Ryana heard a knock at her door, and she prayed it was real even as she knew it wasn’t.

If it had been real, she would’ve woken up inside her rooms at her brother Damian’s castle. This late at night, it would’ve been him or one of his people asking her to come help them fight the monsters that made it through the rifts between the Realms.

But if it wasn’t real, she would hear Baran’s voice shortly. She would know she was caught in another dream.

A nightmare.

One in which she inhabited her body and got to watch herself make the worst mistake of her life again and again, completely unable to stop it. 

“Princess?” asked a voice through her door, low and manly, and hungry with need. 

And this dream version of her, the one she was trapped in, sat up quickly, snapping for her magical bird Lyka to turn on the lights.

She felt the thoughts her dream-version was having, almost like she was reading her own story on one of Earth’s ubiquitous screens: if Baran was outside calling her, then it must be possible for them to be alone. He would know; he was the leader of her personal guards, the Kagaroth. 

And back in reality, no matter how much she tried to pinch herself awake, or shout that she should stop, she was never able to change a thing. 

The lights fluttered on in her dream, and a younger version of her—one she couldn’t help but think of as hopelessly naïve—ran for the door in bare feet, her wings streaming out behind her with a smile on her face.

“Baran?” she whispered back through the door, just to hear his voice again.

On the door’s far side, he chuckled. It elated the dream-her, knowing she’d made him happy, whereas the Ryana-of-the-now, trapped in this farce every night, wanted to shriek and cry. Don’t do it—don’t open the door—don’t go! she screamed inside her own mind, but the dream-her never listened. 

“Open the door, Ryana,” he entreated, and dream-her, like the fool she had been, did it. Just a finger’s width, to smile tantalizingly out at the man she loved.

Had loved.

Past tense.

A mistake she would never make again. 

Baran smiled back at her, dark-eyed and handsome, with the sharp edge of a beard around his strong chin. “Come out and leave your Lyka behind.” He didn’t have his helmet on, so dream-her knew he must have something planned.

He does! Ryana pleaded with her former self. Don’t go! 

But dream-her never listened. She saw herself wave Lyka back, and then step into the hall with Baran, wearing nothing but a gossamer nightdress. She took his hand without thinking. “Where are we going?” she whispered. 

His eyes had a devilish gleam to them as he leaned over to breathe, “Out,” against her ear, and it made her shiver more than the night air outside her room.

She followed him, unable to believe him capable of any deception. She assumed he’d take her to some quiet armory or treasure chamber that only he had the key to, where they would be away from all of the Palace’s prying eyes as they pleased each other. Dream-her bit her lips in anticipation of being kissed—whereas somewhere on her bed-in-the-now, Ryana bit her lips to stop from screaming. She didn’t want anyone else who lived inside Damian’s castle to know a thing. 

Baran led her through the palace, down narrow corridors and past guards he’d ordered to look the other way, until they reached the back of the building, with its vast gardens sprawling out behind them. The night air was heavy with the scent of watchberry blooms, and it seemed like she and Baran were the only people out beneath the moons. The whole thing felt terribly romantic, especially as he turned toward her, taking her free hand so that he now held both of them. 

“Princess,” he began, and dream-her smiled at him encouragingly, even as she writhed in her own bed, knowing what was coming. “Come with me.” 

His hands let go of hers and slipped around her wrists, getting tighter, with what she thought at the time was the possession of a lover. He tried to draw her further into the gardens. 

She hesitated. It was night, yes, but if anyone saw her here with Baran—he’d be executed right away. Her personal guard weren’t allowed to take their helmets off, much less touch her skin. “It’s not safe,” she told him.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said, pulling. Giving her one of the looks she’d become used to, the kind she craved when she closed her eyes at night. 

“Baran,” she whispered. “One of us has to be the sane one. You’re already at enough risk.”

“And yet I would risk more.” He pulled her another step away from the safety of the palace. “Run away with me, Ryana.”

This was always the dream’s worst part. When she was trapped inside it Ryana was forced to relive exactly what his words meant to her, and how they made her feel.

That for once, someone wanted her, and not her power or her crown. That someone was going to listen to her and take her seriously, and not put her down as young or untested. And, more potent than anything else—that someone wanted to be with her. 

Not just any someone, but the man that she knew she loved. 

He wanted to be with her so badly that he would risk life and limb to do so. 

At the time—in this hellish moment that she was forced to relive every night—it felt like a stunning blow. Like she’d summoned some magic she wasn’t capable of controlling yet, and it had transfixed her, rippling through muscle, sinew, and bone. She knew she would be changed by it, forever. 

She took several deep breaths, composing herself beneath the moonlight, before gently taking back her hands. “Baran. My mother would kill you. There would be no place we could hide. And the entire Realm would talk.” 

“What do we care for that?”

The dream-version of her gave him a smile so fragile it could’ve been made of glass. The thought that he was willing to risk himself, right down to his very life, for her—it was the most perfect thing that had ever happened to her…until it became perfectly awful. “I care that you live,” she teased.

He took a step toward her, to stand taller than she was and look sternly down. “I love you, Ryana. And I would rather die in love with you than never be able to say it.” 

Her hands fluttered to her chest above her heart. “Baran,” she whispered. “I love—” she began, and then Lyka was there, racing between them, a brilliant red streak, sizzling with magic as she changed from the size of a sparrow into a creature bigger than a human. Ryana stepped back instinctively and gasped, turning to follow Lyka’s path with her eyes—and saw her magical guardian murder one of Baran’s men, who’d been creeping up on them, one row of blooms over. Lyka dug her claws into his shoulder and shook him roughly, snapping his neck. 

“Lyka!” Ryana shouted—and so did other men. She felt magical powers rise and burst, as Lyka whirled around her, protecting her from her own guards as they seemed to…attack? 

Her?

She took a disbelieving step back inside her dream. “Baran—what is happening?” 

He looked dismayed, but not surprised—and the dream version of herself realized just how far away from the castle she’d been lured. Without Lyka! No wonder he’d wanted her to leave Lyka behind.

Ryana drew her own powers to herself, readying to fight anyone who made it through Lyka’s increasingly frantic barrier…including Baran.

“Ryana,” Baran began, but she started shaking her head. 

Her guards, the Kagaroth, wore terrifying-looking helmets, to indicate how vicious they were in battle. As they were never once allowed to take them off in front of her, so she didn’t really know the men who were dying around her now. 

Not like she knew Baran. 

But if he’d managed to orchestrate this, after lying to her for years, then he didn’t need his armor to be cruel to her. 

“Kidnapping? Ransom?” she asked. “Worse?” Tears streaked down her face, as she attempted to strip her feelings away, like they were another entity entirely, like an outfit one might wear, instead of something innately possessed. Her mother was right. Feelings were an infection that caused weakness.

“It’s not like that,” Baran said, sounding stern. He didn’t even have the decency to be shamed.

Ryana straightened her shoulders. “Then I don’t want to know what it is like.” 

The on-going fight was making too much noise to not be noticed. There’d be no way to hide so many bodies, and here she was, in the palace gardens, barefoot, in a nightdress. The inevitability of what had happened, and what would follow, fell around her shoulders like a weight.

Every single person in the castle—if not the Realm itself—would soon know what a fool she’d been. That she’d been gullible enough to trust anyone. To love anyone. To have allowed herself such innocent hopes and unsuspicious dreams. 

And even if she didn’t die now, she might as well have, because she would be marked by this event for the rest of her life.

Ryana felt pulses of magic inside the castle start up behind her, and caught Baran’s eyes looking nervously back. Lyka hovered nearby now; the rest of the traitorous guards were dead or gone, and Ryana knew, looking at Baran, that it was too late now for both of them. 

There was only one way out of this.

Baran was going to die. Just like she had always feared—and they both knew it.

He sank to his knees in front of her and began unbuckling the armor that protected his throat. He was otherwise unarmed, and Ryana knew she was safe because Lyka was at her side. 

“Do it,” he commanded her, like he still had the right to. “Kill me and reclaim what little remains of your honor.” 

Ryana took deep gulping breaths in her dream, trying to keep down both her panic and her bile. Tears streaked down her face and her hands were weak.

“Do it!” he shouted at her, grabbing her hands, to put them at his throat. “If you ever had any true feelings for me—do it now!” 

She could feel his pounding pulse beneath her fingers, and she knew why he begged: Death at her hands would be infinitely more merciful than anything her wicked mother could dream up. 

“I truly did love you,” he whispered, staring up, the light from the moons above reflecting in his eyes. 

“Don’t lie,” she whispered back, openly sobbing as she started to squeeze.