He walked back toward his own quarters, steps slower this time, his mind full of images he hadn't asked for: her lashes rimmed with frost, her weight in his arms, the way she had instinctively reached for his warmth even in sleep.
In his own room, he shut the door and leaned his shoulders briefly against it, eyes closing for a moment.
Fourth night, Dante had said.
Something would have to change.
He pushed off the door, crossed to his bed, and sat down on the edge, staring at the banked fire for a long time before finally letting himself lie back.
Sleep did not come easily. But when it did, it was heavier than usual, threaded with the faint, lingering echo of cold stone, a wooden chair, and a girl who kept walking out into the dark.
Next morning for a few long, drifting moments, Elissa floated in it—thick blankets, soft pillow, a heat that didn't bite like the balcony wind. No stone. No cracking ground. No voice in the dark.
Then memory snapped back.
The dream. Waking with her heart in her throat. The corridor. The balcony, the chair, the cold wrapping its fingers around her until everything hurt and then—
Nothing.
Her eyes flew open.
Her ceiling stared back at her, familiar beams and soft shadows. Her room. The small chip in the plaster by the window. The faint smell of smoke and herbs from last night's bath.
She pushed herself up on her elbows too quickly. The room tilted once, then steadied.
The fire was burning stronger than she ever left it overnight. Not dying embers—proper flames, licking at fresh logs. Her shawl, the one she remembered clutching on the balcony, was draped neatly over the foot of the bed. Her boots had been moved closer to the hearth to dry.
At her hip, something small and warm shifted.
The pup lay half-curled against her, muzzle pressed to her side, tail thumping lazily as he realized she was awake. He looked utterly content, like he'd spent the entire night in safety, not whining by an empty bed.
Elissa stared at him.
"I didn't…bring you back," she whispered.
He just yawned and tried to lick her wrist.
Her heart beat faster, not slower. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and immediately hissed—the floor was cold even through her thin socks. She padded across the rug to the window, tugged back the curtain just enough to see.
Snow dusted the outer ledges. The sky was a dull, pale gray. The balcony outside her room looked undisturbed, save for a thin, melted patch near the chair as if someone's weight had warmed the frost.
Someone.
Her chest squeezed.
"Did I come back on my own?" she asked the empty room. "Did I sleep-walk both ways?"
It was possible. People did strange things in their sleep. They opened doors, moved objects, never remembered.
But the fire. The extra logs. The way the blankets had been tucked so carefully around her when she woke.
It felt like hands. Not her own.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Elissa?" Martha's voice, gentle but brisk. "Are you up, dear?"
"Yes," Elissa called, dragging her thoughts together. "Come in."
Martha entered with a tray balanced in her capable hands. Steam curled from a teacup, and the smell of warm bread and honey filled the air.
"Thought you might want breakfast up here," Martha said, her eyes sweeping quickly over Elissa. "You looked wrung out last night."
Elissa automatically smoothed her hair. "Do I still?"
"Less like something the cat dragged in, more like something the cart dragged in," Martha said. "Progress."
Elissa huffed a small, tired laugh and sank back onto the bed as Martha set the tray on the small table.
Martha glanced at the fire. "Someone was thoughtful," she said. "You left that low. It's burning like the kitchens came by in the night."
Elissa's heart jolted. "Do the maids…come in? At night?"
"If the prince tells them to," Martha said, too casually. "If he's worried about drafts on southern guests who can't keep themselves under a blanket."
Elissa's breath caught. "The prince?"
Martha seemed suddenly very interested in straightening the tray. "Eat," she said. "You'll need it. I heard Dante muttering something about the south yard and training."
Elissa's stomach flipped. "Today?"
"Apparently," Martha said. "He had the look on his face he gets when he's decided someone will suffer for their own good."
"Wonderful," Elissa muttered.
"Eat first," Martha said firmly. "Suffer later."
By the time Elissa had choked down bread and honey and half the egg, her hands had stopped trembling quite so much. Martha helped her into a simple dress for breakfast, braiding her hair back from her face.
"You slept through the whole night?" Martha asked, almost offhand.
Elissa hesitated. "I…don't remember all of it," she said carefully. "But I woke rested."
"Good," Martha said. "Rest is armor, Princess. Don't forget it."
When Elissa stepped into the smaller dining hall, the others were already there. Vane was sprawled in his chair, boots almost but not quite touching the table leg, arguing with Kestrel over a sealed letter. Dante sat straight-backed, hands around a mug. Alistair occupied his usual place at the far end, a dark, steady shape against the light.
Four pureblood vampires at breakfast. Not a single human heartbeat among them but hers.
Elissa took her seat, trying to ignore how loud her pulse sounded in her own ears.
"Morning, sunshine," Vane said. "You look less like death. Progress."
"High praise," she said dryly, reaching for her cup.
Dante looked up. His gaze, unlike Alistair's, was assessing but not sharp. "After you change," he said, once she'd taken a few sips, "meet me in the south yard."
"For sword drills?" she asked.
"Not today," he said. "Today, we focus on your magic."
The cup nearly slipped in her hand. "My…magic," she repeated.
Vane's eyebrows lifted. Kestrel smirked behind her tea. At the head of the table, Alistair didn't move, but Elissa felt it—the bond tightening, just slightly. Like his attention had shifted more fully to her.
Her palms went damp.
"I don't have much magic," she said quietly, heat prickling the back of her neck. "You know that."
Dante's expression didn't change. "I know you have some," he said. "That's enough to start."
Across the table, Vane grinned. "Look at it this way: if you were secretly a terrifying storm, we could all relax. Since you're not, we train the drizzle."
Kestrel flicked a crumb at him. "Idiot. Don't scare her."
"I'm encouraging her," Vane protested. "Badly," Dante murmured.
Elissa managed a thin smile, but her gaze was already sliding toward the head of the table.
Alistair was watching her.
Not speaking. Not even pretending to be focused on anything else. His face was unreadable, carved in cool stone. But his eyes—his eyes were something else entirely. Pale, intense, piercing straight through her like he could see every weak thread inside.
Her breath hitched.
What did I do? she thought wildly. What did I do to make him look at me like that?
Was it the balcony? Had he seen her? Was he angry she'd snuck out, risked herself, tugged at the bond in the middle of the night? Or was it worse—was he finally realizing, truly, how little magic his "witch princess" had?
She dropped her gaze to her plate, suddenly very interested in her bread.
Dante finished his tea and set the cup down with quiet finality. "Half an hour," he said. "South yard. Wear something you can move in."
"I—I'll be there," she said.
Vane stood and stretched. "I'll wander down later," he announced. "Cheerleading. Mockery. You know, the usual."
Kestrel rolled her eyes. "Try not to distract her into setting you on fire."
"That would be the best thing that ever happened to me," Vane said as he strolled out.
Dante gave Elissa a brief nod and followed.
The hall emptied slowly. Kestrel left next, muttering about letters and fabrics and trying to scare tailors. That left only Alistair and Elissa, the quiet between them suddenly much too loud.
She could feel his gaze still on her. Heavy. Unrelenting.
She forced herself to look up.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, the bond flared—a soft, familiar hum under her skin. There was something in his look she couldn't name. Frustration, maybe. Worry. Annoyance. All of it folded behind that hard, controlled exterior.
Say something, she thought helplessly. Anything.
He didn't.
He only held her gaze a moment longer, eyes like sharpened ice, then rose in one smooth motion. The chair scraped softly. Without a word, without a nod, he turned and walked out of the hall, cloak brushing the stone.
Her shoulders dropped as if he'd taken some of the air with him.
He didn't talk to me. He didn't even say good morning.
She stared at the empty doorway, bread untouched on her plate, heart doing a slow, miserable twist in her chest.