Aurora did not remember falling asleep.
One moment she was seated beside her mother's bed, watching the silver thread dim and pulse in uneven rhythm. The next—
She was standing in light.
Not sunlight.
Not candlelight.
Something softer.
Endless and pale, stretching in every direction without horizon or ceiling. The air was warm, almost tender against her skin. There was no house. No chapel. No town.
No containment.
She was barefoot.
The ground beneath her felt like smooth stone, though it carried no seams, no markings. Silence surrounded her — not oppressive, not heavy.
Inviting.
"Aurora."
Her name did not echo.
It brushed against her.
She turned.
He stood a short distance away.
At first, she noticed only symmetry. Stillness. A presence composed so perfectly it felt intentional. He was dressed simply — dark trousers, a pale shirt open slightly at the collar — nothing ornate, nothing theatrical.
But he was immaculate.
Not in the way of polished nobility.
In the way of something designed.
His features were balanced with almost mathematical care — high cheekbones, straight nose, mouth curved faintly as though permanently on the verge of understanding. His dark hair fell just loosely enough to appear natural. His eyes—
His eyes were the most unsettling part.
They were not a single color.
They shifted subtly in the light, like smoke over water. Gray. Then silver. Then something deeper.
And they were fixed entirely on her.
"You came," he said softly.
The voice was warm.
Low.
It carried no distortion. No echo of something monstrous beneath it. It was a human voice.
Intimate.
She did not step back.
This was a dream.
She knew it instinctively.
"You are not supposed to look like that," she said evenly.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"And how am I supposed to look?"
She did not answer.
Because she knew.
He was not meant to look terrifying.
He was meant to look like this.
He stepped closer — not invading, not abrupt. The space between them closed gradually, like a conversation drawing inward.
"I have watched you for a long time, Aurora Ashbourne," he said.
Her surname sounded different in his mouth. Not heavy. Not bound.
Soft.
"You've watched my bloodline," she corrected.
His gaze sharpened slightly — pleased.
"Yes."
The air shifted subtly warmer.
"You carry it differently," he continued. "The others feared me. Or hated me. You… study me."
She felt a flicker of irritation. "You mistake awareness for fascination."
Another small smile.
"Do I?"
He stopped just an arm's length away.
Up close, he was even more unsettling.
There were no flaws. No scars. No asymmetry. Even his breathing seemed measured, perfectly paced with hers.
"You are lonely," he said gently.
The word did not strike like accusation.
It landed like recognition.
Aurora's jaw tightened slightly. "That is irrelevant."
"It is everything."
His hand lifted — slowly, deliberately — but did not touch her. It hovered near her cheek, close enough that she could feel warmth radiating from his skin.
"You left because you wanted to choose yourself," he murmured. "Not a role. Not a legacy. Not a binding written before you were born."
The pale light around them dimmed slightly, focusing them in a softer sphere.
"I can give you that," he whispered.
Her pulse betrayed her then — a single uneven beat.
Not because she believed him.
But because he knew.
He did not speak of power.
He did not speak of breaking the seal.
He spoke of release.
"Come away from it," he said. "Let the town learn to stand without chains. Let the Ashbourne name become only a name."
The way he said it — gentle, almost protective — sent a cold awareness through her.
He was not tempting her with destruction.
He was tempting her with peace.
"You would not free them," she said quietly. "You would enter them."
His expression did not change.
"I would coexist."
The word lingered.
A lie shaped like compromise.
The silence between them grew heavier — not hostile, but charged. He studied her face as though memorizing it.
"I did not choose this form lightly," he said after a moment.
Her breath stilled.
"I know."
His eyes darkened slightly at that.
"I shaped myself from the spaces you do not show anyone," he continued softly. "From restraint. From control. From the part of you that wonders what it would be like to lay it down."
His hand finally touched her cheek.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
Too real.
"You do not have to be the Veil," he whispered. "You could simply be Aurora."
For one fragile second—
She imagined it.
A life without succession.
Without ritual chambers.
Without the town's quiet expectations pressing in from every direction.
Just herself.
Seen.
Chosen.
Wanted.
And that was when terror bloomed.
Not because he was monstrous.
But because he was perfect.
He knew precisely which fracture lines to press.
"You misunderstand me," she said softly.
His brows lifted slightly.
"I am not afraid of the binding," she continued. "I am afraid of what you would become if I ever believed you."
For the first time, something shifted in his expression.
Not anger.
Interest.
The light around them flickered.
"You are stronger than the others," he said, almost to himself.
"No," she replied calmly. "I am more aware."
The pale world began to fracture at its edges — faint cracks spreading through the seamless ground.
He stepped closer abruptly, closing the last inch of space between them.
"You will dream of me again," he murmured near her ear. "And next time, you will not wake so quickly."
His breath brushed her skin.
And the world shattered.
—
Aurora jolted upright in her mother's chair.
The candles had burned low.
The room was cold.
Her heart was racing — violently now.
For a moment she did not move.
She stared at the opposite wall, breath shallow, fingers gripping the armrests until her knuckles whitened.
It had been a dream.
Yes.
But her cheek—
Her hand rose slowly to touch it.
Warm.
As though something had rested there moments ago.
The silver thread around her mother's wrist flickered faintly.
Not weakening.
Responding.
Aurora stood abruptly and stepped back from the bed.
He had not tried to frighten her.
He had not threatened.
He had understood.
Her weakness was not fear.
It was longing for autonomy.
And he had shaped himself accordingly.
Outside, beyond the Ashbourne estate, the wind stirred the trees.
And somewhere in the dark between them—
Something beautiful smiled.