. To make you think she's connected to your dreams."
"I'm not using anything!" Elira shouted. "I don't even understand what's happening!"
"She's desperate to escape her punishment," Isolde continued, ignoring Elira completely. "What better way than to claim she's the key to breaking your curse? It's an obvious lie."
The nobles murmured agreement. Of course they believed Isolde—beautiful, noble, trustworthy Isolde who'd framed her own sister and gotten away with it.
Caelan turned back to Elira, holding up the ribbon. "How did this get from your hiding place to my pillow?"
"I don't know!" Elira's voice cracked with frustration. "I don't know how any of this is possible! Dreams aren't real! They don't leave things behind!"
"They do when you're cursed," Caelan said quietly. "They do when magic binds two people together across the barrier between sleep and waking."
He stepped even closer, and Elira saw his hand tremble slightly. Actually tremble. The hollow prince who supposedly felt nothing was shaking.
"What color are your eyes?" he asked suddenly.
"What?" The question made no sense.
"Your eyes. What color are they?"
"Violet," Elira whispered. "Like my mother's. Like the ribbon."
Something flickered across Caelan's face. Not quite emotion, but close. Like a person remembering something important.
"For seven years, I've dreamed of a woman with violet eyes," he said, so quietly only Elira could hear. "A woman who makes me feel human again. Who makes me remember what emotions are. And this morning, her ribbon appeared in my room."
Elira's heart stopped.
No. It couldn't be.
"The curse will kill me at dawn tomorrow," Caelan continued. "Unless I find my dream heart and break it. And every piece of evidence points to you."
"That's impossible," Elira breathed. "I dream of someone kind. Someone gentle. Someone who's nothing like—"
She stopped, her eyes going wide.
The dreams. Three years of dreams about a prince who laughed and loved and held her like she was precious. Three years of falling asleep into his arms and waking with tears because he wasn't real.
But what if he was real?
What if the cold monster in front of her and the warm dream lover were the same person, split by a curse?
"No," Elira whispered, horror flooding through her. "No, you can't be—"
"I am," Caelan said. "And you're the woman I've been searching for."
Their eyes locked. Violet meeting ice-blue. And in that moment, recognition crashed through both of them like lightning.
They knew each other. Not from the trial. Not from the throne room.
From dreams.
"This is absurd!" Isolde's sharp voice cut through the moment. "Your Highness, you can't possibly trust a traitor! She'll say anything to save herself!"
Caelan's hand shot out, grabbing Elira's wrist. The moment his skin touched hers, he gasped.
His eyes went wide. His whole body went rigid. And for the first time in seven years, color flooded into his face.
"I can feel," he choked out, staring at their joined hands. "I can actually feel."
Elira felt it too—a surge of warmth rushing from his hand into hers, like touching a live wire. The connection between them was real. Physical. Undeniable.
"What's happening?" she whispered.
Caelan looked at her, and his eyes were no longer quite so dead. Something lived behind them now. Something that looked almost like fear.
"You're my dream heart," he said. "And I just condemned you to three years of torture."
The truth of it hung between them, devastating and complete.
Elira was the key to saving his life.
And he was the monster who'd destroyed hers.
Before either could speak, Caelan's hand fell away, and the feeling drained from him instantly. His face went pale again, his eyes empty.
"Take her to the dungeons," he ordered, his voice flat once more.
"What?" Elira stumbled backward. "No! You can't! Not again!"
"You're either lying to manipulate me, or you're telling the truth and you're too dangerous to leave free," Caelan said. "Either way, you stay locked up until I verify your claims."
"Please!" Elira struggled as the guards grabbed her. "Please, I didn't do anything! This isn't fair!"
But fairness had died three years ago in this same room.
The guards dragged her toward the dungeon doors, and Elira screamed her innocence just like before.
And just like before, the hollow prince watched with dead eyes and did nothing.
But this time, as the doors closed, Elira saw something that made her blood run cold.
Caelan's hand was still shaking where he'd touched her.
And on his face, for just a moment, was an expression that looked almost like grief.