The first stars had begun to prick through the twilight sky when Eira realized she was still hunched over into her chair, sketchpad in hand. The castle, bathed in the muted blues and grays of early night, was silent except for the occasional sigh of wind against its towering walls.
She hadn't slept much. Even now, her body felt heavy with exhaustion, but her mind refused to quiet. The images from her dream haunted her like a ghost that wouldn't leave.
Her fingers had moved with urgency all day, the charcoal dragging over the page in quick, deliberate strokes. She hadn't been trying to think, only to capture—to empty her mind of the sharp eyes, the cruel smile, the glint of something metallic in the woman's hand.
The next sketch was of the battlefield again, the dark, glossy stone slick with blood. Eira's hand hovered over the page as she added the faint impression of figures clashing in the background. She didn't remember them clearly, but the scene demanded their presence.
The next drawing was more intimate: Caius, his face streaked with blood, his golden eyes ablaze. She hesitated before sketching the lines of anguish in his expression, but her hand moved almost of its own accord.
Eira frowned at the page, her heart twisting. How could she have imagined him like this? So raw, so vulnerable? She shook her head and turned to a new sheet.
The woman came next.
Eira drew her from memory—the way her blurred face seemed to sharpen when she smiled, the way her eyes burned with something that wasn't entirely human. There was something in her hand—small, metallic—but its exact shape eluded her.
When she finished, Eira leaned back in her chair, rubbing at the charcoal smudges staining her fingertips. The drawings spread before her felt alien, as though someone else had created them.
Her stomach tightened. These couldn't just be dreams. They felt like memories—memories that didn't belong to her.
The faint creak of the door broke her reverie.
Eira startled, her head snapping up. Caius stood in the doorway, his golden eyes catching the dim light of the room.
"You're awake," he said, his voice smooth but laced with faint curiosity. He stepped inside, his coat trailing behind him as the door clicked shut.
"I couldn't sleep," she said quickly, her hand moving to cover the sketches spread across the desk.
Too late. His gaze had already fallen on them.
"What are you drawing?" he asked, his tone casual, but his steps were deliberate as he moved closer.
Eira hesitated, her fingers tightening over the sketchpad. "Nothing," she lied, her voice stiff.
Caius's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, a flicker of amusement passing across his face. "You're a terrible liar, Eira."
Before she could stop him, he reached past her and lifted the topmost sketch. The battlefield.
She watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction, but his expression remained unreadable.
"You're quite talented," he said after a moment, his eyes scanning the details—the blood, the glint of steel, the faceless figures in the background. "This is vivid work."
Eira swallowed hard, unsure whether to be flattered or unnerved. "Thank you," she said, her voice quiet.
Caius set the sketch aside and reached for another. This time, it was the drawing of him, his face streaked with blood, his eyes blazing with emotion. His hand stilled as he studied it, the faintest crease forming between his brows.
Something flickered in his expression, too quick for her to name.
"Where did you see this?" he asked softly.
Eira's breath caught. "In a dream," she said carefully.
"A dream," he repeated, his tone unreadable. He set the sketch aside and picked up the final drawing—the woman.
The smile. The eyes. The metallic object in her hand.
Caius froze.
Eira watched as his golden eyes traced the lines of the sketch. His expression didn't change, but the air in the room felt suddenly heavier.
"Do you know her?" Eira asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Caius didn't answer at first. He set the drawing down slowly, deliberately, before turning to meet her gaze. His composure was perfect, his expression calm, but his silence spoke louder than words.
"Your imagination is… vivid," he said finally, his voice smooth but distant.
Eira frowned. "Caius, I don't think I'm imagining this. I—"
"You were dreaming," he interrupted, his tone firm. He stepped back, his golden eyes cool and unyielding. "Nothing more."
Eira stood, frustration bubbling in her chest. "Why won't you tell me the truth? I saw her, Caius. I saw you. These weren't just dreams. They can't be."
Caius's expression didn't shift, but something in his gaze hardened. "You're overthinking, as usual," he said, his tone clipped.
She bristled. "I'm not imagining this. I felt it. Everything—it wasn't just a dream, was it?"
"You're tired," he said flatly, ignoring her question entirely. "Dreams have a way of distorting reality when you let your mind wander too far."
Eira stepped closer, her voice rising. "Stop deflecting! I know there's something you're not telling me."
Caius's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing, his golden eyes narrowing as though weighing how much to say. Finally, he exhaled sharply and stepped toward the door.
"We won't have training tonight," he said abruptly, his tone dismissive.
Eira blinked, caught off guard. "What? Why?"
"You're exhausted. And restless." He glanced briefly at the sketches on the desk. "And clearly preoccupied with… other things."
"That's not an answer," she snapped, her frustration spilling over.
Caius turned back to her, his face a mask of icy calm. "Not all answers are yours to demand, Eira. Remember that."
Her fists clenched, the heat in her chest rising. "So what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and pretend I don't see what's right in front of me?"
His gaze held hers, unyielding. "What you do is stay in this room," he said, his voice lowering to a warning. "Do not wander the castle tonight. That is not a request."
Eira opened her mouth to protest, but his sharp tone cut through her.
"Stay here," he repeated, stepping into the doorway. "And rest."
The door clicked shut behind him before she could respond, leaving her alone with her thoughts—and the heavy weight of her unresolved questions.
Eira glared at the closed door, her chest tight with frustration. She turned back to the desk, her gaze falling on the sketch of the woman.
The smile on the page seemed to twist in the flickering candlelight, mocking her.
"I'll find the truth," she whispered, her voice trembling with resolve. "Even if you won't give it to me."