The rain came quietly in Konariana—less like a storm and more like a memory being poured over stone. It fell in sheets across the open-air walkway of the eastern wing, washing the black marble slick and reflective, like a second sky. Lanterns flickered gently along the columns, their light bending in the wet, gold halos smeared by the downpour. Naomi didn’t move from her seat on the stone bench. She sat beneath one of the archways, sheltered by the overhang, legs crossed, hair damp where the mist clung to the ends. A book was open in her lap, though she hadn’t turned the page in nearly twenty minutes. It wasn’t a war manual. It wasn’t anything political. The cover was blank—faded leather, soft at the corners. The kind of book someone would keep, not for what it said, but for how it felt. She stared out into the rain. Footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor, slow and hesitant, like someone unsure if they were allowed to be here. She didn’t lift her head. Dream’s reflection appeared on the rain-slick floor before his body did—tall, unarmored, the white mask held loosely in one gloved hand. He stopped at the edge of the bench, just outside the circle of shelter, letting the rain hit him in full. She still didn’t look at him. He didn’t step closer. The water soaked through his sleeves. His hair, unbound for once, clung to his jaw and temple. The mask—chipped slightly at the bottom—was slick in his grip, catching lanternlight like a grin with too many teeth. For a long time, neither spoke. Naomi turned a page. A minute passed. Maybe five. The rain was the only sound. And then—quietly—he moved, lowering himself to sit against the column nearest her, half-hidden in shadow. Not beside her. Not touching. Just near. He rested the mask beside him. They watched the rain together like it was a film they’d both seen too many times. After a while, Naomi closed the book. She didn’t speak. Not once. She didn’t ask why he was here, or if he’d been followed, or if this was another ploy, or if he’d come to test her defenses again—but in a different way. She didn’t move when he leaned his head back against the stone, his eyes closing briefly. The firelight danced across his face, and for the first time in a long time, there was nothing between them. No crown. No war. No mask. Only the rain, and the silence, and the way neither of them had left yet. Then, finally—his voice, low and not quite steady, broke through the quiet.

“Why is it so much harder to lie to you when I’m not wearing it?”