Hidden Wings

The silence

The skin-to-skin contact broke, and the sudden, violent return of my own existence hit me like a physical blow.

For a handful of minutes, Ivy’s touch had done the impossible: it had killed the pull. For the first time in two centuries, the wretched, automatic attraction born into my genetic makeup had gone dead-silent. No forced adoration from the masses. No cheap, suffocating compliance from court sycophants. Just... nothing. Absolute, beautiful neutrality.

Walking half a step ahead of her down the long library aisle, I had to force my posture into a rigid, unnatural line to mask the tremor in my jaw. The aura was rushing back, a sickening, magnetic heat rising to the surface of my skin like bile. It was a psychological nightmare—tasting absolute freedom only to have the cage door slam shut again. I felt the familiar, disgusting hum of the realm’s background noise pressing against my defenses. Every instinct I possessed—the ones I had spent centuries suppressing—was screaming at me to turn around, to fixate on her, to treat her like the biological trap she was to everyone else.

I wouldn't. I couldn't.

Climbing the stone stairs to the sanctuary, the ambient buzzing of the realm’s magic slammed into my senses, forcing me to put my armor back on piece by agonizing piece. I clenched my fists, ruthlessly dragging my mental barriers into place until my mind felt like a fortified bunker. I was desperate to lock the energy down before it could spill out and warp the air between us. The thought of her falling under that fake, forced spell made my stomach turn. I was completely over the unwanted attention, and the idea that I might contribute to her undoing was a failing I refused to accept.

I reached the top of the landing and pushed open the heavy iron-wrought doors, ushering her inside.

Ivy walked past me, and I watched her breath catch.

She stood there, taking in the room—the scattered, floating doors that served as entry points to my private lore-archives, the sweeping balcony that overlooked the abyss of the library, and the large, clear glass window that filtered the pale, dying light of the realm. She sat on the edge of the nearest stone bench, completely overwhelmed by the sudden, profound stillness. The second the heavy doors clicked shut behind us, the oppressive static in her head didn't just fade—my wards actively filtered it out. The air here was different; it tasted of ozone and ancient parchment, purged of the cloying, sweet perfume of the palace. She wasn't just safe; she was alone for the first time in her life.

"This is my sanctuary," I said, my voice returning to that unbothered, commanding calm as I turned to face her. "I have layered it with a haze field so the pull of others can't enter. You are off the map here."

She nodded, letting out a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding. I watched, fascinated, as her shoulders dropped, her entire frame loosening as she experienced true, unforced relaxation for the first time since returning to this realm.

I stepped closer, crossing my arms as I looked down at her. For the first time in my life, I was looking at someone who was actually there, fully in control of her own mind around me. It was a dangerous game, but I needed to know exactly what was happening inside her head before the rest of the court broke her.

"So," I murmured, "tell me about your dreams."

Ivy’s defenses immediately went up. I watched the sarcastic deflection form on her lips—a sharp, bitter smile meant to shield whatever trauma she was hiding. She let out a dry, breathy laugh, leaning back against the bench. "My dreams? Usually involve fewer stone walls and a lot more distance from this realm, to be honest."

"You're deflecting," I cut in, my voice deadpan. I held up a finger, pointing to the shimmering edge of the haze field.

As she spoke, the room reacted. The haze field, usually a steady, translucent shimmer, began to pulse with a sickly, bruised violet hue. It didn't just ripple; it emitted a low, discordant hum that rattled the floating doors anchored to the walls.

"Look at the field," I commanded, my eyes locked on the distortion. "Every time you try to hide behind a joke, the ward ripples. You’re leaking, Ivy. If the Dreamweaver hits you while your mind is spinning like this, you won't just wake up screaming—you won't wake up at all."

I needed her to understand the gravity of it. I walked to the center of the room and gestured for her to focus on the air between us. "In this realm, dreams aren't just subconscious noise; they are a battleground. For someone carrying our bloodline, an unguarded dream is an unlocked door—an invitation for predators to siphon power or twist reality. This Dreamweaver... he isn't just a parasite. He is a psychological executioner. He’s been in your head, hasn't he? Replacing your memories with his own, turning your childhood home into a labyrinth of his making just to watch you break."

She jumped to her feet, her movements sharp and erratic. The frustration radiating off her was palpable, a jagged energy that caused the floating doors to vibrate against the stone. She began to pace, a frantic, caged-animal gait that threatened to collapse the very stillness I had worked so hard to curate.

"Well, if you must know, Mister Hermit, yours truly here is reliving all my past lives as I sleep!" she snapped, her voice cracking with the strain of it. "And sometimes... these blue eyes are staring at me. When Ashton showed up, the blue-eyed guy started getting closer. So, for apparently a year and a half, this creep has been in my head messing with me, and I don't know how he's doing it or how to stop him!"

She crossed the room again, her pacing becoming a frantic line across the stone. I moved, stepping directly into her path. She stopped short, nearly colliding with my chest. I didn't back away. I kept my gaze leveled on hers, forcing her to confront the absolute, terrifying silence of the sanctuary rather than running from her own thoughts.

The pacing must run in the family, I thought, watching the flicker of panic in her eyes. My mentor—Elaris's second-in-command and the powerhouse who steered the council's final decisions—had left out a massive chunk of her backstory. It ran entirely too deep. I rubbed my temples, feeling the beginnings of a migraine. My mentor's instructions had been simple: Train her to control her magic. He hadn't mentioned a psychological executioner camping out in her subconscious.

Looking at her—really looking at her—the frustration softened into a cold, clinical focus. It wasn't as if she had asked for any of this. It sounded like the council fools had done a hell of a lot more harm than good in their decision-making, leaving her isolated and hunted.

If I was going to get her into a state of mind where she could actually survive this realm, we had to lock down that dream signal immediately. I looked at her, my expression hardening into the focus of a surgeon preparing to cut out a tumor.

"You're tired," I stated, not as a question, but a fact. "You’re running on a loop of trauma that you’re trying to outpace with snark. It won't work. We are going to stop the pacing. You are going to sit, you are going to empty your mind of everything but the rhythm of your own pulse, and we are going to find exactly where he’s anchored that bridge."

I reached out, grabbing her shoulders, not to pull her into a spell, but to physically ground her to the spot. Her skin was burning, a stark contrast to my own cold, suppressed magic. "You asked for my help, Ivy. You wanted to know why you aren't safe. Now, stop talking, stop running, and let's get to work."