CH298 · Rewrite
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Chapter 298: Dream

He carried her by the waist—a simple thing, and somehow it left him breathless.

He set her on the bed gently, drew back the blanket, and lay down beside her with her head resting in the crook of his arm. The candle on the nightstand held its small territory against the dark.

Foreplay. The word surfaced with the confidence of a man who had theorized extensively and performed rarely. He should say something. Something warm and easy, the kind of thing that worked the way conversation worked in his imagination—gradual, liquid, dissolving the particular tension that had settled in his chest the moment she bolted the door.

Anna’s voice came quietly from the curve of his shoulder: “When you pushed me out of the way, in the balloon—did you think you might die?”

He hadn’t expected that. “I didn’t think at all. I just did it.”

“You are going to rule Graycastle,” she said. “You’re the witches’ hope.” A pause. “I am not worth that much.”

“That’s not how worth works,” he said. “I can tell you now—even if it had been slower, even if I’d had time to decide—I would have done the same thing.”

“So there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

“No.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Tell me about your past. I want to know more about you.”

He breathed in slowly, buying time. The 4th Prince’s memories were there if he needed them—palace anecdotes, courtly embarrassments, the sort of careful self-revelation that didn’t actually reveal anything. But he found he didn’t want to use them. Not tonight.

“I grew up in a very large city,” he said instead. “Larger than King’s City, probably. Larger than anything in Graycastle.”

“King’s City is already enormous.”

“Larger than that.” He looked at the ceiling. “I was ordinary. Reasonably clever in small things but not—gifted. I worked hard at school, which teachers read as natural ability, and I let them believe it. I was also the one who drew the graffiti on the classroom walls that no one could quite clean off.”

She made a small sound against his shoulder. “They wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“They didn’t need to. They only had to tell my parents.” He smiled at the ceiling. “I learned young that accountability takes many indirect forms.”

He talked for a while—his teachers changing as the years passed, his grades that were solid without being exceptional, the small humiliations and minor victories of a childhood without drama. He altered nothing that mattered and changed everything that was impossible to explain. It felt like coming back to himself after a very long time playing someone else.

Is this the moment?

He turned his head.

Anna’s eyes were closed. Against his side, her chest rose and fell in the slow, deliberate rhythm of someone who had been awake for too long and had finally allowed themselves to stop. Her lashes lay still against her cheek.

He looked at her for a long moment, then laughed—quietly, so as not to wake her.

Of course. She’d spent two nights in the mountain camp barely sleeping, standing watch against anything that might come for them. Then a morning racing back on the cloud gazer while it was barely light. Then the night after, sitting against the wall of his bedroom until he woke. The accumulated weight of that had simply taken her the moment she let herself relax.

Whatever she had come here intending—and whatever courage it had taken to intend it—she had run out of wakefulness before she could get there.

He moved carefully, so as not to disturb her. Kissed the edge of her lashes. “Good night,” he said, softly into the dark.


Sylvie woke with her mouth open and an undignified sound escaping it.

The days since the reconnaissance felt like something she had read about rather than lived through—the Devils in their city of black spires, the fight in the sky, the desperate flight back along the Redwater. Even the Army of Judges, for all their numbers, hadn’t made her feel this way. This was different. Different was an insufficient word.

“Good morning.” Wendy was already dressed, carrying a basin of water.

“Good morning. You got up early.”

“I’m old,” Wendy said, and smiled with it rather than against it. “I don’t need as much sleep anymore.”

“Mm,” Nightingale said from somewhere behind Sylvie, “dream-fogged.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’ll need a nap.”

“Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I had many dreams.”

Sylvie pressed her lips together. She had seen—through habit, through her ability working even when she wished it wouldn’t—Nightingale on the third floor of the castle the previous night, moving back and forth in front of the Lord’s door for what had seemed like a long time. She couldn’t see through Nightingale’s fog, but the back-and-forth was visible enough. The witch had come back late.

“Last night, you didn’t—”

Nightingale turned.

The look she gave was not threatening, exactly. It was more economical than that: a slight narrowing of the eyes, the quality of attention one gave a problem before deciding it wasn’t interesting enough to pursue further. The image of her in the sky—moving through the fog like something the air had decided to harden—was still vivid in Sylvie’s memory. If this woman came to Sleeping Island, she privately doubted even Lady Ash could match her.

Sylvie closed her mouth.

“What happened last night?” Wendy asked, mildly curious.

“I heard her snoring,” Sylvie said. “All those days of running on no sleep—it catches up with you.”

“It must have,” Nightingale agreed pleasantly, and shrugged, and turned to dress—removing her nightgown with the same unselfconsciousness as always. The garments His Highness had designed for them lay folded on the chair: the undergarment that half the Witch Alliance had now quietly accepted despite early resistance, and which even Wendy had taken to recommending.

That man, Sylvie thought—not for the first time, and without quite knowing what the thought was leading toward.

But she knew what it led to: the memory of him throwing himself across the basket, not calculating, not weighing what a prince with a kingdom to win could afford to lose. Just moving. Because Anna was in the way of something that would hurt her.

There actually exists a noble who willingly takes an injury for a witch.

It was not that she had disbelieved it before. It was that she had not understood it as a lived fact until she saw it happen. And now the understanding sat in her chest and changed the shape of things around it.

All the Witch Alliance witches here were not tools to him. Not assets in a ledger. They were—she reached for the right word, and found the one that fit: companions. His reaction could not have been feigned; feigning did not move the body before the mind could stop it.

If Roland and Tilly Wimbledon could hold together—his territory and her island, his industry and her people—they might build something that didn’t yet have a name. A place where “witch” and “ordinary” described where you were born, not what you were worth.

She would write to Lady Tilly today.

Your older brother, she would begin, is genuinely a good person.

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