The Sleepless King and the Nightlark

Chapter 4: Bound by Curse

FAELAN'S POV

I didn’t dare move or speak.

For a heartbeat—or maybe an eternity—I stood suspended, caught between breath and sheer awe.

If this was an illusion, I didn’t want to break it. I didn’t even dare breathe, afraid a single exhale would shatter what stood before me.

Because there, perched atop the footboard where the woman had been moments ago, was the creature I thought lost to me. The Nightlark.

Its feathers gleamed like spilled moonlight—white and soft blue, each plume traced with a faint silver sheen. And its eyes—those same green eyes—looked into me with something that hollowed me out from within. Not defiance. Not fear.

But sorrow.

Pure, unending sorrow.

My gaze fell to its leg. The golden lasso remained, looped neatly around one slender foot. I flicked my hand, loosening just enough to prevent it from snapping, yet keeping it secure—tight enough that escape was impossible.

I stepped closer and settled on the bed before her.

My hand reached out, fingers brushing against her feathers. Soft. Almost impossibly so. I expected her to flinch, to recoil from the one who bound her, but she did nothing. She only stared, those mournful eyes fixed on me.

I opened my mouth, but no words came. My throat tightened, my mind blank.

What could I possibly say?

The moment stretched, just the two of us locked in silent gaze, until a soft rap at the door shattered it, slicing through the quiet.

“Your Majesty,” a servant called softly. “I have brought your dinner.”

I straightened and swept a hand over the Nightlark, the air shimmering faintly with glamour, hiding her from ordinary eyes.

Rising, I opened the door and let the servant in. “Leave it there,” I said, nodding toward the tray, keeping my voice steady and composed.

The young servant obeyed, setting the food carefully on the nightstand beside the bed, bowing before retreating. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the chamber once more in shadows and silence.

I sealed it with magic, ensuring no one else could enter. Especially Ingrid—she had a habit of barging in unannounced.

I stared at the tray on the nightstand—bread, wine, a bowl of fruit glistening with dew. My appetite had vanished hours ago, but something in the way the bird looked at the food made me move.

I picked up the bowl of fruit and carried it to where she perched. She tilted her head, watching me with that same wary gaze that always unsettled me.

“Eat,” I said softly. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

The words came out softer than I’d meant, even I was surprised. I set the bowl on the bed and gently lifted her beside it, her cool, light feathers brushing against my wrist.

For a long moment, she didn’t move—head c****d, emerald eyes locked on mine, as if weighing whether to trust me. Then, at last, she dipped her head and began to peck delicately at the fruit.

Something in my chest eased, though it felt undeserved. Guilt, mostly—for capturing her, for accusing her. And deeper still, for what I knew I would soon demand of her.

As she ate, I began eating as well—slowly, silently.

When she was done, the bowl was nearly empty. Only a few seeds and a thin film of juice remained. I gathered it carefully, afraid that even the smallest sound might shatter the fragile peace between us.

The heaviness of the day clung to me—the smoke, the ash, the sweat, the memory of fire and accusation. I needed it gone. All of it.

So I went to the bathing chamber.

I breathed in the steam rising from the water as I stepped in. The heat soothed my skin, washing away the grime and fatigue that had clung to me all day. For a few breaths, I let my mind go still—just me, the water, and silence.

But there was something else I craved. Something I had not known in fifty years.

I finished quickly and returned to my bedchamber. The fire had burned down to embers. The Nightlark perched once more on the footboard, feathers faintly luminous in the dim light, her gaze fixed on the bed. As though she had been waiting.

I stood beside the bed for a moment, caught between disbelief and longing. Then, without a word, I climbed in and drew the covers over myself.

The mattress felt foreign beneath me. Only now did I truly notice its softness, its warmth. Sleep was a stranger I’d only just met again after decades, and already, I ached for it.

Despite everything—despite the guilt, despite the wrong of it all—I needed to feel it again.

The weightless dark. The tender mercy of forgetting. The fragile grace of dreams.

“Sing for me, little bird,” I whispered.

The Nightlark tilted her head, and then the song began—soft, mournful, threads of silver that seemed to weave themselves through the air. The melody sank into me, through me, tugging at every frayed edge until the tension bled away.

My eyes grew heavy. The world softened, blurred.

And then, for the second time in decades, I surrendered to sleep.

----- ----- -----

My eyes opened without the heaviness pressing down on them. The sleep had been deep, complete. And already, it had restored a portion of what I’d lost over the years.

I sat up, immediately scanning for the precious bird.

No longer perched on the footboard. Not on the bed. Not anywhere I could see.

But the golden lasso still glimmered, tethered to the bed’s bars. That was enough to tell me she hadn’t tried to escape. Not that she could.

I rose, bare feet padding silently across the floor. And there she was—a woman now, sitting on the floor with her back against the bedframe, knees drawn to her chest. Naked, trembling. She couldn’t meet my eyes.

For a long moment, I simply studied her. My anger from the other day had blinded me, but now I could take her in properly. She was just as breathtaking in human form as she was in bird form. Long brown hair, a delicate face, lightly sun-kissed as if she spent her days outdoors. And those eyes—green, piercing, impossible to look away from.

Her arms tightened around her knees, and I realized I was making her uncomfortable. I moved swiftly to my drawers, pulled out a tunic, and handed it to her without a word.

“Here,” I murmured.

She hesitated, eyes flicking up at mine for the briefest moment. For an instant, I thought I glimpsed relief before she accepted it and slipped it over herself.

My eyes drifted to her ankle. The golden lasso still clung there.

I knelt beside her, letting my fingers brush the chain. It pulsed once, then slackened. The magic released her with a soft hum, and I saw her exhale in relief. She ran a hand over her ankle, soothing the skin where the lasso had bitten.

Then, in a sudden burst, she shoved me hard enough to throw me off balance and bolted for the door.

Reflex took over. I recovered instantly. She barely made two steps before I caught her wrist.

“Don’t even think about it,” I said, voice low, dangerous.

The golden lasso slithered toward her, but this time, instead of coiling around her ankle, it settled around her neck like a cold, living necklace.

“You don’t want to find out what happens if you try that again,” I murmured, letting her wrist go.

She froze, green eyes wide with terror, her body rigid against mine before she stumbled back two steps. Her hands moved, trembling.

“I didn’t do anything,” she signed. “I didn’t steal or sneak in. You have no reason to keep me here.”

I stepped closer, tilting her chin upward. “Oh, but I do,” I said, voice low. “And I think you know the reason why.”

She swallowed, a tiny, deliberate movement, and then her fingers moved again, slower and careful this time. "You're cursed."

A bitter smile tugged at my lips. “That’s right, little bird,” I murmured, leaning closer. “That’s why I can’t let you go.”