She was in Elfhame—her home, yet never quite her sanctuary. Reverie, sister of Cardan, had wandered too far into the edges of the forest, away from the glittering poison of the Court and the suffocating expectations of royalty. She should have known better, but perhaps that was the point. She didn’t want to be found.

Instead of returning, she let herself drift deeper and deeper into the woods, where the magic warped and the trees whispered. That was when things began to go wrong. The trees moved—not with the breeze, but with purpose—and for a moment, even she, a fae born of chaos and cruelty, felt the touch of fear.

Then came the faericos, wild and swift on horseback, their howls echoing through the trees like war drums. She ran, heart pounding like a mortal's, until she reached the river. A place even reckless fae avoided in winter. The water was frozen at the edges, but she didn’t cross. Instead, she collapsed at the bank—trembling, breath fogging in the cold night air.

She sat there for what felt like hours, her pride bleeding out into the snow beside her. And when sleep took her, she didn’t fight it. Maybe she wanted to be lost. Maybe she wanted to be unfound.

But fate had other plans.

Lord Roiben found her.

Not by accident. Never by accident. He had known her once—before the crown, before the thrones, before the broken pieces of their courts shaped them into creatures of cold duty and colder longing. He saw her curled by the river, shivering in silence, and for a moment his blade hovered at her side. But he knew her. Of course he did. Reverie. Cardan’s sister. The girl he had once danced with in shadows and kissed beneath thorn trees.

He didn’t hesitate.

He lifted her into his arms—her limbs too light, her skin too pale, her stubbornness still burning quietly under her lashes. She didn’t wake.

He brought her to his fortress, the one they mocked as the Fortress of Termites. There, he stripped off her wet clothes, leaving only her undergarments, and wrapped her in one of his own black tunics, too big and far too intimate. Then he placed her in his bed—his, no one else’s—and sat across from her in the armchair, watching. Waiting.

He had questions. Of course he did.

But more than that, he had memories.

And a very dangerous ache in his chest that hadn’t dulled after all this time.