The carriage jolted violently as Leolvhant startled awake, his mother's dagger already half-drawn from its hidden sheath, its hilt cool beneath his slender, graceful fingers. Sweat dampened his honey-gold hair, cascading over one shoulder, as he blinked, his piercing emerald green eyes adjusting to the blinding glare of the Scarlet Plains outside his window. The intricate, swirling patterns of green near the outer corners of his eyes seemed to pulse and twitch with the visceral residue of his nightmare.
Ten days.
Ten days since he'd woken screaming in his Kazarothi chambers, the silk sheets tangled around him like a shroud, his lungs burning as if he'd inhaled the very ashes of a burning city. Ten days since the nightmares began—visions so vivid, so brutally real, they left him gasping for air, raw and desperate as a newborn. They weren't mere dreams; they were echoes, memories, fragments of a timeline that had, by some impossible twist of fate, ceased to be. He'd seen them all, each one a fresh cut across his soul:
* Magna's lifeless body, dressed in a deep violet gown, intricately embroidered with silver vines, cradled in Lucien's arms, the crimson spreading beneath her, an arrow—fletched with his own Korythaei royal colors of violet—protruding starkly from her chest. Her seafoam-blue hair, usually vibrant, was dull against the stark crimson, her delicate features pale as alabaster.
* His mother, Queen Danya's blood, a terrifyingly vivid crimson, spreading across the brilliant sky-turquoise tiles of the Kazarothi palace throne room, her usually regal face contorted in a silent scream, her own hand reaching out, grasping for him even in death.
* Garrick's blade—the cold, unforgiving steel of his brother-in-arms—sliding with brutal precision between his own ribs as Xianthos burned around him, the acrid smoke stinging his lungs, the roar of collapsing stone deafening his final moments.
Leolvhant pressed his gloved hand, the fine leather smooth and cool, to his side, half-expecting to feel the searing wound that wasn't there. He was whole. Unscarred. But the phantom pain, the vivid sensation of dying, lingered like a phantom limb. The court physicians, a flurry of worried faces and hushed consultations, had called it battle fatigue when he'd first collapsed at training in the royal courtyard, citing the recent skirmishes at the border with the Northern Barbarians. They'd prescribed rest and calming elixirs. But he knew better. He knew the difference between a nightmare born of exhaustion and the chilling clarity of a memory from a future that had somehow been averted.
He wore his royal blue robes, the heavy fabric draped elegantly, embroidered with swirling patterns in lighter blues and teals, bordered with intricate gold trim. His magnificent necklace, rich with shades of blue and green, lay upon his chest, featuring an array of geometric and organic shapes, with a large, central teardrop-shaped gem that drew the eye. Long, elegant earrings, matching the design of his necklace and shoulder embellishments, framed his face, one large, teardrop-shaped jade earring at his lobe—his mother's last name-day gift, a stone connected to his Xianthos lineage.
These weren't dreams. This was a second chance. Or perhaps, a cruel torment.
The carriage hit another rut, a sharp jolt that resonated through his bones. His fingers closed around the jade earring instinctively as another unwanted memory surfaced from the original timeline, painfully clear, a scene so vivid it felt like yesterday:
The Library at Midnight
The scent of aged parchment and moonlight. Magna, wearing a simpler, comfortable gown that evening, not the elaborate wedding attire she'd been forced into, had been utterly captivating. Her storm-gray eyes—so like the turbulent sea under a clouded sky—reflected the firelight dancing in the hearth as she leaned over his sketchbook. He remembered the soft brush of her sleeve against his, the way her hair, streaked with seafoam-blue, had caught the glow. "You've made me look..." she'd murmured, her breath warm against his hand, the unspoken question in her voice.
He remembered the slight tremor in his own voice as he'd lied, "Like the sea under moonlight." He'd tossed the drawing into the flames immediately, the edges curling, the charcoal lines burning away, before she could truly see the truth in his strokes—the lingering reverence on the curve of her lips, the careful detail on the stray lock of her seafoam-streaked hair, the tenderness he hadn't dared to name, not even to himself. He'd hidden it behind the guise of artistic appreciation, even as his heart ached with a longing he couldn't acknowledge.
Leolvhant exhaled sharply, the breath a ragged sound in the quiet carriage. He'd buried those forbidden feelings deep when she'd married Lucien, locked them away in a forgotten corner of his heart. Buried them deeper still when she'd seemed happy, even radiant, in those early months of her forced union in Xianthos. In that life, he had chosen to stand by his mother, Queen Danya of Kazaroth, embracing his heritage there. But now... now she was back. And she was not yet broken.
The carriage slowed unexpectedly, pulling Leolvhant from the painful introspection. Through the window, he saw the reason—another procession, smaller than his own, halted at the crossroads. A Korythaei bridal carriage.
And there she stood.
Magna.
Alive.
The sight punched through him like Garrick's blade had in that final, searing memory. Sunlight gilded her seafoam-blue hair as the plains wind whipped at her shimmering gold gown, its intricate black beadwork catching the light like frozen stars. She looked... different from the composed princess of court portraits, from the radiant bride he'd seen led to the altar, from the lifeless body he'd cradled in his nightmare. She was wild-eyed, trembling—as if she'd seen a ghost, or perhaps, remembered one. Her delicate features, usually so serene, were etched with a visible tremor.
Their **eyes—her soft, wide-set blue meeting his piercing emerald green—**locked across the dusty road, a vast expanse of golden grass suddenly shrinking to nothing.
Something electric crackled between them, a current of shared, impossible knowledge.
Leolvhant's breath caught—for one mad instant, he could swear she recognized him, not as Prince Leolvhant of Kazaroth, not as Lucien's enigmatic half-brother, but as the confidant from her secret, shattered past, the only one who truly understood her artistic soul. But that was impossible. Or was it?
"Lost, little storm?" The nickname slipped out unbidden, a quiet murmur that cut through the distance. It was a name he'd only ever called her in private, whispered only during those stolen moments in the library, years from now in the timeline he remembered—a name she shouldn't know him by in this one.
Her reaction was instantaneous. A flinch. A sharp intake of breath. Her blue eyes widened, a dawning horror mixing with a flicker of recognition.
Before he could process this, before he could speak another word, the Xianthosi outriders sounded their horns, sharp and demanding, their cavalry charging forward to clear the road. The fragile, temporal moment shattered, dispersing like mist in the harsh midday sun.
As Magna's carriage lurched forward, pulled by its anxious steeds, heading inexorably toward her doom in the Sky Citadel, Leolvhant watched her go, a cold dread settling in his stomach, heavier than any stone. He knew what awaited her there. He knew the betrayal. He knew the arrow. His mother's voice, Queen Danya, echoed through his memory, wise and weary:
"Some storms cannot be outrun, my son. Only weathered."
"What storms await us in the Sky Citadel, I wonder? Perhaps, my little storm, you will find your own answer there," he mumbled, his gaze fixed on her retreating carriage.
Leolvhant slammed his hand against the carriage door, a quiet order to his coachman. "Halt here." He pushed open the door and leapt out, landing lightly on the dusty road. His Kazarothi stallion, saddled and ready, was brought quickly by a waiting stablehand. He swung into the saddle with practiced ease, his royal blue robes settling around him as he took the reins. Hooves pounded like war drums alongside Magna's carriage.
"Come to admire the scenery, Prince Leolvhant?" she called through the half-drawn window, her voice sharper than she intended, not bothering to mask her irritation. "Or just my carriage's exquisite dust clouds?"
His gloved hand, the leather gleaming, slapped against the lacquered wood of her carriage as Leolvhant kept pace, his stallion's hooves kicking up golden dust. "Why not both?" His laughing voice, a rich, melodic hum, was entirely too close. "Though I confess, I'm more interested in what you're admiring at this particular crossroads. Old choices? New paths?"
Magna yanked the curtain aside, her seafoam-blue hair stirring with the sudden movement. Leolvhant rode low over his Kazarothi stallion's neck, his royal blue robes flowing elegantly behind him, catching the wind like a banner, revealing glimpses of the jade and sky-turquoise stones adorning his shoulders. Sunlight caught the rich honey-gold of his hair, unbound and gleaming.
"Spare me your riddles," she snapped, her frustration warring with a strange sense of déjà vu. "State your business or ride on."
Leolvhant's emerald eyes glinted with amusement, and his lips curved into a wider grin. "Such venom! And here I came to offer you an escape from marital misery, little storm." He leaned precariously close, his voice dropping conspiratorially, his gaze holding hers. "Marry me instead."
Sylvara choked on her wine, a sputtering gasp barely audible from inside the carriage. Magna, however, barely blinked. Her own heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"Tempting," she drawled, though her mind was racing. "But I'd rather bed a scorpion."
"Ah, but scorpions don't come with strategic advantages." His horse sidestepped a rut as he counted off on his slender fingers. "Kazarothi trade routes. Access to the Sky-Turquoise and Emerald Jade mines. Freedom to roam three kingdoms without my brother's... conjugal expectations."
That gave her pause. The thought of being near Lucien without sharing his bed, of having a shield against the man who had betrayed her so utterly, sent an illicit thrill through her. In this life, he intended to claim his Xianthos lineage, and marrying her would be his powerful return. She could watch him, study him, uncover the truth of his monstrous betrayal—all from the safety of another man's name, a king's brother. It was a way to maintain proximity, to exact her vengeance, without falling victim again.
She schooled her features into indifference, a mask she'd perfected over years of court life. "And what would you gain from this farce, Prince Leolvhant?"
"The pleasure of your company, of course." When she glared, a sharp, disbelieving look that promised retribution, he sighed dramatically, his emerald eyes still alight with a knowing amusement. "Very well. A true claim to Xianthos' court, solidified by our union. My dear brother's eternal irritation, certainly. And..." He reached into the folds of his robes, producing two exquisitely crafted silver bangles. Each was set with intertwining Emerald Jade (for Xianthos) and Storm-Onyx (for Korythae), shimmering with an ethereal light that seemed to bind their respective homelands. "The chance to wear matching jewelry, a symbol of our... unconventional alliance."
Magna snatched one, turning it in the light. The stones, cool and smooth against her fingertips, shimmered with a latent energy, a resonance that felt ancient and powerful. "You expect me to believe this is all some whim? A sudden infatuation?"
"Believe what you like," Leolvhant said, his smirk returning, but his emerald eyes—now completely serious, devoid of any jest—were deadly. "Just wear it before we arrive at the Sky Citadel. The rest will be..."
"A show?" she guessed, her voice barely a whisper.
Leolvhant pressed a hand to his chest, feigning exaggerated shock. "My lady anticipates me! How thrilling. It seems our minds are already attuned." With a flourish, he tossed something small and fragrant through the window—a dried peach slice from the imperial orchards, perfectly preserved. "For your nerves. We wouldn't want you fainting when I make my grand gesture, now would we?"
As he galloped ahead, his royal blue robes fluttering behind him, Magna stared at the bangle in her hand. The last time she'd trusted a prince's gift, it had been Lucien pressing that dark, swirling stone to her dying chest, not to save her, but to damn her. This was different. This was a bargain with a devil she barely knew, a chance to escape her fate, and perhaps, to finally claim her vengeance.
She slid the bangle onto her wrist anyway.