Sleep, unsurprisingly, did not come easily.
Rowan lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the evening like a broken record. Caelan’s shoulders braced against her plaster. Aisling’s honey-light hair between the romance and horror sections.
Her brain felt like someone had taken all her neatly sorted books and tossed them into a blender.
“You good?” Harper had asked as they huddled under a shared umbrella, shoes squeaking on wet pavement.
“No,” Rowan had said. “But I think I will be if I ever get hit by a bus and end this plotline.”
“Not funny,” Harper had said, squeezing her arm.
She hadn’t told Harper everything yet. Aisling’s visit sat between her ribs like a live coal, too hot to touch directly. She’d offered a partial truth—*someone else came. From their side. It’s…complicated. I need to think before I dump it all on you.*
Harper, bless her, had given her space. “Think faster,” she’d said, “but okay. In the meantime, we’re making grilled cheese.”
Now, long after Harper had gone home and the smell of toasted bread had faded, Rowan lay with her hands laced under her head, the apartment dim and humming.
She’d half expected Caelan to drop out of the ceiling again the moment Aisling left. To appear, eyes blazing, and demand explanations.
He hadn’t.
Which meant either he didn’t know…and would be furious when he found out. Or he knew and was waiting to see what she’d do with the information.
Neither option was comforting.
“You know he’s going to find out,” she muttered to the dark. “Secrets are like cursed artifacts in your life.”
The ceiling did not respond.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged her down into sleep.
***
This time, the dream didn’t start in the forest.
She found herself in a room instead.
High ceiling. Stone walls hung with tapestries. The air smelled of smoke and something sweet—spiced wine, maybe. Candles floated in the air without visible support, flames steady despite the faint breeze.
A hall. A throne room.
Her first thought was, *Finally. Exposition.*
Her second was, *I really hope this isn’t a prophecy vision of my own death.*
She stood near one of the carved pillars lining the walls, half in shadow. Fae filled the space in front of her, a sea of bright clothes and sharper smiles. Some looked human-ish, their glamours smooth and practiced. Others shimmered at the edges—antlers ghosting over hair, scales flashing under sleeves, eyes that glowed softly in colors no human iris had ever worn.
They murmured, laughed, hissed, the sound blending into a kind of musical static.
At the far end of the hall, on a dais made of twisted black wood, two chairs sat.
One was a throne. Antlers branching up and out like a dead tree, seat cushioned in red so dark it was almost black.
The other was…smaller. Simpler. Ember-wood polished to a glossy sheen. No antlers. No gold.
Empty.
The air shifted. The room quieted.
Caelan walked in.
He wore clothes she hadn’t seen on him before—formal, clearly. Dark green tunic embroidered with silver thread, black trousers, high boots polished to mirror shine. A cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened with a leaf-shaped brooch at his throat.
He looked…regal. Uncomfortable.
Eyes followed him as he moved through the hall. Some bowed. Some barely inclined their heads. She caught snatches of whispers as he passed.
“—pet mortal—”
“—prophecy-cursed—”
“—see how he walks, like he already wears the crown—”
He mounted the dais and stopped beside the empty lesser chair, gaze sweeping the room.
Rowan realized, abruptly, that she could move.
This wasn’t like her usual dreams, where she was fixed in place watching from a distance. Her feet were her own. Her hands, when she looked at them, were solid.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Level up.”
No one reacted.
She edged closer to the pillar, not eager to test what would happen if she wandered out into the open. Dream or no, being the squishy mortal in a room full of predators seemed like a bad life choice.
Caelan turned his head slightly.
His eyes—silver, even more unnerving under the candlelight—found hers.
Not *through* her. Not in the general direction. *On* her.
As if he knew exactly where she was, in this half-real space.
“Rowan,” he said, his mouth barely moving.
She stiffened. “You can see me,” she muttered. “Of course you can.”
One corner of his mouth ticked up. “We’re in my head as much as yours,” he said quietly. “I have some say.”
“Great,” she whispered. “Explain.”
His gaze flicked toward the throne.
The King sat there now.
She hadn’t noticed him appear. One moment the great seat had been empty; the next, it was filled. His presence was…weighty. Like a boulder dropped in a lake.
He was beautiful, in the way all of them were. Copper hair, eyes like amber with dark flecks, broad shoulders draped in a mantle of autumn leaves that never wilted. But where Caelan’s features held tiredness, his held something colder. Cruelty, worn like a comfortable coat.
He looked…sick.
It wasn’t obvious at first. He sat straight, voice strong as he spoke to the gathered Court, words rolling over Rowan’s head like a language she almost understood but not quite. But his skin held a waxy undertone. His hand trembled, just slightly, when it lifted to gesture. A cough, quickly suppressed, left a faint stain of red on his cuff.
“Why am I here?” Rowan asked under her breath.
“Because I wanted you to see,” Caelan said, voice pitched so low no one else could possibly have heard.
“See what?” she hissed.
He didn’t answer.
The King’s speech reached a crescendo. Fae murmured approval. Some banged cups against tables, the dull thunk echoing.
Then the King stood.
“Caelan,” he said.
The room froze.
Caelan stepped forward, cloak whispering over the dais.
“Father,” he said.
The King’s gaze swept the hall theatrically. “My son,” he said. “My…heir presumptive.”
A ripple went through the crowd. Some surprise, some satisfaction, some fury barely concealed.
Rowan’s stomach dropped.
“This is a dream,” she muttered. “This isn’t–”
“It’s real,” Caelan said, eyes steady. “Just…overlaid. I can…pull you in. Sometimes. For a moment.”
“You brought me to your coronation,” she whispered, half-hysterical. “Of course you did.”
“It’s not a coronation,” he said. “Not yet.” His jaw ticked. “It’s a…stage.”
“For what?” she demanded.
“For this,” he said softly.
The King lifted a hand. Whisper appeared at his elbow as if summoned from the floor itself, thorn-shadow form quivering with suppressed amusement.
The King spoke. Whisper’s voice translated somehow, echoing in Rowan’s head in words she understood.
“Years ago,” the King said, “I made a bargain. A…regrettable one, some might say. Short-sighted. Foolish.” His mouth curved. “I have never cared much for their opinions.”
A few tense laughs.
Rowan’s pulse hammered.
“In the mortal world,” the King went on, “there walks a girl who carries our Court’s debt in her veins. A changeling. A prophecy. A…problem.”
Murmurs. Hisses. A strained, brittle silence.
“Many of you would see her dead,” the King continued. “You are not wrong to fear her. Power like hers has broken Courts before. Burned forests. Ended lines. But killing her would break a different thing. Our word. Our…reputation.”
Whisper’s ember-eyes gleamed. It clearly enjoyed this.
“We are Autumn,” the King said. “We keep our bargains. We reap what we sow. We do not let fear make cowards of us.”
Rowan snorted quietly. “Sure.”
Caelan’s hand flexed at his side, but his face stayed smooth.
“So,” the King said, voice dropping. “We must…adapt.” He turned to Caelan. “My son. My spear. My very expensive investment in tutors and armor polish. You have watched her. You have protected her. You have…bound yourself to her fate.”
Rowan’s chest constricted.
The King smiled, slow and predatory. “From this day until the day the wildwood eats your bones,” he said, words ringing, “you are bound to her. If she dies by our hand, you die. If she burns us, you burn with her. If she saves us…” His lip curled. “…you may keep whatever pieces of us remain.”
Gasps. Cries.
Rowan stared. “He what.”
“I told you,” Caelan said quietly. “He made it…official.”
“You didn’t mention the part where he essentially tied you to a bomb and then lit the fuse,” she hissed.
“I did say I’d burn with you,” he said. “He…codified it.”
“Stop saying ‘codified’ like this is a fucking policy memo,” she snapped.
A muscle jumped in his cheek.
“Do you accept this charge, Caelan of Autumn?” the King asked, voice like iron.
He could say no, Rowan thought wildly. He could reject it. He could throw his father’s words back in his face and walk out.
Except this man, this prince, had been raised in a world where those words were chains. Where saying no came with a price she couldn’t fathom.
Caelan bowed his head.
“I do,” he said.
The wildwood shuddered.
Rowan felt it. Not in the hall—they all did, the floor vibrating faintly under their boots—but in the dream-space between her and Caelan. A tug. A tightening.
He sucked in a sharp breath, hand going briefly to his chest.
“Idiot,” she whispered.
He glanced at her, lips twitching. “You always did like honest men,” he murmured.
“I like men who don’t volunteer as tribute for my doom,” she shot back.
“You called me dramatic,” he said. “And then you go around forming blood oaths with your grandmother. We’re well-matched.”
She wanted to strangle him.
Whisper spoke again, voice threading through the hall. “Witness,” it intoned, darkly pleased. “Witness and remember. The Prince’s blood is tied to the changeling’s. One falls, both fall. One rises…”
It let the implication hang.
The Court exploded into sound.
Some cheered, savage and delighted. Some shouted in fury. A woman with hair like fire and eyes like pitch slammed her goblet down so hard it shattered, red wine splashing her dress like blood.
Caelan stepped back, expression unreadable.
His father leaned toward him, said something too low for Rowan to catch.
Caelan’s jaw clenched.
“You didn’t choose this,” Rowan said under her breath. “Not really.”
He looked at her then. Really looked. “Did you?” he asked.
She shut up.
He straightened, shoulders squared, and turned to face the Court.
“I will keep her alive,” he said. No glamour, no echo. Just his voice, carrying. “Not for your comfort. Not for your prophecies. For my own reasons.”
Murmurs. A hissed *insolent.* A low laugh from Lucien, somewhere in the crowd.
“If you try to kill her,” Caelan continued, “I will kill you first. If you try to use her, I will…interfere. Strongly. If you try to drag her here in chains…” His eyes gleamed. “I will cut those chains myself. Then I will wrap them around your throat.”
Silence.
“Am I clear?” he asked pleasantly.
The King was laughing.
It was not a kind sound.
“Very clear,” he said. “My boy. Always so good with words.”
He raised a hand. The Court erupted again, this time in a mess of fear and admiration and naked, vicious glee.
The scene blurred.
The hall’s edges wavered, candle flames stretching into lines of light. The floor seemed to buckle under Rowan’s feet.
“Wait,” she said, grabbing for Caelan’s arm.
Her fingers closed around his sleeve. The fabric felt solid. Warm.
He looked down at her hand, then up at her face. His expression softened minutely.
“I can’t hold you here much longer,” he said. “The wildwood doesn’t like me sharing.”
“Why did you…show me this?” she demanded. “So I’d feel…guilty? Obligated? You didn’t need to tie yourself to me like that.”
“I did,” he said simply. “To keep them from killing you before you could decide who you wanted to be.”
“That’s—” She faltered. “That’s insane.”
“Possibly,” he said. “Mortals are…contagious that way.”
“You told them you’d kill them for me,” she said, voice shaking.
“I meant it,” he said.
“That’s not…how this is supposed to work,” she said. “I’m the one with the debt. The chain. You’re the one with options.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re not the only one who hates being written into someone else’s story,” he said. “This is…my choice. My…rebellion.”
“You rebel by making yourself my…meat shield,” she said incredulously.
“That’s one way to put it,” he said dryly.
Color bled from the edges of the hall. The tapestries turned gray. The murmurs of the Court stretched into a dull roar.
“You should have told me,” she said.
“I’m telling you now,” he said.
“Not in time to stop it,” she snapped.
He shrugged, a small, helpless gesture. “I didn’t think you’d want to argue with my father from your bed,” he said. “Though I admit, the image has a certain charm.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “Get over yourself.”
He laughed, startled. The sound cracked through the dream like a bell.
The world buckled.
“Rowan,” he said, voice suddenly distant. “Remember: whatever they call you, whoever they say you’re meant to be, you are still…you. If anyone tries to take that from you—including me—burn them.”
Then the hall tore like paper, and she fell.
***
She woke up gasping.
Her sheets were a tangled mess around her legs. Her shirt clung damply to her skin. The digital clock glared 4:09 a.m.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the ceiling.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, trying to break out.
“You okay?” a voice said quietly.
She yelped and grabbed for the knife in the drawer.
Caelan sat in the chair by her window.
It took a second for her eyes to adjust enough to see him properly. The streetlight painted his features in bands of orange and shadow. His coat had been replaced by a simple dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked…tired.
“Do not do that,” she hissed, lowering the knife a fraction. “You can’t just…sit in the dark like some Victorian ghost and wait for me to wake up screaming.”
“I knocked,” he said.
“You…what?”
“On the seam,” he elaborated. “Politely.”
“That is not the same as knocking on a door,” she snapped.
“I’ll remember that for next time,” he said mildly.
“There will not be a next time,” she said automatically.
They both knew that was a lie.
He studied her face. “You saw,” he said. Not a question.
“Yes,” she said. “You pulled me in.”
“I wanted you to understand,” he said.
“I understand that your father is an asshole,” she said. “I understood that before.”
He huffed a laugh. “Accurate,” he said.
“And I understand,” she went on, “that you just made my continued existence your…suicide pact.”
“It’s not—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t downplay it. Don’t pretend this is some minor political maneuver. You stood in front of a room full of predators and said ‘if you stab her, you have to stab me too.’ That is not…small.”
He leaned back, chair creaking softly. “If you think that will deter them entirely, you have a higher opinion of their regard for me than I do,” he said.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why would you do that? You barely know me. You know…glimpses. Snatches. You’ve seen me alphabetize and make tea and cry in stairwells. That’s not enough to—”
“To decide you’re worth bleeding for?” he cut in softly.
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly that.”
He was quiet for a long beat.
“When I was a child,” he said finally, “my father took me to the wildwood at night.”
“This is going to be one of those charming fae childhood trauma stories, isn’t it,” she muttered.
“Possibly,” he said. “He wanted to teach me about…bargains. About how the Court works. He brought a beggar.”
Her stomach turned. “Oh, fuck off.”
“He told me,” Caelan continued, voice steady, “that the man had been stealing. Taking more from the larders than his share. Lying in little ways. Avoiding his work. He said, ‘Watch, boy. This is what happens when people break our terms.’”
Rowan swallowed. Her grip on the knife tightened.
“He turned the man into a tree,” Caelan said simply. “Right there. Roots out of his feet. Bark over his skin. The man screamed. Begged. Said he was sorry. The wildwood didn’t care. It wrapped around him. Ate his fear like sugar. I was…ten.”
“Jesus,” she whispered.
“My father put his hand on my shoulder,” Caelan said, “and said, ‘See? This is justice. He broke a promise, the wood holds him to it.’” He looked at her. “That was my lesson. Not ‘be kind,’ not ‘be wise.’ *Be frightening enough that no one risks breaking their word to you.*”
Rowan’s breath shook.
“When I met you,” he said, “you were…two. Small. Loud. Stubborn. You bit me the first time I tried to pick you up.”
She blinked. “I did?”
“Yes,” he said. “I still have the scar.” He held up his hand, and sure enough, a faint half-moon mark dented the skin near his thumb.
“Good,” she muttered, dazed.
“I watched you grow up knowing that my father would happily turn you into a tree the moment you became inconvenient,” he said. “A symbol. A warning. A story.” His eyes were cool and bright. “I refused to let that happen. If he wanted to use you, he’d have to use me too. If he wanted to kill you, he’d have to cut his line.”
“That doesn’t help me,” she said. “It makes me…responsible. For you. For your Court. For—”
“No,” he said sharply. “You are not responsible for my choices. I am. If I die because I tied myself to you, that is on *me,* not you.”
She laughed, a wild, high sound. “You think that’s how guilt works?”
“I think,” he said quietly, “that you’ve spent your entire life carrying around other people’s shame. Your grandmother’s. Your mother’s. Strangers’ in the street. You collect it like some kind of perverse hobby. I would like, for once, to make a selfish decision that doesn’t land on your back.”
She stared at him.
“You are infuriating,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
“And noble,” she added, disgusted.
He smiled faintly. “That part I don’t know about,” he said. “Nobility is…complicated.”
“You just made yourself my shield,” she said. “That’s pretty fucking noble.”
“Or self-destructive,” he said. “Motives can be…layered.”
She flopped back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “I hate this,” she muttered.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” she snapped. “It’s confusing my enemy categories.”
He huffed a laugh. “Very well,” he said.
Silence stretched.
“You knew Aisling came to see me,” she said abruptly.
His jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“How?” she asked. “You weren’t here.”
“No,” he said. “But when she crossed, the wildwood…noticed. The map lit up like someone stuck a spark in it. And then the seam between here and the bookstore twanged like a plucked string.”
“Paper remembers,” she said.
He blinked. “What?”
“Her words,” she said. “She said paper remembers. That’s how they tracked me. Through the store. Through…the things I touched.”
His brow furrowed. “Clever,” he said. “And invasive.”
“That seems to be the theme,” she said. “You’re mad.”
“At her? Yes,” he said. “At you? No.”
“I let her in,” she said. “I listened. I didn’t…send her away.”
“I wouldn’t have, either,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
He shrugged, the motion constrained. “If someone walked into my life claiming to be the other half of a choice I never made, I’d hear them out,” he said. “We’re curious creatures, you and I.”
“Stop lumping us together,” she said.
He smiled slightly. “No,” he said.
“She wants…a trade,” Rowan said. “Not this second. Not full-time. But…a taste. Of this.” She gestured at the apartment. “Of…normal.”
“And for you to taste her life,” he said. “Of course.”
“You’re not…surprised,” she said.
“I know her,” he said. “She grew up with her future scripted. She’ll take any chance to scratch something unscripted into the margins.”
“She’s angry,” Rowan said softly.
“Of course she is,” he said. “Her life was taken from her before it began. Just like yours.”
“They always frame it as mine being stolen,” Rowan said. “It never occurred to me that hers—”
“—was, too,” he finished. “Yes.”
“She hates you,” Rowan said, watching him.
He winced a little. “Strong word.”
“Accurate,” she said.
He sighed. “She has…sound reasons to resent me,” he said. “I didn’t intervene as often as I should have, early on. I thought…distance was safer. That if I loomed over her less, she’d be less…marked.” His mouth twisted. “I was wrong.”
“You’re very good at being wrong,” she said.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he said dryly.
“Do you think she’ll…hurt me?” Rowan asked.
He met her gaze. His expression went…dangerous. “Not if she values the skin on her back,” he said.
“That’s not an answer,” she pressed.
He considered. “She doesn’t want you dead,” he said. “Dead, you’re no use to her. She wants…choice. Leverage. She may try to…nudge you. Hard. Into making decisions that benefit her more than you.”
“Sounds familiar,” Rowan said pointedly.
He inclined his head, acknowledging the hit. “The difference,” he said, “is that I’m telling you that’s what I’m doing. She may not be so…transparent.”
“She was pretty transparent tonight,” Rowan said. “For a fae.”
“She wants something from you,” he said. “It benefits her to be honest. For now.”
“She said you’d…spin things,” Rowan added. “Give me just enough truth to make your lies go down easier.”
He flinched. “She would say that,” he muttered.
“So which one of you should I believe?” she asked. “The prince who’s been spying on me for twenty years, or the girl who wants to slip into my life like a new dress?”
“Neither,” he said promptly.
She blinked.
“Believe yourself,” he said. “Your gut. Your eyes. We will both present you with…angles. Use us. Take what’s useful. Throw the rest out. Don’t hand either of us the pen and let us write your story for you.”
The simplicity of it stunned her.
“You’re really bad at manipulation,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said.
“That was not a compliment,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “I know,” he said.
She rubbed her face. “We’re running out of time,” she said. “Halloween is…six weeks away. You’re over there making dramatic blood vows. Aisling’s over here plotting a heist on my life. My grandmother is…counting down. And I’m…what? Making pro/con lists in a spiral notebook?”
“That’s one way to approach it,” he said. “Mortals do enjoy lists.”
“You did not drag me into your fucking throne room tonight so you could mock my organizational strategies,” she said.
“Consider it a bonus,” he said. Then he sobered. “I wanted you to see that the choice you make doesn’t just affect you. Or me. Or her. It will…pull on the whole tapestry.”
“No pressure,” she muttered.
“Too much pressure,” he agreed. “Unfortunately, that’s the world you were dropped into.”
She stared at him.
“You said something,” she said slowly. “Right before the hall tore. About…if anyone tries to take *me* from me. Including you.”
He held her gaze. “Yes,” he said.
“You meant that,” she said.
“Yes,” he said again.
“So if I decide not to go,” she said, heart pounding. “If I…stay. Or run. Or…try to burn things from here. You won’t…force it.”
He went still.
“That,” he said carefully, “is…complicated.”
“Complicated doesn’t mean no,” she pressed.
“The bargain,” he said. “The original one. It has…teeth. I can’t simply snap my fingers and make it go away. If you refuse to come and the deadline passes, the Court will send the Hunt whether I like it or not. My…leash only stretches so far.”
She swallowed. “But you’d…try.”
“I will,” he said. “Try to block them. Divert them. Delay. Hide. But they are…many. And hungry.”
She exhaled shakily. “So my options really are…go with you on Halloween. Or…play hide-and-seek with a pack of supernatural debt collectors.”
“Pretty much,” he said.
She glared at him. “Your world sucks.”
“I know,” he said.
“And you suck less than most of it,” she added grudgingly.
His brows lifted. “Is that…a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it,” she said.
“If it helps,” he said, “you suck less than most of my world too.”
She snorted. “High praise.”
“The highest,” he said solemnly.
Silence.
“What are you going to do about Aisling?” she asked.
His expression shuttered. “What I always do,” he said. “Try to keep her from setting herself on fire. Or—” he glanced at her “—you.”
“She deserves…something,” Rowan said quietly. “We both do. Something other than being their…story props.”
“I know,” he said. “I don’t know yet what that looks like without burning down everything around us.”
“Maybe burning is what needs to happen,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said. “Burns scar, though. Even when they’re necessary.”
She flinched. “You don’t have to remind me.”
His gaze flicked to her wrist, where faint white lines crisscrossed from old iron encounters.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” he said. “I’m trying to…be honest about the cost.”
“I’m very aware of the cost,” she said. “What I’m not sure of is the…return on investment.”
He smiled wryly. “You sound like my finance minister,” he said.
“You have a finance minister,” she said, incredulous.
“Of course,” he said. “Even Courts have budgets. Feasts don’t pay for themselves.”
She shook her head. “This is ruining my aesthetic.”
“I apologize for shattering your illusions,” he said.
“You didn’t,” she said. “They were already cracked. You just…kicked the pieces around.”
He inclined his head. “A skill of mine,” he said.
She sighed.
“I need to sleep,” she said. “Real sleep. Without…audience participation.”
“I’ll stay out of your head,” he said. “If I can.”
“If you can,” she repeated. “That is not comforting.”
“Dreams are…sticky places,” he said. “But I’ll do my best.”
“You better,” she said. “Or I’m siccing my grandmother’s ghost on you.”
“Terrifying,” he said dryly.
“It should be,” she said.
He hesitated. “Rowan.”
“What,” she said, exhausted.
“When you talk to Aisling again,” he said, not bothering to pretend she wouldn’t, “remember this: she will offer you paths that look easier. That doesn’t mean they are. And some doors, once you step through, don’t open back onto the same hallway.”
“You’re not the only one with metaphors,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “Yours are better.”
Despite herself, she smiled a little.
“Go away,” she said. “Let me sleep.”
“As you wish,” he said.
He stood. For a second, he hesitated by the window, hand resting on the frame. The streetlight made his eyes look almost human.
Then he slipped into the shadows, and the room exhaled.
Rowan lay there, staring at the spot where he’d been.
She felt…frayed. Tied in a dozen directions.
“What am I supposed to do,” she whispered to the dark.
The dark, predictably, did not answer.
But somewhere in the space between worlds, three threads—silver, amber, and something darker—twisted around each other, knotting tighter with every choice.