Violet wasn't sure if dreams were the right way to describe what she could see. They were almost nightmares, visions even. They were dreams for her but for him they were reality. She has seen him in her dreams all of her life, from when they were both children to just a few nights ago, when she dreamt of him being beaten in what looked to be a training room, except he wasn't fighting back as the Wolf King cracked his ribs–split his lip.
It was horrifying and yet she never tried to wake up from the dreams. She wasn't even sure if she could, but maybe the Prince of Wolves could feel her presence there, maybe he knew he wasn't alone. She mentioned it to her mother once, her connection to the blue-haired prince that she didn't understand. Her mother looked disturbed and made her an herbal brew that would block dreams. She told Violet to take it once a month, that it would protect her.
But Violet never felt in danger to herself in those dreams. So, she never took it.
When they were kids, he had happier moments she dreamt of. Ones where the queen was alive and would sing to him. Violet had started to write down all her dreams of Prince Sinclair around her thirteenth year, slowly realizing she saw him when he felt high emotions. As a kid, she saw his happiest times, excitement, and laughter. Now, as an adult all she saw were his moments of intense pain, sadness, and raging anger.
She started to burn the pages immediately after she finished writing them last winter when guilt started to consume her thoughts. How she would feel if someone witnessed her worst moments? She needed to have an outlet for what she was experiencing, what she was seeing, but it felt wrong to keep it.
Violet took her time walking home, the cool wind offering a reprieve from the heat as she hummed to herself, more than half hoping that the roast would find an untimely death to the ground before she arrived. She waves to Rodrick as she walks by, his face pinched in exhaustion as he closes his father's grocery stall for the day.
Last spring, she and Rodrick spent a night together. They had known each other their entire lives; her mother had taught him and his brothers to read. She loved him the way one would love someone they knew their entire life. He had kissed her, and she let him, realizing after that the love she felt for him wasn't the love her mother had felt for Ryder's father. It was love for a friend. Things weren't the same between them, and she felt guilty about it, though he still sometimes came over to eat dinner with her family and always remembered her birthday.
Rodrick was lanky and though he bragged in his youth that he would fill out and join the Wolfthorne ranks; he never did, and she was certain he would work the grocery stall his entire life. He was good at talking to people and he seemed to enjoy it, so Violet saw no reason why he should want anything different. Rodrick liked simple things. Helping his father's grocery stall thrive, whittling, and playing the harmonica. Nothing more, nothing less.
A great many in their kingdom were similar to Rodrick. They wanted to be artists, business starters, educators. Those beings were the heart of the capital. The rest…they were the complete opposite. Power and strength were as important as status to their kind. Most Wolfthorne citizens joined the military, serving the contracted seven years and exciting with honors, or staying for their lives.
Violet tended to avoid those types of creatures, whether they be fae, werewolves, or something in between. She was certain some were decent, but anyone willing to serve under the Wolf King was no better in her eyes. She preferred the fae that had similar interests to her, though she didn't trust them one bit.
Towards the eastern gate of Klyico there was an orphanage that was a secret-not-so-secret guild of assassins. It was secret to everyone who didn't dip their toe in the crime district. The assassins never need to worry about recruitment when they have a constant influx of parentless kids. She pities those who were born with an artist's heart and handed a sword.
Typically, she stayed away from the assassins herself. She didn't trust any of the thieves whose company she enjoyed, why add another person who would literally stab her in the back? She has no idea how those who need the work of an assassin go about arranging a meeting, but they stay in business and greed has never gone out of style.
Perhaps Violet should befriend one assassin. In case the need ever arrives, though she couldn't imagine any fae she would want dead.
Actually, she wouldn't mind seeing the Wolf King dead.
She knows for certain if he found out her family weren't the simple fae they claimed to be, he would see to their deaths.
Violet and her family were Fielien, though her mother tells them they're of a weaker line. They are similar to fae in that they heal quickly and don't get diseases like humans do, but where all fae hold some form of magic, her family held very little. Fae were distinct from humans with their ears and lifespan, but Fielien held one element and two bodies, the stronger being their true form. She once thought her dreams of the prince could be an ability, but with her mother thinking she still took the tonic, and being glad when she began using her fire element, she kept silent.
Violet had once asked why their nature was so terrible that they had to hide it. Her mother only said people feared what they didn't understand, and no one would ever understand or trust a Fielien, except another Fielien, though she had never met one outside of their family. A few times, she thought Madam Isla knew she wasn't a true fae, when she would ask for an orb light and Violet would cast a small fire above her shoulder instead. Eventually, she just stopped asking and told Violet when she became an acolyte, she would receive magical training that was "clearly" neglected in her youth.
Essentially, Madam Isla assumed since she was common born, her mother couldn't teach her how to create a simple orb, only flame.
It was Fielien fire, each of them could produce small amounts but other than the shifting they had done years ago, it was the extent of their magic. When they were younger, their mother never let them outside during the day without her. Her mother could cast illusions, something she told them they would be able to do when they matured, becoming a full Fielien, which for Violet should have happened last year on her twentieth birthday. Her mother simply said she was a late bloomer, but Violet felt more so that she was weak. That her lack of being her true nature was stifling her magic.
Growing up, her mother would cast illusions on them, making her Violet and Ryder appear fae until they could each master the shift on their own. It was exhausting, holding the shift for long periods of time when she was younger, but by the age of eight, she had mastered shifting from her Fielien nature into one of fae. Her mother hadn't allowed them to shift back, though she knew it pained her not to be themselves. Ryder begged her to move out into the country with land where they could be their true selves, but they wouldn't survive out there, or so her mother claimed.
Their mother was too scared for them to be their own nature even in their homes. It had been years since her mother or Ryder shifted back into their true nature and she wondered if they even remembered how. Sometimes, when she was certain she was alone in their home, Violet allowed her body to shift back into her Fielien form. though each time it's harder to force herself to shift back.
Shifting wasn't painful as a kid, not when she shifted so frequently, but after so long not doing so, when she shifted it felt like barbs dragged against her skin, clawed at her bones. Yet it was her favorite feeling, seeing her fae ears transform into the deep auburn and onyx color, her eyes glowing auburn, rather than the dullness the fae shift made them into, and her nails elongating into claws—
Violet shook her head of the thoughts, the longing she suddenly felt to be her true nature. Her mother believes there are less than a hundred of their kind left hiding amongst humans and fae both. Her father had been one of them, yet he still left them. Ryder's late father wasn't a Fielien, but the nature of our kind still rivaled fae and Ryder inherited our mother's side of magic. He was a soldier in the Wolfthorne's military, dying in a skirmish over land that never mattered with Yultome, the neighboring fae kingdom, before Ryder was born. Violet doubted he had even known the true nature of the woman he loved.
Violet turns down a dirt road and cuts through an alleyway, hearing her brother laughing through the open window before she even came into view of her home. It was nicer in terms of what most people lived in that weren't nobles and given that they were extremely closer to the crime district, the rent was cheaper. It was a small home, the mustard paint coating the walls had long ago faded and begun to peel, but it was theirs and she loved it with every fiber of her being.
"The roast is perfect, do not try to sabotage it!" Her mother yells; her golden eyes light up in amusement. Violet smirks as she glances towards the spices Ryder clutches in his hands. He was doing the gods work.
"I am only trying to save us, dear mother! Who knows how long our lifespan truly is, especially with that roast threatening us!" Her mother throws a hand towel at him, Ryder jumping out of the way, just in time for Violet to inadvertently step into its path, colliding with Violet's cheek.
"Oh!" Her mother laughs and Violet joins in, picking the towel up as she catches her breath. Violet perches herself on a stool aside the wooden counter that splits the kitchen off from the living space. The living space was warmly decorated, despite the appearance outside of the home, with a small scarlet threaded rug in front of a grey chaise, a makeshift fireplace, and a few potted plants. There were two bedrooms, one where Ryder slept and the one she shared with her mother. Though most nights, when she had the worst dreams of Sinclair, she would wake up to see the room empty and find her mother sleeping on the chaise.
She never asked about it if she woke her up. It made her feel guilty, especially for not taking the tonic. Perhaps her mother had bad dreams, too.
The smell of burnt roast floods the space and Violet tries her best not to look at the bubbling monstrosity in her mother's pot as Ryder sidles up beside her, freshly showered and giving her a look that said, I tried. The breeze in the window tickles her neck as she watches her mother finish the roast and listens to Ryder talk about how irritating the Spencer girl was. Her mother and Violet share a knowing smile and Violet rises to the bait, elbowing Ryder to cut him off midsentence.
"When are you going to court her?"
"Court her?" He repeats, staring at his sister as if she had two heads. Her mother coughs to cover a laugh, pretending to be very interested in the roast.
"You are clearly in love with this girl."
"She is always trying to steal from the people I steal from!" Ryder throws his hands up in exasperation and mother couldn't cover the laugh that spills from her lips. "How is that funny? She is literally tracking me track people—"
"Why don't you get better at tracking her tracking you then?" Violet teases.
"Very funny." Ryder grumbles, flashing her a crude gesture while their mother's gaze was adverted. Violet snorts.
"Isn't the Spencer girl an assassin?" Mother suddenly asks, looking up sharply. Ryder shrugs, suddenly interested in his nails.
"Can't say for sure, they aren't exactly open with their job titles."
"Kind of weird for an assassin to be strictly robbing." Violet muses. "And doing it so obvious. I mean, if she's an assassin, she has to be a good one." Ryder slamshis hands on the table, his mouth dropping open as he looked between his sister and mother in shock. Violet could practically see the thoughts connecting in his head.
"Is she trying to get my attention because she likes me?" He begins laughing, his eyes brightening and head tipping back. "That is awesome." Violet rolls her eyes, and their mother clicks her tongue, continuing to stir the glob she would serve them.
"Better not break her heart." Violet warns. "Or she'll put a dagger in yours."
"Have you seen that woman?" Ryder asks, a light blush blooming on his neck. Newfound admiration lights his eyes. "It would be an honor."
*
Violet opened her eyes to see that she was standing in an infirmary. Her brows furrow as her eyes searched the room before landing on the man she searched for. He was hunched over on a stool, a flickering light of magic casted shadows on the floor as it illuminated his bare back, jagged bloody lines strewn across it. Sweat glistened his skin and his breathing came out uneven, as if whomever had whipped him had left moments before she arrived here.Violet still hadn't a clue why she was connected with this fae. She had scoured books in Madam Isla's store of seers, fae who could see the past or future, and soulbindings fae who had their souls tied to each other from birth, able to always find the other soul. They were typically used in the royal families across all fae kingdoms, the other binded soul being their protector. The issue with that theory is soulbinding showed heightened emotions to both souls and always while they were awake, so that they knew if they were in danger. "
Leave it, it will heal on its own." He bit out as the healer approached and started to spread the salve on his wounds. She tsk'd at him and continued spreading the salve, a soft yellow light forming in her hand as she seeped magic into his skin.
"The whip was infused with iron bits." She explained, "The healing will be slow and painful." He shook his head, his arctic blue hair covering his eyes as Nova steps closer. The healer was older, looking near her fortieth year, which for a fae meant she had lived several hundred years already. Her snow-colored hair was braided with white ribbons down her spine and her almond shaped eyes held anger that was absent in her voice as she looked at his wounds.
The male had a beautifully sharp jawline, one that rivaled all swords in the Wolf King's military. His tan skin was adorned with tattoos, some of the ink marred from scars but the most prominent ink was that of a wolf's head on his upper chest, its maw opened wide around his throat, as if it would rip it out. The bottom of the wolf's head ebbed into swirls and symbols she didn't recognize, cascading down his waist and disappearing underneath his pants. His eyebrows furrowed and she noticed the left one had a tiny scar in the middle, splitting it in half.
Slowly, he lifted his head, his deep-set amber eyes meeting hers.
She jumped backwards as if she had been caught doing something wrong. But it was a dream. And he had never before reacted to her presence in these dreams.
A small, seductive smile curled up his lips as he continued to stare at her.
No, not at her.
Through her. Disappointment crashes into Violet, though his face tighten with pain and while the healer worked, she saw his eye twinkle in delight.
"The salve may make you sleep." The healer tells him, wrapping him in bandages. She pulls a cot out from the corner of the wide tent and placed it between Violet and the man. "I know it is far from what you're used to, but it is better than falling face first in stairs, headed to your chambers in this condition." She waits a beat before exiting, leaving Violet in this strange dreamscape staring at this strange man. She felt the world blurring around her and wondered if she was waking. She steps closer but his eyes remained where she had been, confirming he hadn't seen her. He sat up straighter, his broad muscles prominent in the magic orb hanging above him. "Burn more letters." His voice floods the room like silken sheets, reminding her of moonlight touching the lake behind Rodrick's grocery store. Of every sinful thought and desire.
Violet wakes with a start, her eyes blinking rapidly as she focused on the darkness in our room. Her fingertips touch her throat, and her heart thumped rapidly inside of her chest. Her mother wasn't in the cot next to hers and Violet sighs deeply, her mind replaying what had just happened. Frowning as his words came back to her, she gasps, her hands covering her mouth.
"Burn more letters." She whispered to herself. Her eyes scan the shadows in her bedroom as if they held the answer she had searched for. Realization dawning on her at the same time as shame began to fill her. Somehow, he knew about her writing down the dreamscape. But how? She literally burned them in her hands—
But there was never ash. The Fielien fire licked the paper up and it vanished. Violet's eyes drop down at her hands in shock, as if they had betrayed her themselves.
What in the gods name is going on?
Scrambling out of her bed loud enough to wake her brother in the room adjacent, Violet tosses a small flame over her shoulder to give her light as she pulls open the tiny nightstand between her and her mother's cots. Her hands pull out a thin piece of parchment and an inkstick. She stares at the paper, trembling as she tries to decide what to say. She usually just wrote what she saw...how it made her feel and what she wished she could do. She never had any intention of anyone but the flames getting ahold of it.
̶H̶e̶l̶l̶o̶
̶G̶r̶e̶e̶t̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ ̶W̶o̶l̶f̶p̶r̶i̶n̶c̶e̶
̶H̶e̶l̶l̶o̶ ̶D̶o̶g̶b̶o̶y̶
Violet growls at the paper in front of her, furious that she had no idea how to write now that she knew it would possibly be read. Stupid prince, stupid dreamscape—the Fielien lit up her hands consuming the paper as Violet shrieks, blowing on her hands and the paper, trying to stop the fire from sending this terrible monstrosity of a letter to the prince— Godsdamn me to the farthest pit of Hell right now. It was gone, not even a whisper of ash. She quickly grabs another piece of paper, glaring at it as she began to write.
Prince. That last letter wasn't for you. Well, none of them were actually. I mean, yes, they were about you but also about me. What I mean to say is I don't understand why I have seen you my entire life but you have just noticed. That sounded wrong. I don't know how I am setting these letters on fire, but they are still making it to you anyway. If I set myself on fire, will I accidentally end up in your mailroom? Bad joke. This is weird. I am sorry I wrote about what I saw. I don't know why or how to even stop it, but I swear to you I have kept these dreams to myself. Or whatever this is. I think I see you when you're experiencing heightened emotions and I am sleeping. Again, I am sorry Your Highness.
Sincerely.
Violet stares at the letter, cringing as she reread it twenty times before lighting it with her Fielien fire, imagining Prince Sinclair crumbling it up and laughing at how illiterate she sounded. Or ordering for her death. Oh, gods. She wasn't sure how to even address him. She knew he was a prince, someone who could easily order her execution without blinking, the way she had seen his younger brother do in the execution street many times, but she grew up seeing the best and worst moments of his life.
But...if a crowned prince...the son of the cruel Wolf King wanted to keep his home issues a secret, how far would he go to accept his namesake? Violet had seen vulnerable moments of his, but people changed when they had power. In the dreamscape, she had the power. She knew his worst moments, his fears. The moment he knows her identity, he had all of the power.
She would let herself burn before he could light his own match.